Crush

her a new BlackBerry. “It’s activated and ready to go. Same number.”

She turned it on and waited as it booted up. “Thanks.”

“Watch that kid in there. Fuller,” Rooney said. “I’ve seen his type, knows it all, young buck who’s gotten where he’s at because of favors or nepotism or both. Book smart, street dumb.”

Vail marveled at Rooney’s ability to read people. She knew he was good, but that was impressive.

“He bugs me,” Rooney said. “Could be trouble.”

“Noted. What do you know about Austin Mann?”

“Hell of an agent. Loyal to the job like guys aren’t loyal anymore.” He nodded at the Bureau car down the street, headed toward them. His ride to SFO, Vail surmised.

Rooney said, “You noticed the prosthesis, I’m sure. Got it OTJ, defusing a bomb. Lucky that’s all he lost. I worked with him years ago in North Carolina. I was there when . . . when it happened. I hope you never have to see something like that. It was awful. A guy like that, tough as they come, squealing like a pig.” He shook his head. “Anyway, he took this assignment in Frisco and he’s been good. He’s been happy.”

The dark blue Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb.

“Is it a prosthetic hand, or his whole arm?”

“What?”

“Agent Mann’s prosthesis. How extensive is it?”

Rooney’s eyes narrowed. “Hand and forearm. Why?”

Vail stood there thinking a second too long.

“Karen, what is it?”

She laughed and waved a hand. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Rooney placed a hand on Vail’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “I want you to get back to Quantico in one piece, you hear? No more fires or other shit you seem to get yourself into.”

“Are you implying something, Art?”

“Implying? Hell, no. I think your record speaks for itself.” He stepped off the curb and opened the door. “See you back home soon.”

TWENTY-TWO

Vail watched the BuCar swing a wide arc in the street and head off down the road. She liked Rooney, and because she was about a dozen years younger than he, she sometimes thought of him like an older brother. She never felt that way about anyone in the unit—or anywhere else, for that matter.

But Austin Mann’s prosthesis began to bother her. When crushing a trachea, the “bar arm” move would be vastly more efficient if the offender had a hard prosthetic forearm. She would have to look into that. Carefully. One of her mentors had just vouched for the ATF agent. One thing she did not want to do was investigate a fellow LEO—a man with a distinguished service record—and have it get back to Rooney.

She turned to head back into the building, realized she was still holding the envelope Brix had given her, and turned it over. Agent Karen Vail was printed in black laser ink. She tore it open, and, while starting up the two flights of stairs, began to read:

Hey there, Agent Vail. You don’t know me, but I’m betting you wish you did. I know you’re a profiler who’s been brought in to catch the guy who killed that woman in the wine cave. And I know you’ve found the one in Vallejo and the one in that old Black Knoll Vineyards cave. That was a nice touch, actually, don’t you think? They’ve talked for years about getting at that vintage wine that was supposedly buried there, so I figured they’d eventually find my handiwork. It just happened sooner than I figured. I wanted it to be a total surprise, like, out of the blue, a holy shit moment, where everyone freaks out and says, “Oh, my god, another woman’s been killed by the same guy!” Ah, so the first question might be, am I a guy, or am I a woman? I’m not going to tell you. I’ll let you figure it out. I’m sure by now you’ve already got your theories. I’m sure you’re all thinking about me, talking about me. You, and Lieutenant Brix and Detective Fuller, Investigator Dixon, and Sergeant Lugo, and whoever else you’re going to bring on board. The more the better. You’re going to need it. But I’m wasting your time, and it’s not right to waste taxpayer money. So here’s the deal. I’m willing to work with you, but under some conditions. Are you sitting down?

No, Vail was definitely not sitting down. She was, at the moment, flying up the second flight of stairs, then bursting through the front doors, swiping her prox card, sprinting toward the task force conference room, and then—inside and out of breath, coughing like a two-pack-per-day smoker—holding the letter out in front of her.

All heads turned toward her—how could they not, she was hacking away and no one could hear anything else.

“You okay?” Mann asked, rising from his chair and helping her to her seat. Brix handed her a cup of water from the cooler in the corner.

Vail, holding the letter out away from her to protect it from trace contamination, took the drink from him with her other hand and did her best to swallow between coughs. As the spasm passed, she held up the letter and envelope and said, “I need a pair of gloves. Letter from the offender.”

Lugo reached into his pocket and rooted out a crumpled latex glove and handed it to Vail, who pulled it on.

“I’ll need to give Matt Aaron my prints as an exemplar. I was holding the letter before I realized what it was.”

Vail would be the only one to handle the letter for the moment, and only with her gloved hand. “We should obviously dust it in case the UNSUB handled it. There might be contact DNA on the paper or in the saliva on the adhesive of the envelope. Can your lab run DNA?”

“We’ve got it covered,” Dixon said. She wiggled her index finger at the letter. “What does it say?”

Vail read it to them, up to the point where she had left off. She then continued: “I want you to release news of my work to the media. You will refer to me as the Napa Crush Killer. Get it—the crush of grapes, the crush of the windpipe—I figure it’s a fitting name. Here’s what else I want from you.

“To show me you’ve agreed to my demands, you will have the newspaper publish a front page article about me. Use my name in the headline. Do that and we’ll talk about the rest of my demands. Oh—I know, I have to give you something in return. I’ll stop killing. Okay? Is that fair? I thought you might think so. Tomorrow’s Napa Valley Press—and post it on the Press’s website, on their home page, lead story, by noon today.”

“Where did that letter come from?” Dixon asked.

Brix lifted the room phone. “Good question.” Into the handset, he said, “Someone took possession of an envelope addressed to Special Agent Karen Vail last night or this morning. I need you to ask around to find out who dropped it off.” He listened a moment, then said, “That’s right. Check the surveillance tapes, get back to me ASAP. It was left by the killer we’re tracking . . . yeah, that’s right. He was in our goddamn building.” He slammed the phone onto the wall receptacle. “Christ.”

“He was here,” Lugo said, “right under our fucking noses and we didn’t even know about it.”

“Pretty ballsy,” Dixon said.

“That fits,” Fuller said. “A narcissistic killer feels invulnerable to getting caught. He’s better than everyone else. Superior. There’s nothing we can do to catch him. Isn’t that right, Vail?”

Vail nodded slowly. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“So the question is,” Dixon said, “What do we do about his demands?”

Mann said, “One of many questions. Is this UNSUB the same guy who set the fire? All to get attention?”

Vail looked at Mann, examined his demeanor and body language. If he was the UNSUB, he wasn’t giving anything away.

Dixon sat forward. “If he’s the same guy, why would he send Vail a letter if he jammed the door to kill her? She’d be dead if he was successful.”

“We don’t know for sure the door was jammed shut,” Brix said.

“And maybe he was hanging around the periphery, knew she survived, and left the letter after the fact.”

Dixon nodded slowly.