Vail 02 - Crush (50 page)

Now there’s a street that rings a bell.
“He’s at Pratt,” Vail said to Dixon. To Brix: “I don’t know where we are—”

“Sounds like he’s a couple miles back,” Dixon said. “Tell him we’re passing Ehlers.”

“We’re—”

“I heard,” Brix said. “I’ll be there soon.”

Vail ended the call, shoved the phone back into Dixon’s pocket—and that’s when she realized her partner was wearing the bare minimum: gym shorts and shirt, no bra, and tennis shoes without socks. But she had her sidearm strapped to her shoulder and her phone holder clipped to the shorts’ waistband. It looked bizarre—and downright geeky—but who the hell cared?

Vail caught a sign on the left—Bale Grist Mill State Park—and realized the area was becoming more rural as they drove down 29.

Dixon tightened her grip on the wheel. “He’s speeding up, I think he realizes we’re behind him.”

“Where’s your cube?”

“In here,” she said, banging her right elbow on the large armrest.

Dixon lifted her arm and Vail reached into the deep receptacle. She
pulled out the device, flipped the switch, and the blinding light filled the interior and reflected off the windshield. It made them both recoil.

“Jesus—”

“Shit, sorry about that.” Vail rolled down the window and set the magnetic base on the roof.

“Two-way’s in the glove box. Tell dispatch we’ve got a code 33. Give our twenty.”

Vail located the radio, then saw something that brought a smile to her face: her Glock.
Missed you, big fella.

She keyed the two-way and followed Dixon’s instructions. “ . . . Code 33, stolen silver Nissan SUV headed—”

“North.”

“North on Highway 29.” She lowered the radio. “Get us closer, let me grab the tag.”

Dixon pressed the accelerator, the engine roared louder and the vehicle closed on Mayfield’s SUV.

“Roger,” the dispatcher responded. “Code 33 on primary. All non-emergency traffic go to red channel.”

Vail leaned forward and squinted. “I see a five. X-ray, Tom, Robert—” Vail moved the radio back to her lips. “License on the stolen Nissan. California plate. Five X-ray Tom Robert.”

Mayfield swerved left to avoid a motorcyclist, who leaned right, onto the shoulder.

Dixon gave the man extra room and cut back into the lane. “I hate high-speed chases. Too fucking dangerous.”

The headlights caught a large sign up ahead and off to the right. Vail pointed. “What do you say we forget the chase and go see Old Faithful spew her wrath?”

Dixon veered right around a stray cat. Vail grabbed the dashboard with her left hand, then set the radio between her thighs when Dixon slammed on the brakes and yelled out—

“What the fuck!”

A cruiser, light bar flashing, was approaching from the opposite direction. Dixon’s car dovetailed, her rear end flying right while she coaxed the front end left, back into pursuit of Mayfield.

“Mayfield saw the cruiser, turned left,” Dixon said. “Right into the Castillo del Deseo.”

“The what?”

“Castle of Desire,” Dixon said. “A dozen years to build. Looks and feels like a real Spanish castle.” She accelerated up the inclined cement drive, the taillights of Mayfield’s SUV still barely visible around the bend. She sped past the seedling evergreens, then crested the hill. Ahead, in the darkness, was a large, dramatically lit brick structure.

Vail craned her neck to take in the enormity of the approaching complex. “Robby said he went to a castle a few days ago. Wish I could’ve seen it with him. Just a guess . . . but this won’t be nearly as fun.”

Dixon swung the vehicle in behind Mayfield’s parked Nissan. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Dixon nodded ahead, toward the castle. “You’re gonna get your wish.”

W
eapons drawn, Vail and Dixon rushed out of their car and approached the Nissan from behind, beneath window level. The headlights from Dixon’s car lit them up like precious jewels against black velvet. They moved up alongside the SUV and pulled open the doors. The dome light was disabled, but there was enough brightness from Dixon’s headlights to check the interior.

