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  The muscles in Brix’s jaw shifted. “Then let’s back up and start the fuck over. Where’s James Cannon been all day?”

  “No idea,” Krandle said. “But I did see him about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Where?” Vail asked, her fingers inching closer to the Glock’s handle.

  Krandle thumbed an area over his shoulder. Just then, the whites of two eyes appeared in the distant darkness. And then they vanished.

  Vail saw them, threw her left hand back, and slapped Brix in the shoulder. And then she took off, shoving Cap Krandle into the wall and heading past him, down the hallway into the shadows. She yanked out the Glock, keeping her back against the rough stone of the corridor as she sidled into the darkness.

  Brix was behind her, presumably with his SIG drawn.

  They moved quickly through the sawdust-fogged air, toward a larger area lit by a single compact fluorescent bulb. They both cleared the room, eyes scanning the walls, looking for an exit.

  DIXON STOOD IN THE COOL AIR, looking out at the mountains a few miles away, thinking how serene and scenic the landscape was up here.

  She swiveled back toward the stone structure and blew some air out her lips. Was this a waste of time, or was James Cannon really a killer? The deer blood Gordon and Mann found may or may not be significant; Cannon could merely be a hunter.

  Dixon thought back to the conversation at the gym. He was cocky and seemed to bully Mayfield—not what she would expect if Mayfield was Cannon’s mentor. It came off as playful banter between two friends, but was there something going on beneath the surface? Or were they playacting?

  As she mulled her previous exchange with Mayfield and Cannon, her phone vibrated. She pulled the handset from her pocket without taking her eyes off the building. “Yeah.”

  “Roxx.”

  Brix’s voice.

  “He might be on his way out toward you. Cannon isn’t the wine maker, he’s a wannabe. Currently the inventory manager. We didn’t get a good look at him, but someone made us and took off.”

  “Got it.” She snapped her phone closed and drew her SIG.

  “ANYTHING?” VAIL WHISPERED.

  Brix used hand signals to indicate he was moving toward the door. He wanted her to cover him.

  Brix stepped to the side, grabbed the knob, and pulled it open. Vail was in a crouch, Glock out front in a Weaver stance. The area beyond the door was vacant. Brix motioned her through.

  Vail slid forward, cautious yet determined not to let Cannon escape their grasp. At best, they had a scared employee who saw cops and, for whatever reason, didn’t want to hang around to chat. At worst, they had a murderer in their sights, someone who might be able to provide clues about Robby.

  Vail moved onward, through another room and down a different hallway. She was beginning to think they were going to lose him. He knew the layout of the winery, much of which wasn’t even finished, and there could be an exit they hadn’t seen during their approach. Some downwind access, a loading dock or delivery port that would take him away from them without their ever seeing him.

  She was about to turn to share her thoughts with Brix when her phone rang.

  DIXON STOOD THERE with her SIG at the ready, clasped in both hands, knees slightly bent, forearms taut.

  And that’s when she saw him: James Cannon, the size and shape, the face. No doubt. They locked eyes—and his gaze dropped to her hands, where she was holding the chiseled metal pistol.

  “Hold it right there, Jimmy,” Dixon shouted.

  But he didn’t “hold it right there.” He spun and ran.

  21

  He’s headed—” Dixon craned her head skyward, but the sun wasn’t far enough in one direction to estimate east or west. She glanced toward the mountains, estimated where Highway 29 sat, and pressed the handset back to her mouth. “West, I think. Down behind the building. Positive ID.”

  “As soon as we find our way out,” Vail said, “we’ll have your back.”

  Dixon shoved the phone in her pocket and increased her pace, headed around the sharply sloped left side of the building. She shifted the SIG to her left hand and stuck out her right, using it as a third leg against the hillside. Her feet slipped in the loosely tilled soil, but she maintained her balance.

  Fifty feet ahead of her, Cannon was doing much the same, ambling as fast as he could. But was he running away from her or toward something?

  A yell behind her—Vail’s voice. Dixon dared not turn around or she might lose her balance and slide down the hill into the vines that lay less than ten feet away. Cannon was approaching level ground.

