Velocity Page 15

  “How do we know that?”

  “Because he didn’t shoot this guy. Looks like he did what Mayfield did: crushed his trachea, slit his wrists. That’s the way he kills.”

  “We think that’s the way he kills. We don’t know enough about him to reach definitive conclusions about his behaviors, about his identity as a killer.”

  “I’ve got all I need right here.”

  “Roxx, don’t—”

  Dixon started climbing the slick hill. “I’m going in the front. If you’re gonna help me out, count to sixty, then go in the back.” She stopped and turned. “You with me?”

  Vail rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, the one holding the Glock. I hate situations like this. You know it’s the wrong thing to do, but you have no choice. “Don’t get me killed, Roxx. I still have to find Robby. And I’ve got a kid, remember?”

  “Then we’d better be careful. Sixty seconds. Fifty-nine Mississippi, fifty-eight Mississippi, and so on. On my mark. Ready?”

  Vail nodded.

  “Mark.” Dixon turned and scurried away. Into the darkness.

  31

  Vail made her way up the slippery wooden steps onto the deck that led to the backdoor. At least with wet wood there was less chance of a board squeaking under her weight.

  Counting. Forty-five. Forty-four.

  There were two windows, one on either side of the door, which was partially constructed of glass. She crept along, keeping herself low. Inspected the jamb and considered where she would need to strike the door to blast it inward. Because of its construction, she knew she could do it—using her good leg.

  Thirty. Twenty-nine.

  She put her ear to the crack in the weather seal, down below the window line. Listened. One, perhaps two, female voices whimpering. Maybe Roxx was right. Going in now before he killed someone else made sense. Didn’t it?

  Seventeen. Sixteen.

  Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. She would kick in the door, then go in low. It was always risky when you did not know the floor plan of the house you were infiltrating. Where was your target? Would you be immediately visible to him upon entry? And most disconcerting . . . did he have a weapon? In close quarters combat like this, a knife was often more dangerous than a handgun.

  Infiltrate, rapidly assess: Was your immediate environment safe? Were your hostages in imminent danger? Had your appearance placed them in imminent danger?

  Five. Four.

  Vail stepped back—she was now in view of the home’s occupants should they choose to look—and brought her right leg up and then thrust it forward, just below the knob.

  The jamb cracked and splintered, and the door flew open. Vail dropped to the floor and clambered into the room—it was the kitchen—and brought her back up against the wood cabinets. Listened.

  Shouting—screaming.

  Vail spun around the edge of the wall, Glock out in front of her, and moved down the carpeted hallway toward the light—and the commotion. There! In the family room, three females. One woman. Early thirties. Two girls, about eight and nine, sporting tear-streaked red cheeks.

  No sign of James Cannon. Not good—he could be behind me, or he could be choking Dixon, right now—

  Slamming noise. Loud, something smashing into a wall. Again, and again.

  Vail followed the noise and stopped in front of the three women, whose wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape. A taut strip stretched across their mouths. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” She quickly pulled off the mother’s gag, which elicited a whimper. Vail ignored it. “Scissors?”

  “In the drawer,” the mother said. “The desk—”

  Vail swung around and found the piece of furniture three strides away. Grabbed the scissors, cut the ankle bindings. “Out the back,” she said. “Go!”

  She would be sending them where the woman’s husband and the girls’ father was lying dead—but their physical safety was of paramount importance. Their mental health could be addressed later.

  Now. Find Dixon.

  A loud thump. A groan.

  Vail slipped out of the family room, then moved down the hallway toward the front door. There, laid out face up on the carpet was James Cannon—and Dixon astride him, pounding away at his face. “Roxx!”

  Another punch.

  Vail ran forward and grabbed the back of Dixon’s shirt. “Roxx, enough!”

  Dixon’s shoulders rose and fell with rapid heaves as she got up and stumbled backward. Vail almost gasped when she saw her partner’s face: red welts over the left eye, which was already swollen half shut. A bruise across her right cheek.

  Cannon didn’t look much better: his mouth, which hung open, was bloody, his teeth coated a slasher-film burgundy.

