Crush kv-2

  Crush

  ( Karen Vail - 2 )

  Alan Jacobson

  Fresh off the most challenging case of her career, The 7th Victim heroine and renowned FBI profiler Karen Vail returns in an explosive thriller set against the backdrop of California’s wine country.

  Hoping to find solace from the demons that haunt her, Vail makes her first trip to the Napa Valley. But shortly after arriving, a victim is found in the deepest reaches of an exclusive wine cave, the work of an extraordinarily unpredictable serial killer. From the outset, Vail is frustrated by her inability to profile the offender—until she realizes why: the Behavioral Analysis Unit has not previously encountered a killer like him.

  As Vail and the task force work around the clock to identify and locate him, they’re caught in a web knotted with secretive organizations, a decades-long feud between prominent wine families, and widespread corruption that leads Vail to wonder whom, if anyone, she can trust. Meanwhile, as the victim count rises, Vail can't shake the gnawing sense that something isn't right.

  With the killer’s actions threatening the Napa Valley’s multi-billion dollar industry, the stakes have never been greater, and the race to find the killer never more urgent.

  And through it all, a surprise lurks…one that Karen Vail never sees coming.

  Meticulously researched during years of work with the FBI profiling unit and extensive interviews with wine industry professionals, bestselling author Alan Jacobson delivers a high-velocity thriller featuring the kind of edge-of-your-seat ending that inspired Nelson DeMille to call him "a hell of a writer."

  ALSO BY ALAN JACOBSON

  False Accusations

  The Hunted

  The 7th Victim

  For Corey, Matthew, and Danielle:

  You are the branches on my tree that keep on giving.

  And I’m the old stump.

  I love you all, to the moon and back.

  “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.”

  —SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, WRITING AS SHERLOCK HOLMES

  “You see, but you do not observe.”

  —SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, WRITING AS SHERLOCK HOLMES

  “In wine there is truth.”

  —ROMAN PROVERB

  “O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  PROLOGUE

  675 15th Street NW

  Washington, DC

  “S o the dick says to the woman, ‘I got nothing.’” Karen Vail burst out laughing. Here she was, out on the town with Detective Mandisa Manette—just about the unlikeliest of acquaintances she’d socialize with—and she was guffawing at another of Manette’s crass jokes. But she noticed Manette was not enjoying her own punch line. In fact, Manette’s face was hard, her gaze fixed. And her hand was slowly reaching inside her jacket. For her weapon.

  “Don’t wanna ruin your evening,” Manette said, “but there’s a guy packing, and he looks real nervous. Over your left shoulder.”

  Vail turned slowly and casually snatched a glimpse of the man. Six foot, broad, and as Manette noted, under duress. Sweating, eyes darting around the street. In a minute, his gaze would land on Vail and Manette. The guy looks familiar. Why? She watched his mannerisms and then, as his head turned three quarters toward them, she got a better look at him and—

  Oh, crap. I know who he is. In a few seconds, he’d probably make them as cops, and then the shit would hit the fan. The image conjured up a mess—and that’s what would no doubt result.

  Vail quickly turned away. “Don’t look at him. Definitely bad news, and stressed as hell. With good reason. That’s Danny Michael Yates.”

  Manette’s eyes widened. “No way. The goddamn cop killer? You sure?”

  Vail slid her hand down to her Velcro pouch. “Damn sure. What do you want to do?”

  Manette moved her hand behind her back, no doubt resting it on her pistol. “Make a call, DC Metro, let ’em know what we got here. I’m gonna circle around behind him.”

  Vail pulled out her phone and made the call. With her back to Yates, she watched him in the reflection of the Old Ebbitt Grill storefront. Meantime, she assessed the situation. The sidewalk was knotted with people waiting for tables, enjoying a drink with friends, spouses, and business associates. She wished she could yell, “Everyone down!” so they wouldn’t get hurt. Because she had an intense feeling that this was going to get very ugly, very fast.

