Vail 02 - Crush (16 page)

JOHN WAYNE MAYFIELD waited until the two women got into their car. He was now sure they were cops—detectives, actually, because they weren’t in uniform. But they had the look, he decided. Other men in suits left the building, too. He wasn’t sure if they were with the women, but the fact that they were leaving, and not entering, made the task ahead easier.

He got out of his vehicle and walked up the two flights of stairs to the entrance. He had nothing to fear; he’d been in this building many times before and would not be out of place. But he’d never been here to do what he was about to do. And that made him nervous.

But he was good at handling himself and defusing potentially hazardous situations. He knew what to say if someone stopped him.
But they’ve got no reason to stop me.

Mayfield pushed through the door and moved down the hall, nodded at the legal clerk behind the glass, then swiped his prox card and walked through the door. He surveyed the nearby rooms on either side of him. He needed to look confident, like he was supposed to be here and not snooping or doing anything nefarious or suspicious. So he opened the first door he came to on the left and stepped in. Looked around. Nothing of interest.

Moved back out into the hall and tried the next door. He knew one of these rooms had to be where the cops met, where they kept their case files and notes. Over the years, he had read about the Major Crimes task force that convened to track fleeing felons, bank robbers, kidnappers, and the like. He figured this task force had
already met to discuss him. Maybe that’s what those women were doing. And those men.

But this building was a maze of the worst kind: The hallways and doors all looked alike, save for the teal and white placards mounted outside each door. As he continued to wander the hallway, he read the little signs looking for some kind of task force notation . . . or a large meeting room of some sort.

As he made his way around yet another bend, he was beginning to doubt he would find what he was looking for. And the longer he was here, the more likely he’d run into trouble. But he was sure he had blown them away with the wine cave murder. He left it for everyone to see. They
had
to be working his case. They had to be. He was surprised there was nothing in the newspaper. Not even a death notice.

He paused beside another door, whose teal placard read, Conference Room # 3. Mayfield pushed through and walked in. The motion sensors fired and turned on the lights. This was it, the base of operations. A whiteboard with a grid. Names, what looked like tasks and assignments.
Oh, yes. Very good.
He fished around his deep pocket for the digital camera. He aimed and depressed the shutter. Once, twice, three times.

This was too much—it was all about him!
Of course it was.

Then something caught his eye. The word “Vallejo.” So they knew about Vallejo and Detective Edward Agbayani. Well, that was impressive.

He looked over the names on the whiteboard. Brix and Lugo: no introduction necessary. Dixon, Vail, Fuller—he needed to look those up.

Mayfield walked around the room, realizing he’d already gotten most of the info he needed. Best to get out of there. While he could explain away his presence, why take the risk?

As he turned to leave, he saw a laptop beside scattered papers lying on the conference table. He grabbed a sheet off the top and glanced at it. Names and phone numbers. Neatly typed into a grid, hole-punched for binders.

Very good.

He folded the paper into his pocket and walked out. Moved down
the hall to find a computer he could use. The laptop in the conference room would have sufficed, but if any of the task force members walked in on him, that would be a lot more difficult to explain than if he was discovered in front of a PC somewhere else, in an unoccupied office.

But it was late in the day, and most of the clerical staff had clocked out. He wasn’t looking to hack into anyone’s terminal . . . just a computer with Internet access he could safely use that wouldn’t leave behind search results traceable to him. He turned the corner into a large, cubicle-filled room. The dividers were tall, nearly ceiling height, and he couldn’t see over them. He walked around, turned the corner, and entered the main aisle that cut through and past all the desks. He kept his head forward, not wanting to look suspicious. But the area was largely deserted, except for a black-haired head thirty feet away.

He slid into the cubicle and faced the monitor. Turned it on, hit the spacebar, and the screen lit up. It looked like a plain vanilla Windows desktop. No password screen, so it was likely a standalone computer, not connected to the county network. Exactly what he needed.

He opened Internet Explorer, and in the Live Search field, typed “Roxxann Dixon Napa California.” Got several hits, including one that contained a photo of her and a brief bio of her position with the district attorney’s office. It said she served on the Major Crimes Task Force.
Bingo. This is the blonde I saw.

Next he typed in “Karen Vail Napa California.” No relevant hits. Narrowed the search to “Karen Vail.” And got references to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Clicked on one:
“FBI Profiler Karen Vail, fresh off the case of the Dead Eyes killer, the notorious serial killer who terrorized women in the Virginia area . . .”

Mayfield slid back his chair. “Whoa.” He said it aloud then quickly snapped his flapping lips shut.
FBI. A profiler. They
are
taking this seriously. I must’ve scared the shit out of them. That’s why they haven’t told the media. They’re afraid they don’t know what they’re dealing with.

His eyes were drawn again to the words “FBI Profiler.”
A federal case. As it should be. John Wayne Mayfield deserves nationwide coverage. But there’s no fun in spoon feeding them the story. They have to realize
themselves
what they have here. Once enough pressure’s applied, it’ll reach a point where they can’t contain it anymore. Then the newspapers and TV would find out. Everyone would know. It would blow up into a huge story.

A broad smile spread Mayfield’s lips.