  “Cuffs,” Vail said, then swung her Glock into her holster. As Dixon handed them over, Vail asked, “Where’s your SIG?”

  Dixon looked left, then right, then paced up and down the hallway. Vail knew she would want to locate it before SWAT arrived on scene. Having your sidearm taken from you in a confrontation was embarrassing—and bordered on incompetent.

  Vail pulled the radio from her back pocket. “H-30, this is Vail. All secure. Repeat. All secure. Suspect in custody. Request ambulance.”

  “Roger that, Agent Vail.”

  Dixon came up to her, SIG in hand. She slipped it into her holster without offering a word.

  “So what happened?”

  “I came through the door, and he was on me as soon as I stepped through. We both landed some good shots, but I think I got the worst of it. I went down and he came at me, but I landed a hard kick in his steroid-shrunken balls. That was all I needed. I got to my feet and kneed him pretty hard in the face. Broke his nose, for sure. He staggered back and I landed a few good blows. He went down, and a couple punches later, you appeared.”

  “A couple punches?”

  Dixon flexed her swollen right hand. “Maybe a few more.”

  Red, blue, and white lights strobed through the drawn window curtains, projecting a nervous energy onto the far wall. The thumping beat of the H-30’s rotors intensified, indicating that the chopper had dropped to a safe distance above the house. Vail felt the vibration in her chest, and she fought the urge to cough or bang it to dislodge the discomfort.

  She made her way to the backdoor and saw the helicopter’s white beacon bathing the rear yard in light. A CSI Vail hadn’t yet met was slipping and sliding toward the dead body lying on the wet bed of pine needles and mud.

  “Karen!”

  Dixon’s voice. She made her way back to the front door. The SWAT commander would no doubt be entering the house any minute. But as Vail approached, she realized that wasn’t why Dixon had called her. James Cannon was regaining consciousness.

  Dixon was standing a few steps away from him, her SIG drawn and in her right hand, extended and pointed at his chest. Inviting him to make a threatening move.

  He pushed himself backward against the front door and now sat half reclined, canted left, his shoulder pressed to the wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back. He did not look comfortable—or pleased.

  Vail approached and stopped ahead of Dixon, at Cannon’s feet. She crouched and rested her forearms on her thighs. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You fucked up real bad. You had everything going for you. Working at an up-and-coming winery, possibly slated to be the wine maker in five to ten years if you learned the business well and proved yourself. Forgive me for asking, but what the hell were you thinking?”

  Cannon’s right eye narrowed. “You’re not as pretty as I thought you were when we met in the gym. Asking you out . . . yeah, what the hell was I thinking?”

  Vail grinned. “That’s good. I believe in giving credit where it’s due. But we don’t have a lot of time here, Jimmy. So I’m gonna come straight with you. I’m serious—was the wine thing a cover or did you really have intentions of being a wine maker?”

  Cannon’s gaze fell to his lap. “I took enology in college. I wanted to be
a wine maker.”

  “Until John Mayfield came into your life. Then you saw something that interested you more. Right?”

  Cannon pouted his lips and nodded imperceptibly. A concession without an embarrassing admission.

  “Okay, Jimmy,” Vail said. “I understand.”

  Jiggle of the door knob. Pounding knock. “Napa County Sheriff’s Department. Captain Dave Nash. Open up!”

  “This is Special Agent Karen Vail, FBI. We’re okay in here. Suspect is secured. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  “If the suspect is secured, open—”

  “My partner’s coming out,” Vail said. She gestured to Dixon, who made her way toward the garage. She would run interference with Nash while Vail finished her interview.

  “Jimmy. How much did you work with John Mayfield? Did you know what he was doing?”

  Cannon firmed his lips and turned away.

  Okay, he’s not ready to answer that one. “Here’s what I think happened. You two found each other in the gym, and Mayfield tested the waters, told you about some animals he’d killed when he was young. And you were interested. More than interested. Intrigued. So he took a risk and told you about some people he’d killed. And it excited you. So he told you more. And it made you feel different, alive, like something woke up inside you. That sound about right, Jimmy?”