  Vail ended the call and slipped the BlackBerry into her pocket, her right hand firmly on the Glock 23 that was buried in the pouch below her abdomen.

  She made eye contact with Manette’s reflection in the window and nodded, then stole a glance at Yates. He looked at Vail at precisely that moment, and Fuck—he made me—

  Yates turned and pushed through the clot of people standing behind him. Vail followed, doing her best to navigate the tumbled bodies with her still-sore postsurgical knee. Manette, she figured, was also in pursuit. Manette was tall and thin, and she looked athletic—whether she was or not, Vail could only guess—but she had to be faster than Vail and her recently repaired leg.

  She caught a glimpse of Yates as he turned left on H Street—and, yup, there was Manette, pumping away, in close proximity. Christ, this was not what she had in mind when she suggested they have a girls’ night out.

  Vail turned the corner and picked up Manette as she kept up her pursuit of Yates. The shine of Manette’s handgun caught the street-light’s amber glow and suddenly a bad feeling crept down Vail’s spine. They were extremely close to the White House, where Secret Service agents and police outnumbered the citizens in the immediate vicinity. Snipers were permanently stationed on the roof, and—here was a black woman, chasing a white man, a big gleaming pistol in her right hand. No uniform. No visible badge.

  This was not going to turn out well, and Vail had a sinking feeling it would have nothing to do with Danny Michael Yates.

  Yates veered left, into Lafayette Park, and damn, if the guy wasn’t a stupid one—he was headed straight for the wrought iron of the White House gate. Stupid isn’t quite the word . . . insane might be more like it. Vail heard Manette yell, “Police, freeze!”

  It had no effect on Yates except to have him veer left, parallel to the iron fence—which he had to do anyway.

  But Vail had her answer: Manette was apparently a superb athlete, because she was now only fifteen yards behind Yates, who was moving pretty well himself.

  Lights snapped on. An alarm went off.

  Vail fumbled to pull her credentials from her purse, then splayed them open in her left hand, held high above her head, the Glock in her right hand, bouncing along with her strides. Showing the snipers she was a federal agent, not a threat to the president. And hopefully, by association, they’d realize Manette was a cop, too.

  But as she processed that thought, a gunshot stung her ears like a stab to her heart. And Manette went down. Only it wasn’t a sniper or diligent Secret Service agent. It was Danny Michael Yates, who had turned and buried a round in Manette’s groin. She went down hard and fast.

  And she was writhing on the ground. DC Metro police appeared behind Yates and drew down on him. Half a dozen Secret Service agents traversed the White House lawn with guns drawn and suit coats flapping. Snipers on the roof swung their rifles toward the plaza, their red laser dots dancing on clothing and pavement.

  Vail brought up the rear, huffing and puffing, the cold night DC air burning her throat. She was heaving, sucking oxygen, when a weak “FBI!” scraped from her throat. She stopped fifteen feet from Yates, who was inching closer to Manette.

  “She’s a cop,” Vail yelled. “She’s a cop!” She wanted all the law enforcement personnel on scene t
o understand what was going on. Manette was on the ground, her handgun a foot from her hand. But she was in no condition to reach for it. She was curled into a fetal position.

  Yates took a step closer to her, and his gun—it looked like a Beretta—was raised slightly, pointing vaguely toward Manette. “Stop right there,” Vail yelled. “Take another step and it’ll be your last!”

  “Just kill me now,” Yates said. “Because there ain’t no way you’re taking me in. I killed a cop, you think I’ll make it through the night alive in lockup?”

  “I’ll personally guarantee your safety, Danny.” Vail stood there with her Glock now in both hands, her credentials case on the ground at her feet, spread open, her Bureau badge visible for all who cared to look. “I’ll make sure you get your day in court. I understand the way you think, I know you didn’t mean to kill that cop.”

  “Bullshit. I did mean to kill him! I fucking hate cops, they raped my mother. You bet I wanted to kill him!”

