Crush

Vail ground her teeth. “I have a job to do, Agent Mann. And part of that job is to look at this case logically, without bias. Our victims were killed by a crushing blow to the trachea. The coroner can’t rule out the use of a tool or appliance. Something that’d make crushing the trachea—normally a tough thing to do—much easier. Then you walk in with a prosthesis. And yeah, I’m thinking, shit, that’s pretty obvious. Too obvious. But I have to look into it, you hear me?”

Mann stared at her but did not reply.

“It’s nothing personal. In fact, someone I respect a great deal vouched for you.”

“You discussed this with Rooney—”

“No,” Vail said. “I didn’t. I’ve thought about it. I couldn’t rule it out in my mind, beyond saying ‘He’s a great agent and great agents don’t do this type of thing.’ Well, that doesn’t cut it when time comes to present my case. You know that. Don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So again. Nothing personal. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

“So as to where you were—”

“I was out of town when you found Victoria Cameron’s body. On ATF business. You can ask my partner, if you want.”

“When did you get back?”

“We flew back from New Mexico yesterday morning. Two days after Mrs. Cameron was killed, if I’m not mistaken. Check it out with my partner. We were together just about every minute of the five-day trip.”

“Vail!” Aaron said. “Now or never—”

“You insist it’s not personal.”

“It’s not,” Vail said. Where’s he going with this?

“Have you brought this up to the task force? Have you or anyone else looked into other men in the vicinity who have prostheses? Because if you really think this makes it a slam dunk”—he held up his left arm—“then you would’ve checked into that. Did you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. So don’t fucking insult my intelligence.”

Vail sighed. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I meant no disrespect.” She extended a hand. Mann looked at it a long moment, then turned around and got back into his car.

MATT AARON DROVE UP to the police department, in the heart of downtown St. Helena, a one-story shared-use structure that also housed City Hall. Aaron pulled to the curb and dropped off Vail in front of the building.

Vail opened her door. “Thanks for the ride.”

Aaron didn’t bother turning to face her. “And thanks so much for your help.”

She could tell he didn’t mean it. Sarcasm. A dose of her own medicine.

Vail swung the door closed, but Aaron drove off before it had completely shut.

She pushed through the police department’s front door and walked into a small anteroom separated from the rest of the office by a pane of bulletproof glass. She spoke to the community service officer and explained she was going to be taking the Taurus. The CSO told Vail where it was parked, then gave her directions to downtown Yountville.

As Vail pushed through the doors, her BlackBerry rang. It was Rooney. Oh, god. Please tell me Austin Mann didn’t call Art. That’d suck big time.

“Karen, listen, we got some shit on Fuller. I had Frank look into it while I was in the air, then when I went wheels down, he called me.”

Fuller. She shifted her brain out of panic mode and back to business. “Fuller, yeah, I know. Frank told me there was a sealed record.”

“Not just a sealed record. Not by a fucking long shot.”

Vail found the magnetic storage container, then unlocked the door and settled herself into the seat. The sun was now long gone and the air had taken on a typical March chill. A gray cast hovered in the sky, billowy clouds barely visible in the charcoal sky above.

“What was it?”

“Juvie record, Fuller was convicted of—wait for it—attempted arson. He was pissed at his teacher, so he set a school storage shed on fire. Janitor was on-site and saw Fuller, did a sketch, and picked him out of a lineup.”

“Arson.”

“I knew there was something about the kid.”

“He’s the sheriff’s stepson, you know that.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m sure the sheriff knows about this. And here we’ve got an arson in his town and he doesn’t tell us about Fuller’s history?”

“That’s a fine line, Art. Asking a father to rat out his son.”

“Hey, the fucker tried to kill you, Karen. This goes way beyond family. This kid’s a killer.”

“Okay, I’m with you on this. What now?”

“I want you to steer clear of it. I’ll call Mann and have him coordinate with an agent in the San Francisco office. We’ll handle this internally. I don’t want Owens finding out, tipping off Fuller, and giving him a chance to cover up evidence, or bolt or whatever the hell he’ll do. Wish I hadn’t flown back.”

“We can handle it from here.”

“Not we, Karen.”

“Yeah, okay.” She depressed the brake pedal, then shoved the key in the ignition. A pair of headlights came on a few dozen feet behind her. She flipped the rearview mirror into night mode and pulled out of the parking lot, headed right, down Highway 29 toward Yountville. “Keep me posted, okay?” Rooney did not reply. She looked down at her BlackBerry. It had dropped the call. Didn’t matter—she was sure he, or Mann, would let her know what was going down, and when.

Vail sighed. She had thought Fuller was annoying—but harmless. It now appeared she was wrong. Not that she was never wrong—but it didn’t happen often, which was a good thing—because in her profession, being wrong often met with disastrous consequences.

She was looking forward to seeing Robby, to sharing a glass of wine with him and unwinding, telling him about Fuller. She was grateful that Rooney was such a hound dog with an acute intuitive sense.

So much had happened in the few days since they had arrived. And this was supposed to be a time for her to get away from the stress of the past couple months.

As she drove along 29, she thought about where she’d like to take her real vacation. But when would she go? She couldn’t leave Jonathan again, certainly not right away; that wouldn’t be fair to him. And they will have burned through Robby’s vacation time. She’d gotten so caught up in the hunt—in the need to help—that she had selfishly, and foolishly, pursued this case at Robby’s expense. This was supposed to be their time together, and she had ruined it. And at the moment, she wasn’t even sure she had done the community any good. Like Gifford had said, she seemed to be a magnet that frequently sent the Shit-Happens Meter off the scale.

Perhaps she and Robby could steal a weekend here and there for an overnight or two. Maybe the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg—she’d forgotten about that place. Close to home, but far enough away that it would provide a needed change of scenery for both of them.

Vail was surprised at how few cars were on the road. She knew most wineries closed around 5 p.m., so the tourists were probably back at their bed-and-breakfasts, dressing for dinner and a relaxing night out—something she would be doing very shortly, as well.

Her headlights hit the sign ahead that announced Calistoga would be coming up in fifteen miles. Calistoga? Her Napa geography was fairly poor, but she remembered Calistoga being toward the top of the map—farther down the road, after St. Helena—meaning she should’ve turned left onto 29, not right.

She slowed to see where she could make a U-turn, but headlights in her mirror caught her attention. Same ones she saw a few moments ago when leaving the police department? Impossible to say—and normally she wouldn’t give it much thought. But last night someone—Fuller?—had tried to turn her into a french fry and today a serial killer texted her phone. Her sense of awareness, always pretty good, was heightened.