  “Jimmy—” Dixon called. “We just want to talk! C’mon, man, why are you running?”

  The dumb cop routine didn’t work—Cannon kept moving. He climbed over a short wrought iron fence, more decorative than functional, and broke into a dead run. Dixon struggled with the soil, and the faster she tried to go, the more she slipped and slid.

  Goddamn it, come on!

  VAIL TOOK ONE LOOK at the sloped ground and knew she could not traverse it. She had undergone knee surgery two months ago, and had already stressed it more than was wise. Vail waved Brix by her and told him she’d circle around. But as she turned to head back toward the front of the sprawling, multilevel building, her eye caught sight of an ATV parked in the shadows of a utility garage built into the far end of the structure. It was a tier below them, and Cannon was headed toward it.

  That’s his endgame.

  DIXON GRABBED a protruding root and yanked hard, using it to leverage herself up and over the fence. But as her feet hit the level ground, the rev of a rough outboard engine snagged her attention. She looked up to see James Cannon on a three wheel vehicle blowing out of an open garage. He twisted the throttle and the ATV burst forward, over the far edge of the hill.

  And out of sight.

  22

  Vail reached Brix’s Crown Victoria out of breath—not so much because of the run but due to the stress of the moment, piled atop the strain of the past week. So much on her mind, so much had gone wrong. So little had gone right.

  And now a killer within her grasp, about to slip away—unless she prevented it. She yanked open the door. But she was out of sync. She stuck her right leg into the car just as the door hit the endpoint and swung back into her face. Fuck!

  She pushed it open again, felt her bottom lip swelling, then grabbed the keys from atop the visor. Backed out and headed farther down the road, around the other side of the tasting room building. But the road stopped—dead-ended as they had originally thought it did.

  For an ATV, however, roads were unnecessary. That was something they had not anticipated.

  The Ford’s engine was idling, her foot was shoved up against the brake—and she was filled with indecision. Forward? Or back, the way they came in? Which way would Cannon go? Toward the road? No—that’d make no sense. On the road, the cops had the advantage. Off road, the ATV was king.

  Ahead were vines and beyond that, evergreens. Mountain. Uphill. Behind her, if Cannon was not headed for the road, he could go down through the vineyard and then into the forest. They wouldn’t be able to follow and he had acres upon acres to roam.

  She swung the car around, floored the pedal, and drove past the winery building, which flew by on her right. And then, as she surmised, in the distance, a plume of smoke billowing behind him, was James Cannon and his ATV.

  Vail climbed out of the car and started on foot after Cannon. It was hopeless, really. She knew that. But to just stand there and watch as the killer who had posed the woman in front of the Hall of Justice got away was more than she could stomach at the moment. Cannon’s mind game of leaving the vic on law enforcement’s doorstep had worked: Vail’s anger was close to boiling over into a red zone of danger.

  She tore the Glock from her holster and headed into the vineyard.

  23

  Vail ran down an aisle, knowing the risks to her knee. Knowing it was something she had to do.

  Beh
ind her somewhere, Dixon and Brix were shouting.

  She wasn’t about to turn around—or stop. Now in the same vineyard row as Cannon, all she could see was the brown plume of smoke. She smelled the acrid gasoline fumes and tasted the dirt on her tongue. Her sweat-soaked face was coated with a fine film of soil.

  Trying to keep the dust from infiltrating her lungs—already irritated from the fire a few days ago—she brought her left arm to her mouth and buried her nose and lips in the crook of her elbow.

  And as James Cannon continued increasing the distance between them, the sheer futility of her efforts hit her full on. She slowed to a jog, then stopped, bent over at the waist, hands on her knees.

  She looked up to see the cloud of brown dirt hooking into the dense blind of trees to her right. Just as she had suspected.

  Vail straightened up, her eyes tracking Cannon’s visible trail as she felt with her fingers to insert the Glock into its holster.

