VAIL LEFT THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT and stood outside, waiting for Dixon. A few minutes later, Dixon walked through the front doors carrying a small brown bag. She tossed it to Vail, then got in the car.
“Late lunch,” Dixon said. “There’s turkey and veggie.”
Vail opened the bag, peered in. “Either’s fine.”
“I’ll take turkey. I need the protein for my workouts.” She took the sandwich from Vail and put the Ford in gear. Peeled back the wrapping, took a bite.
Their phones rang simultaneously. Vail pulled her BlackBerry—a text message from Ray Lugo:
Another vic. Meet me.
It was followed by the address.
“You know where that is?” Vail asked.
Dixon nodded, then depressed the gas pedal, sandwich in one hand and steering wheel in the other.
VALLEJO, CALIFORNIA, was a straight shot south down Highway 29, a fifteen-minute ride under normal circumstances. But with her lightcube flashing, Dixon downed her sandwich in four minutes and arrived at the Vallejo Police Department seven minutes after that.
Vallejo is part of the San Francisco Bay Area, one of the more expensive regions in the country in which to live. But Vallejo, at the lower end of the income spectrum, provided affordable housing for those not able to purchase the more ritzy addresses of a Silicon Valley or North Bay neighborhood. Still, its location, on San Pablo Bay and within a short drive of the Napa Valley as well as the greater Bay Area, provided picturesque views and prime weather patterns.
Home to the Six Flags Discovery Kingdom, the decommissioned Mare Island Naval Shipyard, and the third largest Filipino American population in the United States, the city has the little-known distinction of briefly serving as California’s state capital from 1852 to 1853.
“You’re very quiet,” Dixon said.
“Just thinking.”
“You clammed up soon as I told you we were headed to Vallejo. I’m betting you’re dialed into the Zodiac. Concerned our case is related.”
Vallejo was the site, four decades ago, of two victims of the Zodiac killer. The Zodiac was never apprehended, and the investigation, which was mothballed in 2004, was reopened in 2007. In 2009, a woman came forward claiming her deceased father had been the killer and that she had been present during some of the murders.
“Regardless of his true identity,” Vail said, “he’s either dead or incarcerated. He’s been inactive for forty years. Besides, MO’s different. Ritual’s all wrong.” She unbuckled as Dixon parked. “But yeah, that’s what I’ve been thinking about.”
They walked into the police department and headed to the Detective Division. “Still, there are similarities,” Vail said. “Zodiac was a narcissist, just like our UNSUB. He contacted the police after his kills, claiming credit. Mailed cryptograms to the newspapers.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” Dixon said. “Before my time.”
As they walked into the Detective Division, Ray Lugo caught their attention from across the room. Vail and Dixon headed toward him.
“Oh, Jesus,” Dixon said under her breath.
Vail looked at her, but before she could inquire about the remark, another man, seated behind Lugo, rose from his chair. Dark complected, possibly Asian, maybe Filipino.
“Well, well, well,” the man said. “If it isn’t Buff Barbie.”
“Eddie,” Dixon said, a surprisingly measured and civil response. “Should’ve known you’d be here.”
Vail sensed a failed relationship. She watched them staring at one another, that awkward look pregnant with transparent communication.
“Well,” she finally said, “I’m Special Agent Karen Vail. FBI. I take it you’re Eddie.”
He kept his eyes on Dixon but extended his hand in Vail’s direction. “Detective Eddie Agbayani.” He finally pulled his gaze over to Vail as they shook. “Good to meet you.”
“So where’s this new vic?” Vail asked.
Lugo held up a case file. “
“And it did,” Agbayani said. “Almost three years ago we found a DB in South Vallejo, in a tony neighborhood. It was a body dump. The area’s got the most expensive real estate in the city, so it scared the crap out of them. We never solved it.”
“And what ties it to our UNSUB?” Vail asked.
“Severed breasts and missing toenail,” Lugo said. “That’s what I put in the text message. I thought, of all things that’s unique about this killer, that sums it up.”
Vail opened the case file. “Good thinking, Ray. Exactly right.” She backed off to a nearby chair while the other three talked. Vail heard snippets like “So how’ve you been?” that came from Agbayani, followed by Dixon’s response, then his comment: “I’ve missed you.” Vail tuned it out and focused on the reports in front of her.
Coroner’s report:
Vail thumbed through the rest of the file. No known suspects identified. No witnesses to the murder. No forensics other than tire tracks lifted nearby that might or might not have been from the assailant’s vehicle. The pattern matched that of a mass produced tire from a major brand manufacturer. Over a million of these tires were sold in the Bay Area proper during the previous three years. Victim ID was Maryanne Bernal. Served for three years on a nonprofit board. Executive director of Falling Leaf Winery in the Georges Valley District. Employees all cleared. Not married, no known enemies, no disgruntled boyfriends.
Vail closed the folder.
“Not much help,” Lugo said.
“Actually, that’s not entirely true.” Vail joined the three of them by Agbayani’s desk. “This is further proof this offender has killed before. It allows us to begin creating a geographic kill zone, a geoprofile.”
“That helps us how?” Dixon asked.
“Well, right now, it doesn’t help us at all because our sampling size is too small.”
“The more victims the better,” Lugo said.
“In a warped sense,” Vail said, “yes. So . . . Maryanne Bernal. What do we know about her?”
“Last seen leaving a house she was renting in Northgate—”
“Northgate? Where’s that?”
“In Vallejo.”
“She worked at a winery in Napa and lived in Vallejo?”
“Not unusual,” Agbayani said. “Relatively quick off-hours commute. Prices are better. She may’ve had the house before getting the Napa job.”
“Okay,” Vail said, accepting that explanation. “What else?”
Agbayani continued: “We don’t know where she went after. Far as we could tell, she didn’t visit or talk to any of her friends after leaving home. She more or less disappeared from the living. At some point, her path crossed with the killer’s, and that was it. We were never able to establish any kind of suspect list based on where she worked or people she knew. She didn’t date much and didn’t have any arguments with anyone.”
“We now know this is a serial offender case,” Vail said. “They’re almost always stranger-on-stranger crimes, so Maryanne probably didn’t know the killer, not well. She may’ve met him somewhere, someplace meaningless to her . . . standing in line in the bank, at work in passing. Meant nothing to her, but she was suddenly on his radar. He