“Clear,” Vail said.

“Clear,” Dixon repeated.

They looked out into the darkness.

Vail spotted him first. “There!” She threw out a hand to the left of the castle, at what appeared to be a grassy knoll with thick elder trees peppering the hillside. A large man was running alongside the massive building.

They took off in that direction, trying to keep an eye on Mayfield while watching for hidden ruts, low barriers or other structures that would lay them out face down on the ground.

Dixon pointed. “Over there, by the opening in the wall—”

They ran forward, across the grass and through the stand of thick-trunked trees. In the shadows of the dim lighting hanging from various points of the castle wall, the trees looked eerie, like witches ready to pull their roots from beneath the grass and start walking.

They pulled up against the high, rough hewn brick wall. Vail peered around the edge. “Clear.”

They fell in, through the opening, which was a back lot of the castle, with machinery and stainless steel white wine casks arranged against the far wall of the large square. To their left was another building constructed
of the same materials and architecture. By the looks of it, it was a miniature castle all its own, perhaps a private residence for the winery’s owner.

Vail and Dixon moved into the square and squatted to get a better view of the area. There were only a few places where someone could be hiding. Mayfield didn’t have enough of a lead on them to sprint across the lot to the stainless steel casks. And he couldn’t have made it to the residence. But to their right, twenty feet away, was a service entrance into the castle.

Two heavy, ornate wood doors were swung fully open, inviting them in. As they approached cautiously, Dixon’s phone rang. Dixon mouthed “Brix” to Vail, who pressed forward.

Dixon remained where she was and answered the call. “We’re at the castle, around back,” Vail heard as she moved into the room. More stainless containers stood on thick metal stands, hoses coiled on the cement ground beneath them. Metal steps led up to a catwalk, where workers could presumably monitor the huge vats of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc.

Vail knelt down and swept the area, then proceeded forward up a couple of steps . . . into the castle. Immediately to her left was an ornate plaza, with dim lanterns providing enough light to be romantic—and authentic—but far from useful when conducting a foot pursuit of a serial killer.

Clearly, that was not in the original designers’ plan when they sketched out the lighting requirements for the facility. Shame on them.

Vail heard a noise behind her—swung around hard—and saw Dixon.

She leaned in close toward Vail’s ear. “Brix and Agbayani are here. They’re coming in through the front. Cruisers are in the lot, making sure he doesn’t leave with his car.”

“I wish that was comforting, but there’s a lot of rural real estate out here. I’m not sure we caught a break when that cruiser forced him off the road.”

Dixon’s head was turned, taking in the area in front of them. “There’s an iron fence that surrounds the property, so if we don’t get him in the castle, it’s not likely he’ll be able to get away without going past one of our people.”

“Even armed, I’m not sure a one-on-one confrontation will be to
our advantage.” Vail pointed with her Glock. “You go left. Into the plaza. I’ll go right.”

Dixon nodded and Vail headed down a stairwell that sported slightly improved lighting—but opened into what appeared to be a gift shop. A large armored knight exoskeleton stood guard to her right, against the wall. To her left was a series of catacombs, all illuminated with mood lighting. Filling the main space and directly ahead was a well-camouflaged sales counter and tasting area. Two women stood there, one pouring wine for a husband and wife and the other exchanging a charge slip with a customer.

Vail stepped forward, her pistol by her right thigh and her badge now clipped to her belt. She unfolded her credentials, held them up and played show-and-tell. “FBI. Have any of you seen a bodybuilder come through here dressed in gym clothes?”

The two women and the couple shook their heads. “Okay, leave what you’re doing and get out of here. Move to the parking lot and wait there. Don’t scream. Go quickly, but don’t panic. You hear me?”

Their eyes, wide with fear, registered their understanding and they moved off.

Vail continued on, through the gift shop, into tasting stations that were tucked into small rooms off the main hallway. She felt her anxiety bubbling up, the pressure in her chest, the sense that she had to get the hell out of here.

