Crush

“Fine, keep me posted. And . . . I feel like I’m always saying this to you, but . . . be careful, will you?”

What, no “arson magnet” comment?

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

HAVING ATTEMPTED to make herself presentable in Roxxann Dixon’s clothing, and despite Dixon’s claim she had something that would fit, Vail appraised herself in the mirror and frowned. It was hard enough for a woman to put on work attire each day and feel good about herself. Wearing someone else’s clothing—particularly with the figure of a Roxxann Dixon—made it more maddening.

But the reminder crept into her thoughts again—she survived the fire and that was all that mattered.

Robby came up behind her, pecked her on the neck, and, dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday, told her she looked great.

Why do women always want to hear such drivel? Because it makes us feel better. She knew she didn’t look great, but those simple words, uttered by her boyfriend, lifted her spirits. How strange the human psyche.

They met Dixon in the kitchen, grabbed some cereal for breakfast, and went their separate ways. Robby headed to the Napa outlet stores to put together a wardrobe for both of them, armed with Vail’s instructions on where to shop and what sizes and styles to buy. He seemed a little out of sorts, but she told him to find a clerk about her age and ask her opinion. It was the best she could do given the circumstances. Besides, it was only a few outfits. Chances are, he’d find some blouses and pants that fit decently. Generally she wasn’t that difficult a fit. That is, when she wasn’t trying to look good in clothing worn by a woman Detective Agbayani had referred to as “Buff Barbie.”

Vail and Dixon headed for the sheriff’s department, but Vail wanted to stop first at the bed-and-breakfast to poke around in the light. Since the meeting was scheduled for ten, they had a little time to peruse the grounds.

As they approached the driveway, Vail said, “So it seemed like you knew Eddie Agbayani.”

Dixon chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We dated for a year, but we ran into some problems.” She hung a left into the bed-and-breakfast’s parking lot. “It was good for a while, but there was always an edge to our relationship. Still, we love each other. It’s hard. We hit a wall when we ran into some . . . dominance issues.”

Dominance issues. Vail wondered who was the aggressor, but from Vail’s observations, and the greeting Agbayani had for Dixon when they saw each other, she figured it was probably Agbayani’s insecurity with their relationship that caused the problems. Male testosterone and ego getting in the way. As Vail pushed open her car door, she realized that wasn’t necessarily a fair assessment. What did she really have to go on, anyway? It was hard for her, as a profiler, to refrain from making psychological assessments off the clock. The constant analysis, the evaluation of body language and vocal tones and facial tension sometimes made it tough to sit back and casually converse with someone.

“When did you two call it off?” Vail asked.

“I called it off, not we. I’m not a typical woman, whatever that is. I’m headstrong, I know that. And sometimes we clashed because Eddie likes to call the shots, too. We had a balance for a while, but it shifted when I started spending more time at the gym than with him. I just, I had a couple stressful cases and working out helped settle my mind, put things in perspective.

“So I guess some of that was my fault. But toward the end we were always at each other’s throats, and I felt it was best we took a rest.” They got out of the Ford and headed down the gravel path. “It’s been hard. I’ve missed him a lot. But time passes, distance opens up between you, and before you know it . . .” She shook her head. “It’s been almost four months.”

That coincides roughly with her shift from Vallejo PD to the district attorney’s office. The smell of burnt wood and gasoline sat heavy on the air like cheap perfume, and made Vail’s nostrils flare. “Wonder how long till this stench dissipates.”

Dixon scrunched her nose. “Probably not till they bring in a demo crew and get this shit out of here.”

Approximately a quarter of the structure was still intact, no doubt due to the fire department’s rapid response. What was left was charred charcoal black, a ghostlike shell with fragments of flowery wallpaper stuck to odd-shaped wall fragments untouched by flame but doused by water.

Vail walked the periphery, stepping carefully through the ash that carpeted the ground. Dixon’s shoes were half a size small, which made them uncomfortable, but not unmanageable. Still, Vail was aware of each step she took.

She stopped beside Dixon, who had her hands on her hips, surveying the lay of the land: Off to the left, there was another building, once a garage that had been converted to the more lucrative Cabernet Truffle Room, as noted by a hand-painted sign above the door. A larger, two-story structure extended perpendicular to it, deeper into the wooded area, containing another four rooms.

At her feet lay the charred Hot Date sign that had hung on their door only a couple of days ago. Ironically, the painted flames were nearly burned away, reduced to ashes, much like the promise of her vacation.

Vail mused at the luck of their having taken the one solitary room, tucked away in its own building. If the aim of the arsonist had been to harm her, and she and Robby had been booked into the Cabernet Truffle Room, some of the other guests might not have survived.

Vail shook off the thought, then started coughing again. Too much residual smoke still riding on the air. She headed back to the Crown Vic, hacking away, with Dixon behind her.

They drove a mile down the road, before Dixon pulled over beside a large rolling vineyard. Vail got out and coughed long and hard, bent over at the waist and holding onto the wire fence that separated the vines from the roadway. A moment later, the spell subsided. She stood up, cautiously took a deep breath of the fresh air, then blew it through her lips.

She got back into the car, her forehead pimpled with perspiration. “Well. That was great fun.”

Dixon eyed her. “You okay?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Vail nodded at the road ahead. “Let’s go.”

THEY WALKED INTO the conference room and took their seats. Absent were their guests from yesterday, save for Timothy Nance. Sitting off to the side, his face was tight, etched with concern. His tie was pulled to the side, and he looked like he hadn’t slept much. Vail knew how he felt.

Brix walked in and strode to the front of the room, dropped his thickening binder on the desk and put his hands on his hips. He, too, looked frazzled. His hair was hastily combed, his uniform was not as crisp as it had been and he had dark, loose skin beneath his eyes.

He put his teeth together and whistled loudly. Everyone came to order. “Okay, I’m really pissed off at the night’s events. Someone’s targeted us, people, and I intend to find out who. It’s no secret I’ve had a problem with Special Agent Vail and her . . . attitude and methods . . . but she’s one of our team, and we don’t gotta like everyone, we just have to work effectively with them. If someone takes a swipe at her, they take a swipe at all of us. So I want to catch this fucker. And I want to catch this goddamn serial killer. And I want to do both sooner, rather than later. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

He looked around, making eye contact with Lugo, Dixon, Fuller, Vail—holding her gaze a few seconds longer for acknowledgment—which she gave him with a slight smile—before coming to rest on Tim Nance.

Brix looked down at his hand, which held an envelope and a FedEx overnight pack. “Karen, these are for you. Front desk clerk gave them to me.” He passed them to Nance, who handed them off down the line toward Vail. “I’ve been in contact with Karen’s boss and we’ve got an Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agent on his way to pay us a visit. Karen, you want to fill us in?”

Vail laid the envelope on the table in front of her and glanced at the airbill on the FedEx package. “The BAU has two ATF agents in an Arson and Bombing Investigative Services subunit that we started twenty years ago. They were trained as profilers and primarily work ATF cases but they consult on all serial murder cases because, well, because they’re really good profilers.” She grabbed the tab, ripped open the package, and slid out her new badge. “Special Agent Supervisor Art Rooney is the guy who’ll be here sometime today. His input will help us, I’m sure.”

“He’s actually here,” Brix said. “He and Detective Gordon are at the site right now, taking a quick look around.”