Vail 02 - Crush (18 page)

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Vail said. She then shivered, grabbed a blanket the paramedic had given her earlier and wrapped it around her shoulders. “My backup piece was in there.”

“Yeah, well, it’s probably toast.” Robby winced. “Sorry.”

“Better it than me.” Vail wiggled her fingers at him. “Can I have your phone? Mine’s now an expensive paperweight, assuming they ever find it.”

Robby handed her his cell. She dialed Thomas Gifford’s direct line and left him a message, briefly telling him what happened, knowing he wouldn’t get it until he arrived in the morning. That was fine—there was nothing for him to do, but if she didn’t keep him informed of a potential attempt on her life, he would not be pleased. She handed
Robby back the cell, rewrapped the blanket, and said, “So . . . no clean clothes and no place to sleep.”

“You guys can stay with me,” Dixon said. She gave Vail a quick once-over. “You’re a little taller, but I’ve got something you can wear until you can go shopping.”

“Guess I know what I’m doing tomorrow,” Robby said.

“Hey, let me borrow your phone again.” Robby handed it back to Vail, and she began dialing. “Who are you calling?”

“Jonathan.” She glanced over and saw Robby look at his watch, no doubt doing the time calculation. “I just need to hear his voice,” she said. “He’s a teen, he’ll fall right back to sleep.” But he didn’t answer. His cell went straight to voicemail. She listened to his recorded greeting, grinned, then left a message, told him she loved him, and that she’d call him when she had a moment.

As Vail handed her phone back to Robby, Dixon yawned wide and loud, then said, “Let me go write up my statement, then we can get the hell out of here.”

After Dixon walked off, Vail cuddled into Robby’s chest, watching the firefighters mill about, rolling hoses, packing air tanks, and stowing tools.

Gordon’s question echoed in her thoughts:
Any idea who’d want to kill you?
It was a question for which she had no rational answer.

Yet.

S
omeone was shoving her. Pushing her shoulder.
What. Who—

 

 

It was Robby, lying beside her in the double bed of Roxxann Dixon’s guest bedroom. Because of Robby’s breadth and the mattress’s small size, they were jammed up against one another most of the night. That is, once Vail stopped hacking and fell asleep sometime around 1 a.m.

Robby was handing her his cell phone. “Your boss.”

“I didn’t even hear it ring.”

Vail pushed herself up on an elbow—and launched into a coughing fit. She rolled out of bed, hurried into the bathroom, and spit up a glob of soot-infused mucus. She swallowed some water, leaned on the sink a moment, then turned. Robby was standing there.

“You okay?” Robby asked.

“Peachy.” She took the phone, cleared her throat, and said, “Yes, sir.”

“You sound about as good as my eighty-year-old father,” Thomas Gifford said. “Smoked two packs a day for fifty years.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s good to know.”

“I got your message. Thanks for keeping me abreast of the situation. Wish you’d called me at home—”

“There was nothing you could’ve done. With the time difference, I would’ve woken you. No point.”

“True. Okay, here’s what I’ve set in motion. Art’s been in L.A. testifying in that Blue Lake Killer case. He was due to fly back to Quantico this afternoon, but I had him switch flights. He’s gonna stop off in Napa on his way. Just a quick visit.”

Art Rooney was a sharp profiler, someone Vail respected, and the person to whom Gifford assigned most of their serial arson cases. His input could only help.

“But this is not a serial,” Vail said.

“You sure?”

Actually, she had no idea. “I’ll check on that. I never asked.”

“Do you need any medical attention? Are you okay?”

“A paramedic worked on me, I should probably follow up with someone here.”

“Good. Do it. I’ve also made arrangements for you to get a new phone. An agent from the Santa Rosa Resident Agency is picking up Art at the Napa Valley Airport, so he’ll give the phone to Art, who’ll give it to you. A new badge will be overnighted to you. Which brings me to the next item.” He waited a few seconds before saying, “Do you think this fire was targeting you?”

“Hard to say at this point, sir. No obvious suspects.”

“Fine, keep me posted. And . . . I feel like I’m always saying this to you, but . . . be careful, will you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

HAVING ATTEMPTED to make herself presentable in Roxxann Dixon’s clothing, and despite Dixon’s claim she had something that would fit, Vail appraised herself in the mirror and frowned. It was hard enough for a woman to put on work attire each day and feel good about herself. Wearing someone else’s clothing—particularly with the figure of a Roxxann Dixon—made it more maddening.

But the reminder crept into her thoughts again—she survived the fire and that was all that mattered.

Robby came up behind her, pecked her on the neck, and, dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday, told her she looked great.

Why do women always want to hear such drivel? Because it makes us feel better.
She knew she didn’t look great, but those simple words, uttered by her boyfriend, lifted her spirits. How strange the human psyche.

They met Dixon in the kitchen, grabbed some cereal for breakfast,
and went their separate ways. Robby headed to the Napa outlet stores to put together a wardrobe for both of them, armed with Vail’s instructions on where to shop and what sizes and styles to buy. He seemed a little out of sorts, but she told him to find a clerk about her age and ask her opinion. It was the best she could do given the circumstances. Besides, it was only a few outfits. Chances are, he’d find some blouses and pants that fit decently. Generally she wasn’t that difficult a fit. That is, when she wasn’t trying to look good in clothing worn by a woman Detective Agbayani had referred to as “Buff Barbie.”