  Cannon glanced quickly at Vail. “Something like that.”

  Vail knew, even with Dixon out front running cover, she didn’t have much time. Time to get to the nuts and bolts.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photo of Robby. “You recognize this guy?”

  Cannon looked at the picture. His gaze remained steady. “I’ve seen him, but I don’t remember where.”

  Vail leaned in closer—unwise, for sure, but she couldn’t help herself. “You’ve seen him? When?”

  Cannon turned away, his eyes rolling left, then right, then up. “Can’t remember. Recently. Past couple days, I think.”

  “What was he doing? Where’d you see him?”

  Banging on the door. “Agent Vail, open up. Now.”

  “Suspect is wedged against the door. Come in through the garage.” She turned back to Cannon. “Where’d you see him?”

  Cannon closed his eyes. “I feel like shit. My head’s gonna explode. Can we do this later?”

  Vail clenched her teeth. I’m getting on a fucking plane in about ninety minutes. No, we can’t do this later.

  “That’s my last question, Jimmy. Answer it and I’ll see to it they give you something for the pain in the ambulance.”

  He let his head fall back against the door.

  “Agent Vail.”

  Voice behind her. Stern, deep. No nonsense. The guy from the other side of the door. Dave Nash.

  She did not turn around. Her eyes were stuck on Cannon’s face like epoxy.

  Captain Nash grabbed Vail by her shoulder and moved her back. She lost her balance and fell on her buttocks.

  “Can you get the hell out of the way so we can do our jobs?” Nash asked.

  Vail pushed herself up. Please, just answer my question. I need this piece to the puzzle. “Where’d you see him?” she yelled.

  Cannon tightened his face. “I can’t remember. Now leave me the hell alone. My head’s fucking killing me.”

  Vail felt a hand on her arm, leading her away. It was Dixon.

  “C’mon,” she said by Vail’s ear.

  Vail followed her outside. A mist, foglike and thick, hovered around the first responder vehicle lights. The cool moisture prickled Vail’s cheeks.

  The SWAT Peacekeeper, a military-modified Dodge Ram truck sporting an armored shell, was parked in front of the house. Several men milled about, one smoking a cigarette, another leaning against the vehicle. The helicopter hovered above, much louder outside than it had been inside. As Vail craned her head skyward, the H-30 began moving off, the beacon becoming weaker and more dispersed as the craft rose.

  Two paramedics, standing beside an ambulance that was parked a dozen feet back of the Peacekeeper, snapped into action and wheeled a gurney to the front door.

  “He said he saw Robby.” Vail was watching the scene unfold and spoke so softly Dixon almost didn’t hear her.

  “You showed him the photo?”

  “He said he’d seen him. Couldn’t remember where.”

  Two headlights appeared in the distant darkness, speeding down the street toward them. The vehicle screeched to a halt behind the ambulance. Brix and Stan Owens poured out of the car and headed toward Vail and Dixon.

  “Nice of you to tell me,” Brix said to Dixon.

  “We were kind of busy responding to the situation. He killed the father and dumped the DB out the back. So we went in.”

  “You went in? SWAT was en route.”

  “We didn’t think there was time. There were three other hostages.” Owens folded his arms. “Obviously we’re gonna need to discuss that. Later. What’s the current status?”

  “Cannon’s in custody.”

  Vail said, “I showed him Robby’s photo. He said he’d seen him, but he couldn’t remember where.”

  “You believe him?” Brix asked.

  Before Vail could answer, Dave Nash joined their circle. “Sheriff,” he said, with a nod at Owens.

  “Report.”

  “Victim’s in the rear of the property being processed by CSI Bruno Rancelli. Suspect James Cannon’s being treated and readied for transport under guard to Valley Med. He’s in and out of consciousness. Medic’s concerned he might have a subdural hematoma.” Nash glanced sideways at Vail and Dixon. “He apparently took a beating.”

  “Necessary force to bring down the suspect,” Dixon said. “And self-defense.”

