“Yeah,” Brix said. “I can check it against the database, see who they belong to. If it’s one of ours. But we gotta do it manually. It’s not computerized. We can also ask around, see if anyone’s lost a pair.”
“Keep it low-key,” Dixon said. “In case.”
“In case the killer’s a cop?” Gordon asked.
Dixon rocked back on her heels a bit. “I’m just saying. Let’s be smart about this. In case it is, yeah. I doubt it, but you can’t unring a bell.”
“I don’t mean to be all doom and gloom,” Mann said. “But could these be Robby’s? Did he bring a set with him?”
“On vacation?” Vail asked. She shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t see any. But I just don’t know.”
“Before we go down that path,” Brix said, “let’s first see if the serial number matches any used by LEOs in the area. If you really think it’s possible, call Robby’s PD and see if they keep records on which detectives get which cuffs. Or, we can check with Peerless and see if they know which organization or retailer they shipped that set to.”
“Good luck with that,” Mann said under his breath.
“Let’s also get an ID on the vic. Find out the usual stuff. Who she is, who’d want her dead. Who had access to this quad.” Brix swiveled his body and looked around. “Which is pretty much anybody. Security cameras?”
“I’ll look into it,” Gordon said. “I doubt they’re aimed at the street. That fountain is damn close to the sidewalk. The cameras, if there are any, would be turned in toward the building. I think this guy knew what he was doing.”
“But,” Dixon said, “how do you kill a woman out in the open, during the day, in a public area, and have no one see it?”
Vail shook her head. “You kill her offsite. Crush her trachea, if that’s what he did, then bring her here. Get her out of your van in such a way that it looks like you’re walking arm in arm. If it is Cannon, he’s easily strong enough to support her weight and carry her alongside him for fifty to a hundred feet. He sets her down beside him at the fountain, makes two quick slits to her wrists, and then he walks away and melts into the street and cars. The blood drains slowly due to gravity. Some washes away in the fountain.” She examined everyone’s face. “It can be done.”
Dixon rubbed both hands across her eyes. “All right. So where are we?”
“We ran Mayfield’s home phone LUDs,” Brix said, referring to the local usage detail printout of calls made and received. “And we got a log of his mobile calls. His cell was one provided by his employer and only had work-related calls to and from the county mosquito and pest control abatement division. And a few to wineries and public buildings. We cross-checked, and they all corresponded to jobs he had—places where he sprayed and whatever the hell else he did with his time when he wasn’t killing people.”
Vail’s attention was split between Brix and what Matt Aaron was doing with the victim’s body. “And his home phone?”
“Nothing popped out at us. We were still sifting through it when this call came in. We’re going further and further back in case he wasn’t as careful early on.”
“Any calls to James Cannon?”
Brix pulled his phone and began pressing buttons. “We’ve still got some unidentified numbers to track down, a few unlisteds. We should have an answer soon on that. And we should’ve also heard back from NSIB on whether they got a home address from the wireless carrier. I’m gonna see if I can scare them up right now.”
“We spoke with Ian Wirth,” Dixon said. “He gave us a rundown on the application process for starting a winery.”
“My brother texted me on the way over here minutes ago. He’s done with his meeting and should be calling me soon. Get anything from Wirth?”
Dixon filled them in on what she and Vail had learned.
“After I follow up with NSIB,” Brix said, “I’ll get someone started on calling the TTB and ABC ASAP, just in case the vintners organization is a dead end. If my brother gets us anything we don’t already know, I’ll give you a shout.” He pressed SEND on his phone.
Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated: a Virginia number, one she recognized as Detective Paul Bledsoe’s. “I’ve gotta take this,” she said, then moved off toward the Hall of Justice entrance, beneath the address sign that read “1125” in large silver decals.
“Hey,” Bledsoe said. “I just wanted to check in with you. You get anywhere?”
“Treading water. You?”
“I got Hernandez’s DNA sample over to the FBI lab and I’ve also got a sample coming your way, to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Very good, thanks. And—you think you can keep your guy on Jonathan till I get home? I—this Mayfield thing may not be over. And it could be related to Robby’s disappearance.”
Bledsoe hesitated. “I think I can swing it. But are you sure? You think Mayfield had an accomplice?”
“Or a ‘student.’ I’m not sure, but it’s possible. And until we can rule it out, and until we find out what happened to Robby, I can’t take the chance it’s personal.”
“I’m working on something on my end,” Bledsoe said. “A guy I know, someone who owes me.”
In the background, Dixon continued her conversation with Gordon and Mann. Vail plugged her left ear to mute their discussion. “Who is this guy and what do you think he’s going to be able to do for us?”
“Name’s Hector DeSantos. I met him on another case a couple years ago; this guy’s involved with a bunch of people who’ve got access to information no one else has. I think he’s some kind of spook. But if there’s info tucked away somewhere in a police or hospital database that can give us a clue as to Robby’s whereabouts, DeSantos will be able to find it.”
“Awfully nice of him to help us out.”
“I haven’t asked him yet,” Bledsoe said. “But he owes me, and if he’s stateside, I think we’re good. I’ll see if I can set something up for when you get back.”
“I’m on a flight tonight—actually, I guess it’s tomorrow morning. Anything changes, I’ll let you know. And Bledsoe . . . thanks again. For everything.” She hung up and rejoined the group.
Brix said, “Wireless carrier had the same Soscol address. They emailed his bills, which were paid by direct debit to his credit card. NSIB’s now trying to get the address from the credit card company.”
“Without a warrant?” Gordon asked.
A forensic technician handed Brix a bag containing the handcuffs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Brix said. “Be surprised what customer service reps will tell you.”
“It’s not against the law to ask for information,” Dixon said. “It’s not even illegal to lie about who you are—as long as you don’t say you’re James Cannon.”
“We’ll see what we can get,” Brix said.
Dixon took Vail’s elbow and led her toward the street. “That call. Good news or bad?”
“My friend, Bledsoe. He wants me to meet with someone back home who might be able to dig up info on Robby.”
Dixon unlocked her car doors with the remote. “Take any help we can get.”
“Where we headed?” Vail asked.
“Mayfield’s place. That’s one warrant we didn’t have a problem getting.”
17
Vail and Dixon arrived at John Mayfield’s house, a small Victorian-style two-story with a compact footprint on a postage stamp lot. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and the shingle siding seemed to be the recipient of a recent coat of brick red paint.
Parked out front, neighborhood cars. A large hockey net with a noticeable rip in the polyester mesh, shoved up against the curb.
Vail and Dixon were the first to arrive. They walked up to the front door, tried the knob, and found it locked. “Kick it, pick it, or call for a battering ram,” Vail said.
Dixon slid sideways and slammed her left foot against the jamb, just below the lock. It burst open with a splintering pop. “Much more satisfying that way.”