Vail and Dixon headed for the sheriff’s department, but Vail wanted to stop first at the bed-and-breakfast to poke around in the light. Since the meeting was scheduled for ten, they had a little time to peruse the grounds.

As they approached the driveway, Vail said, “So it seemed like you knew Eddie Agbayani.”

Dixon chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We dated for a year, but we ran into some problems.” She hung a left into the bed-and-breakfast’s parking lot. “It was good for a while, but there was always an edge to our relationship. Still, we love each other. It’s hard. We hit a wall when we ran into some . . . dominance issues.”

Dominance issues.
Vail wondered who was the aggressor, but from Vail’s observations, and the greeting Agbayani had for Dixon when they saw each other, she figured it was probably Agbayani’s insecurity with their relationship that caused the problems. Male testosterone and ego getting in the way. As Vail pushed open her car door, she realized that wasn’t necessarily a fair assessment. What did she really have to go on, anyway? It was hard for her, as a profiler, to refrain from making psychological assessments off the clock. The constant analysis, the evaluation of body language and vocal tones and facial tension sometimes made it tough to sit back and casually converse with someone.

“When did you two call it off?” Vail asked.

“
I
called it off, not
we
. I’m not a typical woman, whatever that is. I’m headstrong, I know that. And sometimes we clashed because Eddie likes to call the shots, too. We had a balance for a while, but it shifted when I started spending more time at the gym than with him. I
just, I had a couple stressful cases and working out helped settle my mind, put things in perspective.

“So I guess some of that was my fault. But toward the end we were always at each other’s throats, and I felt it was best we took a rest.” They got out of the Ford and headed down the gravel path. “It’s been hard. I’ve missed him a lot. But time passes, distance opens up between you, and before you know it . . .” She shook her head. “It’s been almost four months.”

That coincides roughly with her shift from Vallejo PD to the district attorney’s office.
The smell of burnt wood and gasoline sat heavy on the air like cheap perfume, and made Vail’s nostrils flare. “Wonder how long till this stench dissipates.”

Dixon scrunched her nose. “Probably not till they bring in a demo crew and get this shit out of here.”

Approximately a quarter of the structure was still intact, no doubt due to the fire department’s rapid response. What was left was charred charcoal black, a ghostlike shell with fragments of flowery wallpaper stuck to odd-shaped wall fragments untouched by flame but doused by water.

Vail walked the periphery, stepping carefully through the ash that carpeted the ground. Dixon’s shoes were half a size small, which made them uncomfortable, but not unmanageable. Still, Vail was aware of each step she took.

She stopped beside Dixon, who had her hands on her hips, surveying the lay of the land: Off to the left, there was another building, once a garage that had been converted to the more lucrative Cabernet Truffle Room, as noted by a hand-painted sign above the door. A larger, two-story structure extended perpendicular to it, deeper into the wooded area, containing another four rooms.

At her feet lay the charred Hot Date sign that had hung on their door only a couple of days ago. Ironically, the painted flames were nearly burned away, reduced to ashes, much like the promise of her vacation.

Vail mused at the luck of their having taken the one solitary room, tucked away in its own building. If the aim of the arsonist had been to
harm her, and she and Robby had been booked into the Cabernet Truffle Room, some of the other guests might not have survived.

Vail shook off the thought, then started coughing again. Too much residual smoke still riding on the air. She headed back to the Crown Vic, hacking away, with Dixon behind her.

They drove a mile down the road, before Dixon pulled over beside a large rolling vineyard. Vail got out and coughed long and hard, bent over at the waist and holding onto the wire fence that separated the vines from the roadway. A moment later, the spell subsided. She stood up, cautiously took a deep breath of the fresh air, then blew it through her lips.

She got back into the car, her forehead pimpled with perspiration. “Well. That was great fun.”

Dixon eyed her. “You okay?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Vail nodded at the road ahead. “Let’s go.”

THEY WALKED INTO the conference room and took their seats. Absent were their guests from yesterday, save for Timothy Nance. Sitting off to the side, his face was tight, etched with concern. His tie was pulled to the side, and he looked like he hadn’t slept much. Vail knew how he felt.

Brix walked in and strode to the front of the room, dropped his thickening binder on the desk and put his hands on his hips. He, too, looked frazzled. His hair was hastily combed, his uniform was not as crisp as it had been and he had dark, loose skin beneath his eyes.

He put his teeth together and whistled loudly. Everyone came to order. “Okay, I’m really pissed off at the night’s events. Someone’s targeted us, people, and I intend to find out who. It’s no secret I’ve had a problem with Special Agent Vail and her . . . attitude and methods . . . but she’s one of our team, and we don’t gotta like everyone, we just have to work effectively with them. If someone takes a swipe at her, they take a swipe at all of us. So I want to catch this fucker. And I want to catch this goddamn serial killer. And I want to do both sooner, rather than later. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

He looked around, making eye contact with Lugo, Dixon, Fuller,
Vail—holding her gaze a few seconds longer for acknowledgment—which she gave him with a slight smile—before coming to rest on Tim Nance.