  A moment later, she was joined by Dixon and Brix. She pointed toward the plume, somewhere in the distance, a location that was now only accurate in her imagination. She had no idea where James Cannon had gone. She just knew he wasn’t lying at her feet, handcuffs encircling his wrists.

  “Totally sucks,” Dixon said.

  “Saw it coming. Nothing I could do.”

  Brix stepped forward and peered out over the vines, into the forested land half a mile away. “I called it in. There weren’t any choppers on alert. I think we just gotta face the fact he’s gone.”

  “For now,” Vail said. “Let’s poke around his house, see what we can turn up.”

  Dixon sighed. “Somehow that doesn’t seem . . . adequate.”

  Vail turned and headed back toward their car. “It’s not.” She spit a mouthful of grainy soil from her mouth. “Not even close.”

  CAP KRANDLE HAD CONTACTED Herndon’s chief executive and asked him to pull James Cannon’s employment application and hiring paperwork, which contained a home address that matched the one Gordon and Mann had obtained. If it had been as she suspected, that Cannon had not been looking to be a killer when he’d taken the job with Herndon, but had merely been someone capable of violence and had it unlocked through an association with Mayfield, then it made sense that he had not had the forethought to use subterfuge by listing false addresses and using disposable phones.

  And if he was truly a narcissist like Vail believed, then Cannon probably felt he was smarter than everyone else and would be capable of eluding the grasp of law enforcement if the need ever arose.

  Thus far, Vail had to admit, Cannon’s plan—whatever it was, and though far from ideal—had kept him a free man. Just how long that lasted, however, was not something the guy should take to the track. If Vail had something to say about it, he’d end up being disappointed with the results.

  Vail finished cleaning her face with the wet cloth Krandle had given her. “Something to keep in mind, Mr. Krandle. We’ve got reason to believe James Cannon is a violent individual. You’d be smart to avoid contacting him. And if he comes back here—which I sincerely doubt—play it cool. We didn’t tell you anything and you don’t know anything. But as soon as it’s safe, call us. Better yet, text us so there’s no chance of him overhearing you.”

  Brix handed him his card. “He calls, comes by, anything—let us know.”

  WHILE BRIX TENDED TO AN ERRAND, Vail and Dixon made their way to Cannon’s house. Upon arriving, they saw three county vehicles parked out front at various angles, a haphazard job that suggested they arrived on scene in a hurry.

  Through the front window, its blinds parted by the tip of a SIG Sauer handgun, Burt Gordon was motioning them in. He stepped back and the aluminum slats fell closed.

  Vail led the way across the lawn, green and thick and robust—which did not surprise her. The medium gray house, set back and sandwiched between two equal size single-story homes, was located in what appeared to be a respectable middle class neighborhood.

  Vail pushed the door open and entered ahead of Dixon. As expected, the interior was well-maintained and obsessively clean.

  A series of reference texts on the art and science of enology lined the bookshelves of his family room. Dixon pulled one and thumbed through it. “He was clearly serious about being a wine maker.”

  “Lots of people have dreams,” Vail said. “Just because he had books about the subject doesn’t mean he would’ve been any good at it. But the point is, he didn’t think there was much value in being an inventory control manager. It was a job he took because he couldn’t secure the position he really wanted. To him, being a wine maker held the prestige he sought.”

  Dixon shoved the book back onto the shelf. “So he saw his job as a failure?”

  Vail pressed on through the house. “That could’ve been a trigger. Frustrated in his ability to capture the position he really wanted, he saw the power and ‘respect’ Mayfield commanded by killing. He began to thirst for that power. Killing was a way for him to achieve that. Posing the body on the steps of the Hall of Justice put him front and center. Bang—he’s got the power.”

  “PC?” Dixon asked.

  They swiveled, did not see one, then split up and searched the two bedrooms.

  “Got a laptop,” Vail said. “It’s unplugged.” As Dixon joined her, she lifted the lid. The screen remained black. “Looks like it’s off. Let’s have Gordon and Mann bring it to the lab for the techies to comb through.”

