Crush

another. “Do I need to make myself clearer, or do you understand what I’m saying?”

Vail stifled a chuckle. “I’m not an imbecile, Mr. Nance. I understand what’s driving you and I know exactly where you’re coming from. As to promising you what I will or will not do, I’m not going to do any such thing. I’m part of this task force. I don’t work for you and I don’t work for Congressman Church. I work for the federal government. And for the victims, for the People. I’m sorry if that bothers you.” She rose from her chair and pushed it tight against the table. “No, check that. I’m not sorry at all.”

VAIL WALKED OUTSIDE and descended the first flight of stairs directly ahead of her. She turned and leaned against the metal railing and looked up at the three flags blowing hard in the wind. The sky was now deep blue, a few barely visible clouds dotting the expanse. She closed her eyes and let the gentle breeze slink through her red hair. This was supposed to be a vacation. What the hell was I thinking? All I can do is advise, I can’t make these people do the right thing.

She put her head back. The coolness of the evening’s arrival relaxed her, cleared her mind.

“You have a knack.”

Vail opened her eyes and spun around. Dixon was standing there. “A knack?”

“For pissing people off. I thought I was the only one.”

“Oh, no, I’ve perfected it.” Vail grinned, then let the smile fade. “I don’t do it on purpose. But I challenge people. I don’t hold back what I’m thinking. Good or bad, it’s who I am.” She took a deep breath and looked around. “I’m not trying to piss anyone off. This is something I know about and feel strongly about. I do have a knack, a kind of sixth sense, I guess. I don’t know how to describe it. I just understand these killers. It’s not like reading a textbook, like Fuller. I’ve seen it, I’ve been down in the trenches.”

“I hear you.”

“There’s a saying in my unit, one of our profilers started using it maybe a dozen years ago and it stuck: Knee deep in the blood and guts. That kind of describes what we do. After a while, you get dragged down in the muck, and you start to slog your way through it, and pretty soon you’re emotionally and physically stuck in it. And it affects you.” She stopped, thought a moment, then continued. “But more than that, you begin to see things you didn’t see before, have a better understanding of what you’re looking at when you see these behaviors. I’ve talked to these killers, I’ve sat a foot from their faces, I’ve asked them questions, I’ve made them cry. And in all those interviews, all these years, they add up to a deep understanding of who these ass-holes are. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but being inside their heads affected me.”

Vail pushed away from the railing, then checked her watch. She didn’t realize how late it was; Robby would be arriving in a few minutes. “Can you drop me at my B&B?”

“Where are you staying?”

“Mountain Crest, in St. Helena.”

Dixon looked back over her shoulder at the sheriff’s department building, as Fuller, Lugo, and Brix were walking through the door. The meeting had ended.

Dixon turned back. “Sure, let’s go. I live out that way anyway.”

JOHN WAYNE MAYFIELD waited until the two women got into their car. He was now sure they were cops— detectives, actually, because they weren’t in uniform. But they had the look, he decided. Other men in suits left the building, too. He wasn’t sure if they were with the women, but the fact that they were leaving, and not entering, made the task ahead easier.

He got out of his vehicle and walked up the two flights of stairs to the entrance. He had nothing to fear; he’d been in this building many times before and would not be out of place. But he’d never been here to do what he was about to do. And that made him nervous.

But he was good at handling himself and defusing potentially hazardous situations. He knew what to say if someone stopped him. But they’ve got no reason to stop me.

Mayfield pushed through the door and moved down the hall, nodded at the legal clerk behind the glass, then swiped his prox card and walked through the door. He surveyed the nearby rooms on either side of him. He needed to look confident, like he was supposed to be here and not snooping or doing anything nefarious or suspicious. So he opened the first door he came to on the left and stepped in. Looked around. Nothing of interest.

Moved back out into the hall and tried the next door. He knew one of these rooms had to be where the cops met, where they kept their case files and notes. Over the years, he had read about the Major Crimes task force that convened to track fleeing felons, bank robbers, kidnappers, and the like. He figured this task force had already met to discuss him. Maybe that’s what those women were doing. And those men.

But this building was a maze of the worst kind: The hallways and doors all looked alike, save for the teal and white placards mounted outside each door. As he continued to wander the hallway, he read the little signs looking for some kind of task force notation . . . or a large meeting room of some sort.

As he made his way around yet another bend, he was beginning to doubt he would find what he was looking for. And the longer he was here, the more likely he’d run into trouble. But he was sure he had blown them away with the wine cave murder. He left it for everyone to see. They had to be working his case. They had to be. He was surprised there was nothing in the newspaper. Not even a death notice.

He paused beside another door, whose teal placard read, Conference Room # 3. Mayfield pushed through and walked in. The motion sensors fired and turned on the lights. This was it, the base of operations. A whiteboard with a grid. Names, what looked like tasks and assignments. Oh, yes. Very good. He fished around his deep pocket for the digital camera. He aimed and depressed the shutter. Once, twice, three times.

This was too much—it was all about him! Of course it was.

Then something caught his eye. The word “Vallejo.” So they knew about Vallejo and Detective Edward Agbayani. Well, that was impressive.

He looked over the names on the whiteboard. Brix and Lugo: no introduction necessary. Dixon, Vail, Fuller— he needed to look those up.

Mayfield walked around the room, realizing he’d already gotten most of the info he needed. Best to get out of there. While he could explain away his presence, why take the risk?

As he turned to leave, he saw a laptop beside scattered papers lying on the conference table. He grabbed a sheet off the top and glanced at it. Names and phone numbers. Neatly typed into a grid, hole-punched for binders.

Very good.

He folded the paper into his pocket and walked out. Moved down the hall to find a computer he could use. The laptop in the conference room would have sufficed, but if any of the task force members walked in on him, that would be a lot more difficult to explain than if he was discovered in front of a PC somewhere else, in an unoccupied office.

But it was late in the day, and most of the clerical staff had clocked out. He wasn’t looking to hack into anyone’s terminal . . . just a computer with Internet access he could safely use that wouldn’t leave behind search results traceable to him. He turned the corner into a large, cubicle-filled room. The dividers were tall, nearly ceiling height, and he couldn’t see over them. He walked around, turned the corner, and entered the main aisle that cut through and past all the desks. He kept his head forward, not wanting to look suspicious. But the area was largely deserted, except for a black-haired head thirty feet away.

He slid into the cubicle and faced the monitor. Turned it on, hit the spacebar, and the screen lit up. It looked like a plain vanilla Windows desktop. No password screen, so it was likely a standalone computer, not connected to the county network. Exactly what he needed.

He opened Internet Explorer, and in the Live Search field, typed “Roxxann Dixon Napa California.” Got several hits, including one that contained a photo of her and a brief bio of her position with the district attorney’s office. It said she served on the Major Crimes Task Force. Bingo. This is the blonde I saw.

Next he typed in “Karen Vail Napa California.” No relevant hits. Narrowed the search to “Karen Vail.” And got references to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Clicked on one: “FBI Profiler Karen Vail, fresh off the case of the Dead Eyes killer, the notorious serial killer who terrorized women in the Virginia area . . .”

Mayfield slid back his chair. “Whoa.” He said it aloud then quickly snapped his flapping lips shut. FBI. A profiler. They are taking this seriously. I must’ve scared the shit out of