He looked back at the screen, fingered the mouse. Time to turn up the heat. And he had just the thing to get their attention. Something that would drive them nuts.

V
ail and Dixon pulled into Mountain Crest’s small gravel lot beside Robby’s Murano. His brake lights were still glowing.

Vail had the door open before Dixon brought the Ford to a stop. “Hey, come out for a sec. I want you to meet someone.”

Vail jumped out of the car and into Robby’s arms. He gave her a big embrace, then seemed to notice Dixon standing there and released his grip.

“Oh—this is Roxxann Dixon,” Vail said. “We’re working together on the task force.”

Robby straightened up, then reached out to shake. “Robby Hernandez.”

“Good to meet you.”

“So . . .” Robby said. “How was your day?”

Vail and Dixon shared a look before Dixon said, “Let’s just say it was . . . productive and leave it at that.”

“Uh huh.” Robby squinted and shifted his gaze from Dixon to Vail, then decided to heed Dixon’s advice.

Dixon backed away. “You two have a great evening. Pick you up tomorrow? Eight-thirty?”

“Sure,” Vail said. “See you in the morning.”

Dixon got in her car and drove off.

Vail tilted her head at Robby the way a mother looks at a son expecting an explanation.

“What?”

“You found her attractive,” she said. “I can tell.”

“Well, yeah. She is. Is that up for debate?”

Vail slapped him in the arm. “Wrong answer.”

“I’m just saying. It is what it is. I didn’t say I was attracted
to
her. I said she was attractive.”

“Is there a difference?” Vail asked.

“Yeah. But to set the record straight, yes, I was attracted to her. I’m a man, she’s a beautiful woman. But you’re more beautiful. Besides, you’ve got my heart.”

She reached out and grabbed his groin. “That’s not all I’ve got.”

Robby raised his eyebrows, then guiltily glanced around the parking lot, which was now bathed in fading light. He said, “I think I should take this inside.”

AND THAT’S EXACTLY what he did. Afterwards, Vail rolled off him and stared at the ceiling. “That makes up for what turned out to be a tough day.”

“You have to learn to play well with others,” Robby said.

“How did you know what happened?”

He gave her a look that said, Come on. “Give me some credit. I think I know you pretty well, Karen.”

She yawned. “You know what, I don’t even care anymore. About today. I’m hungry . . . starved. But I’m so . . . I feel so rested. I don’t want to move.”

Robby got off the bed and drew the curtains. It was now ink black outside, the sun having set and the woods filtering whatever stray light might be emanating from the moon. “Let’s order room service,” Vail said, her speech groggy.

“Good one,” Robby said as he slipped on his pants. “How about I go out, get something, and bring it back?”

“Sounds good to me,” she mumbled. “Wake me when you get back . . .”

VAIL WAS ASLEEP, dreaming of yodeling sommeliers, the oak barrel scent of raspberry-nosed Pinot Noir, the weight of Robby lying atop her, the heat of the Day Spa sauna . . . hot . . .

Sweating . . .

So hot . . .

And the stench of gasoline.
Gasoline?

Nose stings, hard to breath, smoke—

Vail woke from her stupor, lifted her head, and saw nothing. Blackness like a velvet coffin enveloped her. Cocoonlike in its confinement, thick. She felt around—she was on the bed. Asleep. Robby—he went for food.

Felt her fanny pack on the night table, with the Glock’s prominent bulge.

Can’t see.
Cough!
What’s the layout of the room?
She couldn’t remember—but just then, something blasted through the small window, a fireball, flames—feeding on the once-delicate frilly curtains, conflagrating upwards toward the ceiling. Covering the walls.

Vail snatched the fanny pack and tossed the strap over her head. Wrapped a robe around herself and stumbled off the bed. Ran for the door—grabbed the knob and—
fuck!
Hotter than hot. Found a piece of clothing, wrapped it around her hand and tried to turn it. Locked?
Jammed?
She slammed against it with her shoulder. It rattled but didn’t budge.
The door opens from the inside—it’d have to be pushed open from the outside.

She turned toward the window—only way out—but a wall of flames stared back. Angry, ferocious fire lunged at her.

The smoke, so thick. Get down, crawl
—she fell to her knees, more because of her inability to breathe than a memory of what to do in the case of fires, which was suddenly plucked from some deep reach of consciousness.

She started toward the bathroom, but the air . . . so thick with particulates she tasted it on her tongue.
Go, go, toward the bathroom. Window?
Can’t remember . . .

Made it to the bathroom, reached up—doorknob hot, burning hot—can’t open it.
Hot doorknob means fire inside the room.

Turned back toward the front door, need a chair, smash through it . . .

But as she crawled along the floor, her chest felt heavy, tight—
no air.

Robby!
she screamed in her mind.
Jonathan . . .

As she fought the intense heat, flames all around her, crackling, black smoke—the room door burst open. She couldn’t lift her head but two arms grabbed her and yanked her hard, and she felt herself being lifted into the air and thrown against a body.
Robby . . . thank God . . .

She was bouncing up and down, helpless, a rag doll bobbing about on Robby’s back as he ran away from the burning building, the adjacent hedges now lit up like a bonfire.