  Damn, he’s a dumb shit. No hope for this one. Served up a valid defense for his actions and he tells me I’m wrong.

  “There’s only one way this can end good, Danny. You put the gun down and let me help my partner there. You got that?”

  Yates took another step forward, his Beretta now aimed point-blank at Manette. Vail brought up her Glock, tritium sights lined up on the perp’s head.

  “Now,” Vail yelled. “Drop the fucking gun!”

  But Yates’s elbow straightened. His hand muscles stiffened.

  Given the angle, no one else could see what she could see. He didn’t ‘drop the fucking gun,’ so Vail shot him. Blasted him right in the head. And then she drilled him in the center mass, to knock him back, make sure he didn’t accidentally unload on Manette as his brain went flat line. Two quick shots. Overkill? Maybe. But at the moment, truth be told, she didn’t really care.

  Yates fell to the ground. Vail ran to Manette. Grabbed her, cradled her. “Manny—Manny, you okay?”

  Manette’s face was drenched with sweat, pain contorted in the intense creases of her face.

  And then Vail lost it. She felt the sudden release, the stress of the past couple of months hitting her with the force of a tornado, knocking her back against the lower stonework of the White House fence.

  Commotion around her, frantic footsteps, shouting, jostling. Someone in a blue shirt and silver badge knelt in front of her and pried the Glock from her hand.

  DARK-SUITED SECRET SERVICE AGENTS stood in front of the White House fence, stiff and tense. White, red, and blue Metro Police cars sat idling fifty yards away. Half a dozen motorcycle cops in white shirt/black pant uniforms milled about.

  Thomas Gifford, the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge who oversees the Behavioral Analysis Units, badged the nearby Secret Service agent and walked to the ambulance backed up against the short, concrete pillars that sprung from the pavement. Vail sat on the Metro Medical Response vehicle’s flat bumper, her gaze fixed somewhere on the cement.

  Gifford stopped a couple of feet in front of her and raked a hand through his hair, as if stalling for time because he didn’t know what to say. “I thought you had dinner reservations. You told me when you left the office you had to leave early.”

  “Yeah. I did. And then we saw Yates, and I called it in—”

  “Okay,” Gifford said, holding up a hand. “Forget about all that for now. How are you doing?”

  Vail stood up, uncoiled her body, and stretched. “I’m fine. Any news on Mandisa?”

  “Going into surgery. Shattered pelvis. But the round missed the major arteries, so she’ll be okay. She’ll need some rehab, but she’s lucky. She’s lucky you were there.”

  “With all the snipers and Secret Service and DC police around? I think she would’ve been fine without me.”

  “That’s not what I’m hearing. They were assessing the situation, moving into position, trying to sort out what the hell was going on. The snipers weren’t going to act unless there was a perceived threat to the president. And callous as it may seem, Danny Michael Yates was only a threat to you and Detective Manette. After Yates said he’d killed a cop, Metro started to put it together. But I honestly don’t know if any of them would’ve shot him before you did. You saved her life, Karen.”

  Vail took a deep, uneven breath. “I had a good angle, I saw his arm, his hand—I knew he was going to pull that trigger.”

  Gifford looked away, glancing around at all the on-scene law enforcement personnel. “You still seeing the shrink?”

  Vail nodded.

  “Good. First thing in the morning, I want you back in his office. Then get out of town for a while. Clear your head. A couple months after Dead Eyes, this is the last thing you needed.”

  A smile teased the ends of her mouth.

  “What?” Gifford asked.

  “It’s not often we agree on anything. I usually have some smartass comeback for you. But in this case, I’ve got nothing.”

  Vail realized that had been the punch line of the joke Manette had told earlier in the evening. It didn’t seem so funny now.

  Vail headed for her car, looking forward to—finally—getting out of town. Where? Didn’t matter. Anywhere but here.