  They moved into the living room. Bodybuilding magazines were stacked on the coffee table—and in the master bathroom, too. Empty MET-Rx canisters sat stacked atop the recycling bin in the garage, near an extra set of dumbbells and a weight bench perched in front of a mirror in the second, empty port. A half-filled Platypus water bottle stood on a chair by the far wall.

  Mann appeared in the doorway to the garage. “Anything?”

  “Got a laptop for you to take back to the lab.” Vail then told him her developing theory on the trigger behind Cannon’s suspected act of murder.

  “We’ll get a deputy posted here in case he returns,” Mann said, “but I doubt he’ll come anywhere near here.”

  “Where’s that shed?” Dixon asked.

  Mann led them out the backdoor into a medium-size yard. Through a stand of tall bushes and trees was an evergreen-painted structure that blended into the existing flora.

  They stood inside, a ceiling mounted fluorescent fixture providing adequate light. Vail knelt and examined the dried, matted blood.

  “The CSI took samples,” Mann said, “so don’t worry about messing it up.”

  “Did he agree—was it a deer?”

  “He said that was a good guess, but you know those guys. They’d rather have facts than spend time debating possibilities.”

  They left the shed and stood in the yard.

  “He knows we know,” Dixon said. “We’ve set up roadblocks on all roads leading out of the valley, but he’s on an ATV. He could be anywhere. Question is, how far can he get on that thing before he runs out of gas? And how far can he go before he hits a natural barrier he can’t cross?”

  “From what you described,” Mann said, “sounds like he could get lost in those woods. Unless he’s a survivalist, sooner or later he’s gonna need food and water.”

  “There are plenty of houses to breach,” Dixon said. “I say we go public, put the word out. Make everyone aware he’s out there. We can circulate a photo. Go full blast.”

  Vail had to hold her tongue. If they had gone public a couple days ago with the Crush Killer’s murders, John Mayfield might’ve been caught sooner. And Robby might still be—

  She stopped herself. No sense in looking backward. It was time to move ahead, keep tending the path they had started clearing.

  Dixon’s phone buzzed. She lifted it, listened, and said, “Be right over. Have her wait—” Dixon’s eyes rose from their focus on the ground and met Vail’s. “Really. Okay, thanks.”

  “What?” Vail asked.

  Dixon tur
ned to Burt Gordon, who had just entered the yard. “Finish up here, then meet us back at the department.”

  “What’s the deal?” Vail asked.

  “Merilynn Lugo. That’s where Brix went. She gave him a DVD for us.”

  24

  Dixon and Vail burst through the second-floor doors of the Napa County Sheriff’s Department and strode purposefully to the glass window. Dixon swiped her proximity card and the electronic locks clicked open.

  They walked briskly down the hall to the task force conference room. Sitting on the table was a black DVD case with a Post-it note stuck on the front: “From Ray.”

  “I didn’t say anything because it was a long shot and I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I made one last attempt with Merilynn. I took her on a little field trip to visit Mayfield in the hospital. He didn’t look so threatening with all the tubes and beeping machines. I told her we’d submitted her WITSEC request and that we needed her to do something for us. Seemed like I was getting through, but I didn’t want to push her. So I gave her a little time to think about it. Her place was on the way back from Herndon, so I stopped by.”

  “And she gave you a DVD?”

  Brix scooped it up and handed it to Vail.

  Vail pried open the lid and stared at the disc, which bore Ray Lugo’s slanted handwriting. Did it hold some secret information that would give her clues as to what happened to Robby? Would it answer the question of what John Mayfield had meant when he taunted them with, “There’s more to this than you know?”

  “Karen,” Dixon said softly, “We need to watch this.”

  Vail woke from her stupor. “Right.” She plucked the disc from the plastic spindle, then placed the DVD in the laptop tray and watched as Windows Media Player loaded.

  Brix, Dixon, Mann, and Vail stood around the computer. Vail felt Dixon shudder when the image of Lugo’s living room filled the screen. Lugo then appeared and sat down on the couch. The angle of the camera and Lugo’s proximity to the lens gave the impression it was filmed on a webcam.