Crush

Besides, she had no right to tell him not to take photos. That was Brix’s job.

Robby joined Vail and got down on his stomach to get as close a look at the feet as possible. Brix rose and moved back, then wiped at his sweat-pimpled forehead with the back of his leather work glove.

“Karen,” Robby said. “Come closer. Take a look at this.”

In the burst of light from the flash, she saw what drew Robby’s attention. The second toenail of the right foot was missing.

THEY WERE ALL SILENT A MOMENT before Vail said, “Lieutenant, can you get these men out of here?”

Brix complied without comment, giving head signals to the workers. Toland followed. “I’m gonna have to ask you not to go public with those photos, Randy.”

The Press photographer chortled as his gaze flicked between Brix and Vail. “We can discuss that later.”

“Nothing to discuss,” Brix said. “I invited you here as a guest because I thought you’d appreciate the exclusive on the cave. If you want to come back when we finish this thing, you’ll honor my request.”

Randy gave him a hard look, but nodded.

Brix extended a hand. “The memory card.”

Vail could see Randy’s facial muscles contracting as he flipped open the side compartment and withdrew the compact flash card.

Brix took it from him. “I’ll make sure you get this back.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Randy said, then walked off.

When he was out of earshot, Vail said, “Well, guess that answers our question. This guy has killed before.”

Brix’s shoulders were rolled forward and his gloved hands hung at his sides. He spoke without meeting her eyes. “What’s the procedure for bringing the profiling unit on board?”

“It’s a pretty informal process. If an agency wants help from the BAU, they’d either call the unit and talk with an agent, or contact their local FBI office. Since I’m already here, all you had to do was ask. I’ll call my supervisor for approval. Be a good idea to write me a formal request on letterhead for the file. But that’s all just a red-tape formality. I’m here, and I want to help. Let’s not waste any time.”

“We’ve got a major crimes task force. Obviously, this is top priority. We’ll start in the morning. I’ve got your number, I’ll text you the info.”

ELEVEN

John Wayne Mayfield sat in his idling white Jeep in the parking lot of Dean & Deluca, munching on a veggie sandwich. Country music was pouring from the dash speakers, the vocals pining about hating his job but not having a choice because he needed the money for alimony.

Mayfield didn’t have the alimony problem, but it made him think of his job, and how he always strived to do it the best he could—but was it too much to ask that he wanted to enjoy himself, too? Sometimes he did, but oftentimes he did not—the reasons were obvious, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was given a task to complete and if he didn’t complete it successfully, he didn’t get paid. Simple as that.

It was a common dilemma with workers all over the world, he imagined: the desire to do something you enjoyed doing, but still earn a living doing it. In his case, it was not always possible to accomplish both.

But his hobbies, those were where he was able to feed his hunger, where he satisfied his desires.

As he bit into his sandwich, he saw a blonde exit the store, a white bag hanging from her hand. Diamond ring on her finger, but no male companion in sight. Was he waiting for her in their car? Mayfield watched her as she traversed the parking lot, passing right in front of his truck. His eyes were riveted to the sway of her hips, the slink of her thighs as they rhythmically moved through space. She stopped at a dark blue Mercedes and got into the passenger seat.

Mayfield swallowed, then took another bite of his sandwich. All in all, it wasn’t a bad existence. And to be able to live in the area where he lived, in the house that he owned, that had to be factored into the equation. Some people killed for the sport, some killed over drugs, or money, or sex, or anger. Those were largely unfulfilling, without any of the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment he sought when he stalked his victims, and then ended their lives.

Unfulfilling, but necessary. Some things just had to be done, whether you liked it or not. For John Wayne Mayfield, this was both fulfilling and enjoyable. He crumpled the paper wrapping of his sandwich and shoved his truck into gear.

There was work to be done.

TWELVE

They ate dinner at Angele, which abutted the recently refurbished Napa River embankment. The food was exquisitely tasteful. But Robby was unusually quiet. Vail sensed he was frustrated that she had pushed so hard to be included in the investigation, and now the task force.

“I ruined our vacation,” she said over a sip of Duckhorn Merlot.

Robby put down his fork and sat back. “No, the UNSUB ruined it. Wrong place, wrong time.” He chewed a moment, then added, “But that doesn’t mean you had to pursue it so aggressively.”

“I had to.”

“Karen, there are murders all across the country—hell, all across the world—and you can’t be at every crime scene. You can’t draw up a profile on every UNSUB. You can’t help catch every psychosexual offender who’s on the loose.”

“I know that.”

He splayed out his large hands. “So then what gives?”

Vail took another sip of wine. She put it down, studied the glass, then said, “I don’t know. I saw that body, the—well, the behaviors—and my mind switched into work mode. I—this is what I do, and I’ve got very specialized knowledge that can help apprehend this guy before more women are killed. Am I wrong to want to help prevent that?”

Robby looked to his left, out the window at the Napa River. The sun had set and a blue-orange blush reflected off the water. The lights along the river’s edge began glowing.

“No. I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, you have to be allowed to have a life.”

“Things would’ve been fine if we hadn’t gone to Silver Ridge. We wouldn’t have heard anything about it and we would’ve gone about our vacation.”

Robby looked at her. “Are you saying this whole thing is my fault because I hooked you up with my friend to get us those wine-pairing tickets?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying that maybe this was meant to be. Maybe some higher power put us there at that time, same time as the killer, so we could do our thing and help catch this guy.”

Robby furrowed his brow. “Wow, you’re getting religious on me. I’m surprised.”

“I don’t know what to make of it, Robby. But we’re here for a reason. Maybe that reason is to help put this guy away before he kills someone else.”

The waitress appeared and leaned across the table to clear the used dishes.

Robby swirled his glass of Patz and Hall Pinot Noir, then lifted it and watched the liquid spin. As it came to rest, he said, “Basically, our vacation is over. You’re now working this case. And that’s fine, I guess. Maybe you can get Gifford to jigger your vacation time so you don’t lose it. You can take another trip when you get back.”

Vail finished off her wine. “So that means my vacation time won’t correspond with yours because yours is now, and there’s no reason for you to be working this case.”

“Exactly. So I guess we’ll have to enjoy whatever time we have when you’re not working the case.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. But we’ll make the best of what we do have. Deal?”

Robby nodded slowly. “Deal.”

“How about we start with tonight?” she said, leaning forward and planting a soft kiss on his lips.

THIRTEEN