  ONE

  St. Helena, California

  The Napa Valley

  T he crush of a grape is not unlike life itself: You press and squeeze until the juice flows from its essence, and it dies a sudden, pathetic death. Devoid of its lifeblood, its body shrivels and is then discarded. Scattered about. Used as fertilizer, returned to the earth. Dust in the wind.

  But despite the region in which John Mayfield worked—the Napa Valley—the crush of death wasn’t reserved just for grapes.

  John Mayfield liked his name. It reminded him of harvest and sunny vineyards.

  He had, however, made one minor modification: His mother hadn’t given him a middle name, so he chose one himself—Wayne. Given his avocation, “John Wayne” implied a tough guy image with star power. It also was a play on John Wayne Gacy, a notorious serial killer. And serial killers almost always were known in the public consciousness by three names. His persona—soon to be realized worldwide—needed to be polished and prepared.

  Mayfield surveyed the room. He looked down at the woman, no longer breathing, in short order to resemble the shriveled husk of a crushed grape. He switched on his camera and made sure the lens captured the blood draining from her arm, the thirsty soil beneath her drinking it up as if it had been waiting for centuries to be nourished. Her fluid pooled a bit, then was slowly sucked beneath the surface.

  A noise nearby broke his trance. He didn’t have much time. He could have chosen his kill zone differently, to remove all risk. But it wasn’t about avoiding detection. There was so much more to it.

  The woman didn’t appreciate his greatness, his power. She didn’t see him for the unique person that he was. Her loss.

  Mayfield wiped the knife of fingerprints and, using the clean handkerchief, slipped the sharp utensil beneath the dead woman’s lower back. He stood up, kicked the loose dirt aside beneath his feet, scattering his footprints, then backed away.

  TWO

  A s Karen Vail walked the grounds of the Mountain Crest Bed & Breakfast, holding the hand of Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez, she stopped at the edge of a neighboring vineyard. She looked out over the vines, the sun setting a hot orange in the March chill.

  “You’ve been quiet since we got off the plane. Still thinking about your application to the Academy?”

  “Am I that transparent?” Robby asked.

  “Only to a sharp FBI profiler.”

  Robby cradled a tangle of vines in his large hand. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “You’ll get into the Academy, Robby. Maybe not right away, with the budget cutbacks, but I promise. You’ll make the cut.”

  “Bledsoe said he could get me something with Fairfax County.”

  “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

 
“I didn’t want to say anything about it. I don’t really want it. If I talk about it, it might come true.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  He shrugged a shoulder.

  “Fairfax would be a step up over Vienna. It’s a huge department. Lots more action.”

  “I know. It’s just that there’s an eleven-year wait to become a profiler once I get into the Academy. The longer it takes to get into the Bureau, the longer I have to wait.”

  “Why don’t you call Gifford,” Vail asked. “I thought he owes you. Because of your mother. Because of their relationship.”

  “That was Gifford’s perception, not mine. He promised her he’d look after me.” Robby glanced off a moment, then said, “He doesn’t owe me anything. And I don’t want any favors.”

  “How about I look into it, quietly, under the radar, when we get home?”

  Robby chewed on that. “Maybe.”

  “I can call first thing in the morning, put out a feeler.”

  “No. We’re here on vacation, to get away from all that stuff. It’ll wait.”

  They turned and walked toward their room, The Hot Date, which was in a separate building off the main house. According to the information on the website, it was the largest in the facility, featuring spacious main sleeping quarters, a sitting area with a private porch and view of the vines, and a jetted tub in the bathroom. A wooden sign, red with painted flames, hung dead center on the door.

  Vail felt around in her pocket for the key they’d been given when they checked in fifteen minutes ago. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely sure. I’m wiping it from my mind right now. Nothing but fun from here on out. Okay?”

  Vail fit the key into the lock and turned it. “Works for me.” She swung the door open and looked around at the frilly décor of the room. She kicked off her shoes, ran forward, and jumped onto the bed, bouncing up and down like a five-year-old kid. “This could be fun,” she said with a wink.