I don’t have time for this shit.
She pressed on, following the tasting room into what was apparently a wine cave. The hallways were narrow, the ceiling was low, and the lighting was dim.

Hundreds of wine bottles were stacked horizontally against the wall, twelve rows high and several dozen wide. Up ahead, oak barrels rested on their sides along the walls, making the rooms seem even narrower. She turned down another bend and entered a similarly slender hallway. With only one bulb now every twenty or so feet, it was getting darker. And she was finding it more difficult to breathe.

Vail kept wandering through the maze of passageways, the anxiety and dread now consuming her thoughts.
No. Focus on Mayfield. On Mayfield. He could be anywhere. Stay focused—

Up ahead—a larger room. Time to breathe, regroup. Think things through.

She stepped into a vast brick-encased vault—filled with oak barrels. It was brighter in here, and the ceiling was higher. She continued in, eyes scanning every corner and the subrooms created by the stacks of barrels. It was not unlike the thousand square foot barrel room she had been in at Silver Ridge.

When they found Victoria Cameron. When this whole mess started. In a sense, she had come full circle.

She walked down the wide, main aisle, her head swinging from side to side, trying to ensure John Mayfield didn’t ambush or blindside her. A few feet more and then she stopped. Turned 360 degrees, then backed against the nearest wall. Crouched down and pulled her BlackBerry. She had minimal service—one bar—but hopefully it was enough.

She looked for messages. Nothing. Robby had still not replied. What was up with that? That was a pretty frantic message she left. He wouldn’t ignore it. He’d never ignored any message she left him. Ever.

With her Glock in her left hand, she thumb-typed Robby a quick text:

Then she texted Dixon and Brix, Lugo and Agbayani:

As she reholstered her BlackBerry, she heard the tone of a cell phone. It was more than nearby—it was damn near next to her. She rose from her crouch and started searching. Whose phone had rung? It wasn’t a prolonged ring, as if someone had called. It was more like a quick, repeated beep. Then nothing.

A text.

She had just sent a text.
Shit, this is not good.

Vail tightened her grip on the Glock, then moved slowly forward. Looked left, into a smaller room—also lined with oak barrels—and saw a body. Lying supine. With a shiny, thick liquid beneath it.

Vail rotated her head, checking as best she could around the barrels. Finding nothing, she inched closer to the body, still keeping an eye on her immediate vicinity. She moved to the far wall and cleared that completely, then kept her back to it. Directly in front of her was the victim. Male, well-dressed.

She advanced, in a crouch, her eyes still scanning below the barrels for feet—or movement of any kind.

Looked back to the body. And then she saw the face. It was Eddie Agbayani. In this light, it was impossible to determine much about cause of death. She lay her index and middle finger across his neck to check for a pulse. Nothing. But she felt something that confirmed her suspicions.

Vail pulled her BlackBerry. Using the light given off by the LCD screen, she scanned Agbayani’s throat area. Palpated the cartilage. And concluded—to be confirmed later under more optimal conditions—that the detective was the latest victim of John Mayfield, of the Crush Killer.

His left wrist had been sliced, the blood moist around the wound. He was killed moments ago—which meant Mayfield was likely still nearby.

Agbayani’s boots were on his feet—but at this point, it didn’t matter. Mayfield didn’t need to leave his calling card. They would know who was responsible.

As she glanced back up—she’d taken her eyes off the room too long—a text came through. Brix:

Then Dixon:

Vail replied to all:

She sent it without saying it was Agbayani—the revelation would no doubt upset Dixon—but then realized she had no choice. They needed to know one of their boots on the ground was now, literally, on the ground.

She took a deep breath, looked over at Agbayani, and typed a new message:

Tears filled her eyes. She knew Dixon would take it hard. And though she didn’t know him well, he seemed to be a good guy.