  Owens seemed to notice the bruises on Dixon’s face for the first time. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem with that. But before Rancelli takes off, have him snap some photos of you. CYA.”

  “Also,” Nash said, “Cannon wanted me to deliver a message to Agent Vail.” He turned to her and said, “Before he lost consciousness, he mumbled a name.”

  Brix nearly shouted, “What name?”

  Nash scratched at his temple. “I don’t know if this makes any sense, but sounded like he said, ‘Sissy Guava.’”

  32

  César Guevara?” Vail asked.

  Nash lifted his hat and brushed back his hair. “Yeah, could be. But that’s all he said. Mean something to you?”

  Brix grunted. “You could say that.”

  “Why would he say Guevara’s name?” Owens asked.

  The doors to the ambulance slammed shut and its light bar began swirling as it pulled away from the house, James Cannon tucked into its rear compartment.

  Vail watched another piece to the puzzle being whisked away down the road, evaporating into the dark fog, the siren remaining long after visual contact had been lost. “I showed Robby’s—Detective Hernandez’s—photo to Cannon, and he said he’d seen him but couldn’t remember where. I guess he’s saying he saw him somewhere that’s associated with Guevara.”

  Dixon began to gently massage her inflamed hand. “We’re missing the bigger picture. Why would James Cannon know César Guevara?”

  “Obvious answer,” Brix said, “is that Cannon is a manager at a start-up winery, and they were talking with Superior Mobile Bottling about contracting for their services.”

  “That’s one explanation,” Vail said, stifling a yawn. “Another might be that there’s a connection somehow between John Mayfield, James Cannon, and César Guevara. A connection we haven’t figured out yet.”

  Dixon stretched her arms above her head. “We know there’s a connection between Cannon and Mayfield. Mentor and student. And Ray said on the DVD that he thought there was some kind of connection between Mayfield and Guevara.”

  “So what does all this mean?” Owens asked.

  Dixon looked up at the black sky. The air was calmer now, without the beating rotors of the helicopter whipping at the
treetops. “It means we don’t know enough to figure it out yet.”

  Brix pulled his phone. “I’ll get Mann over to Valley Med, so he’s there when Cannon arrives. If he regains consciousness, maybe we can get some clarification. And I’ll talk with Cap Krandle at Herndon in the morning, see if they’d had any discussions with Guevara about using Superior.”

  “Nothing left for us to do here,” Dixon said. While Brix was waiting for the line to connect, she said, “We’ll pick up Karen’s stuff at my place, then head over to the hospital until she leaves for the airport.”

  “Yeah, Austin, it’s Brix.” He nodded at Dixon, and Dixon and Vail said good-bye to Owens, then climbed into their vehicle.

  Vail snapped her seatbelt then let her head fall back against the seat. Yawned wide and loud. “I’m so damn tired. And we’ve got so little to show for all our time and effort. I’m out of here in—” she checked the dashboard clock—“about an hour fifteen.”

  Dixon turned over the engine and brought the Ford around to head back the way they had come. “For the moment, you’re still here. The fat lady ain’t singing just yet.”

  “You’ll let me know when, right?”

  Dixon managed a grin. “Yeah. I’ll let you know when.”

  33

  They arrived at Dixon’s house twenty minutes later. Vail scooped up her measly belongings—her clothing and personal effects greatly reduced in number and volume by the fire Scott Fuller and his conspirators had set a few days earlier. As she gathered everything into a pile, her thoughts shifted to a few nights ago, when John Mayfield had injected Vail with BetaSomnol, a powerful sedative, then used her Glock to kill Fuller. It set off a major confrontation with Sheriff Owens, which Robby squelched by tossing Owens onto his rump.

  Scott Fuller vanished from her thoughts when she felt a nudge on her forearm. She turned to see Margot looking at her, wanting attention. Vail sat down on the floor and Margot jumped into her lap. Quinn came running over, and having lost the “prime real estate” to Margot, took up the next best location—alongside Vail’s thigh.

  With a hand on each dog, Vail felt soothed by their curly fur. She got as much comfort from stroking them as Margot and Quinn seemed to be getting from the human contact.