Velocity

“Yeah, no shit.”

“So Timmons says he’s got a list compiled of all the potential locations where must is produced within earshot of the Napa Valley Wine Train whistle. There’s a margin of error because it’s not scientific or anything like that. But this is like a freaking needle in a haystack, anyway.”

“How many potential sites are there?” Dixon asked.

“Sixty-plus. NSIB’s got some guys looking into the whole list, just to see if there are any that can be eliminated based on some set of criteria Timmons and his team are developing. You want to be plugged into what they’re thinking?”

“No, we’ve got enough to do. Let them do their jobs. Touch base with him from time to time, and if they sound like they’ve landed on the wrong planet, let me know and we’ll meet with them, set them straight. Otherwise, let’s see what they turn up.” Dixon threw Vail a sideways glance. “Redd—I said I wanted the good news first.”

“By comparison, that is the good news.”

“I’m not sure we want to know,” Vail said, “but what’s the bad?”

“Search warrant was denied. Mirabelli rejected our argument. Said there was no direct connection between . . . well, between anything. Get him something that’s more than just a series of coincidences and he’ll reconsider. What we’ve got doesn’t even rise to reasonable suspicion.”

Dixon shook her head. “Well, that’s just great.”

“And for what it’s worth,” Brix said, “DOJ wasn’t too excited about our WITSEC request for Merilynn.”

Vail said, “We didn’t give them anything particularly compelling, and that video Ray made didn’t help her case any.”

“One other thing. The Hall of Justice fountain vic has an ID. Kaitlin Zago. They’re putting together a backgrounder on her but there doesn’t appear to be any obvious connection to Mayfield’s vics. And—the manual search through the handcuff database is taking longer than I’d hoped. I put a call into Peerless in case they can tell us who they sold that serial number to. But they’re back east, so we probably won’t hear from them till tomorrow. Where are you two?”

“Sitting a block away from Guevara’s place. Waiting on the warrant that’s not gonna come. We’ll check in with you in a bit.” Dixon reached up and disconnected the call, then leaned back hard in her seat. “Now what?”

Vail pointed ahead. “Let’s go take a look around. See what we find.”

Dixon did not hesitate. She kicked over the engine and proceeded down the street into Superior Mobile Bottling’s parking lot. Standard sodium vapor lamps illuminated the area in front of the building where about a dozen spots sat empty. Except for a fluorescent fixture in the office, everything appeared dark.

Dixon stopped the car and craned her neck to look through the front glass door. “What do you think?”

“Go around back. Let’s see if there are any cars in the lot or lights on in the warehouse.”

Dixon pulled up to an iron gate that blocked their path approximately halfway along the right side of the structure. “Was this here last time?”

Vail sat back. “It was rolled all the way open.” She popped her door, got out, and stepped up to the fence. Grabbed the upright wrought iron struts, peered into the back region of the property, didn’t see anything.

She turned and headed back to the car. “Nothing. We got a location on his house?”

“I can get it.” Dixon pulled her phone, made a call, and was soon jotting down the address. Twenty-five minutes later, they were pulling into the Sonoma neighborhood where Cesar Guevara lived.

From what Vail could see in the complete darkness, it appeared to be an immaculately cared for community, with houses that almost looked out of place, possessing an eastern Victorian grandeur.

“Nice neighborhood,” Vail said, straining to get a look at the passing homes.

“Oh, yeah,” Dixon said. She held up her pad and caught the headlight of a trailing car. “Millions. Each one of these homes. Five mil, maybe more.” Dixon glanced one more time at the address, then looked left at the house. “This is it.”

“You said ‘millions’ and ‘this is it.’ Almost in the same sentence. Cesar Guevara lives here?”

Dixon hiked her brow, then nodded. “Looks like mobile bottling is quite lucrative.”

Vail grabbed the handle and pulled. “Quite.”

Dixon and Vail walked down the cobblestone path, passed through a short white picket fence, and stepped up to the hand-carved hardwood door. Dixon stuck out her hand to knock, then pulled it back. “What are we doing?”

“We’re about to see if this is Guevara’s current address. And if it is, if he’s home.”

Dixon stepped back from the door, out of the porch light. “Let’s sit on the house. Watch for a bit. See who comes and goes.”

Vail glanced behind Dixon at the house. “I don’t have a lot of time left, Roxx.”

“We can’t run an investigation based on what your schedule is.”

Vail turned away and rested her hands on her hips. “I know. Let’s at least talk to him, confront him with what we’ve got, see what gives.”

“You’ve done that. Didn’t work.”

“We’ve got something now,” Vail said. “We can bluff him.”

“We don’t even have enough to get a warrant. You’ve gone toe to toe with Guevara. Is he the type of guy who can be bullied or tricked?”

Vail sighed. What does she want me to do? I’m leaving in a few hours and I’m nowhere on finding Robby. No leads. Except—maybe—Guevara. “Probably not. But I need to try.”

Dixon held up her hands. “Fine. I can’t see it putting us in a worse position than we are now.”

Vail frowned. “No shit.” She quickly rapped on the door before Dixon could change her mind. Seconds passed, then the door swung open. Two men stood there, both wearing large-caliber pistols and making no effort to hide them. “Those legal?” Vail asked, nodding at their hardware.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the men asked.

Vail held up her creds. “FBI. Who the fuck are you?”

“I got it.” A voice in the background. Cesar Guevara. The door swung farther open, revealing the man of the house. He was wearing a sport coat and a black silk shirt. Dressed to go out, perhaps. And in the distance, Vail could make out the tips of high heels. Smelled floral perfume. Wife—or girlfriend. Definitely going out on the town. This may work out better than I thought.

“Sorry to bother you on your way out,” Vail said. “But we’ve got a couple questions.”

“Come by my office. Tomorrow.” Guevara started to close the door, but Vail stuck out her foot and the heavy wood hit against her shoe. Guevara turned back and eyed her with a narrow gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We won’t take much of your time—”

“I guess I should cooperate. At least you’re not sticking your gun in my face this time. Very decent of you, Agent Vail. By the way, I’ve got that videotape all ready to go to your . . . what do you call it? Your behavioral analysis unit?”

Vail felt Dixon’s gaze bearing down on her. Ignore it. Guevara’s trying to get under your skin. Block it out. Don’t let him make you do something you’ll regret. Vail grinned, which helped diffuse her anger. “We just need a couple of minutes of your time.” Plowing forward without pausing, she said, “Ray Lugo told us you two were more than just friends who worked the vineyards together as kids. He said he was helping you out. You and John Mayfield.” Vail stopped, watched the creases in his face. There was decent illumination from the porch light, and some ambient brightness pouring in from the entryway. His face twitched, the eyelid fluttered, much in the same way it had this morning when she had questioned him and shown him Robby’s photograph. “And that interests us, Mr. Guevara, because John Mayfield is a serial killer. He’s done some bad things. And that means you . . . ” She shrugged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Guevara said. “And it’s probably all bullshit anyway, because if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be standing here chatting. You’d be sweating me out in some hot interrogation room. Isn’t that what you people do? But then I’d call my lawyer, who charges seven hundred bills an hour, and, well . . . we both know how the game is played.” He turned away from the door and called to one of his men, “Vaya a la limusina. Ahorita llego.” Go to the limousine. I’ll be there in a minute.