Crush

Brix hoisted himself in and pushed onto the bench seat beside Vail as the van screeched away from the building. Shoulder to shoulder, they swayed with the vehicle’s jerky movements. Her head repeatedly struck the roof with each bump in the road.

Vail was covered in Lugo’s blood, the slick liquid coating her arms and face, shoulder, bra—

Concentrate. Keep pressure on his neck.

“All right,” Brix said. “What happened? Ray stowed his gun, I saw him do it.”

Dixon patted down Lugo’s jeans. “Me, too.” Her hands stopped moving and she squeezed his left ankle. Drew back his pant leg, revealing a holster. “Backup piece.”

“Fuck.”

“But how did he get hit? If he was aiming for Mayfield—”

“He fired twice,” Vail said. “Must’ve been hit by a ricochet.”

Brix nodded. “The Blue Room walls are cement. Makes sense. But why—why Mayfield?” Brix leaned forward. “Why, Ray?”

Lugo’s breathing was labored. His lids parted and his eyes rotated toward Brix. “Him. He . . . started it.”

“Who started it? Mayfield?”

“May . . . field. Kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Vail asked. “Who? Mayfield kidnapped you?”

He fluttered his eyelids. “Wife. Son. He was . . . going to . . . kill them. Made deal. He lets ’em live.”

“You made a deal with Mayfield?” Brix asked.

“Told me. Can’t escape . . . him. Will find us.” He licked his lips. “Scared . . .”

“He scared you,” Dixon said, “so you cut a deal? With a goddamn killer, Ray? You’re a cop, a sergeant, for chrissake.”

“No . . . Tried finding . . . him. No leads. Couldn’t . . .”

Dixon leaned in. “What kind of deal did you cut with him, Ray?”

“Looked. Couldn’t find. He . . . found out. Warned me.” He coughed.

Blood leaked. Vail pressed her shirt harder against the wound.

“What kind of deal,” Dixon repeated, this time louder, firmer.

Lugo did not answer at first. Finally, he said, “Helped. Left wife . . . son . . . alone.”

“That’s why you shot him?” Brix asked. “Because you helped him? You thought he’d rat you out?”

“Helped him how?” Dixon asked.

“Had to.”

“Had to, what? Had to shoot him, or you had to help him?”

“Ray,” Vail said. “What did Mayfield mean when he said, ‘There’s more to this than you know’?”

His eyes swiveled to Vail, then toward Brix. “Look . . . after. Wife. Son.” Lugo’s voice was low. He was gurgling his words. “Or . . . he . . . wins.”

“What?” Vail looked to Brix for confirmation of the meaning of the garbled words. Then she dropped her gaze to Lugo. “Ray! Mayfield wins? Why?”

Lugo closed his eyes. Vail grabbed his shoulder and shook. “Ray! Stay with us. Why is there more to this?”

Lugo opened his eyes. Brix leaned in close. “Was Mayfield the Crush Killer?”

“Yeah . . . but . . .” Lugo sucked in air. Blood bubbled on his lips. “Disc . . .” His body convulsed, then went limp.

Oh, my god. A horrifying thought suddenly formed in Vail’s mind: Had Mayfield killed Robby? Did Lugo help him? Is that what Ray was talking about? Is that what Mayfield meant? ‘There’s more to this.’ Am I going to find Robby dead in some vineyard, missing the second toenail on his right foot?

Dixon looked at Brix. “Did he say, ‘disc’? What disc?”

Vail grabbed Lugo’s wrist and felt for a pulse. She looked away. Brix did the same, but nothing needed to be said. Everyone in the van knew that Lugo was gone.

Brix’s phone buzzed. He looked down, glanced at the display. “Ambulance is en route with Mayfield.”

“Still alive?”

He reread the text message. “Barely. Probably not going to survive the ride.”

Vail slumped back against the van wall, her head and shoulders bouncing with the bumps in the road. Brix had his bloody hands on his face, elbows on his knees. And Dixon just sat there, staring at Lugo, at the man she had known for so long. Yet hadn’t known at all.

The van pulled into the ER parking lot and stopped with a lurch. They didn’t move. The back doors swung open. Two hospital personnel in scrubs peered in and apparently read their body language. “Is he gone?” one of them asked.

“Gone,” Brix said.

“You sure?”

“I fucking know when a cop’s dead. Now close the goddamn door and leave us alone.”

The van was dark again, save for the parking lot light filtering through the tinted rear windows.

They sat in silence until Vail’s phone vibrated. And vibrated. She ignored it. Seconds later, it vibrated again.

It pulled her back to rational thought. With blood-smeared hands, she reached for the BlackBerry. Put it against her ear. “Yeah.”

“Karen, it’s Bledsoe. I checked everything. Airports, flights. Credit cards. Car rentals, hotels, area hospitals, morgues, police and sheriff departments in a hundred mile radius. I can’t be totally sure because it’s the middle of the night, but I came up empty. I got nothing. There’s no sign of Robby.”

Vail dropped the phone to her lap. Bledsoe was still talking, but it didn’t matter. His words resonated and repeated in her head: There’s no sign of Robby.

Exhausted, famished, emotionally drained, and covered in a dead man’s blood, she closed her eyes.

And she cried.

A NOTE FROM ALAN JACOBSON

I know, I know . . . I left a few loose threads hanging on this garment. Fear not, they will be tied together, neatly trimmed or tucked away in the next Karen Vail novel.

Go now (yes, now) to www.crush.alanjacobson.com for a short video featuring yours truly discussing the ending to Crush. But that’s not all—you’ll also find a few other surprises there. See you soon.

—ALAN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I could not have written this novel with the accuracy and credibility I strive for without the assistance and cooperation of the following professionals:

Senior FBI profiler Supervisory Special Agent Mark Safarik (ret). Mark, now Executive Director of Forensic Behavioral Services International, started as a vital resource fifteen years ago and became a close friend. His knowledge and expertise in the field of criminal investigative analysis is tops among his peers. I value his friendship, his input, our discussions, and his detailed and critical review of the manuscript.

Senior FBI profiler Supervisory Special Agent Mary Ellen O’Toole (ret). Mary Ellen provided key information regarding her experiences dealing with narcissistic serial killers, including their offender character traits, crime scene behaviors, and the interview techniques she has used with them. Moreover, the stories Mary Ellen shared with me over the years relative to her long career in the profiling unit helped me understand Karen Vail’s challenges and opportunities.

Sergeant Matt Talbott, St. Helena Police Department. Matt was my first law enforcement contact in the valley. He helped orient me as to the Napa County Major Crimes Task Force and its makeup, operations, procedures, and background, as well as the various policing and jurisdictional nuances of the Napa