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  “We don’t have time to wash. We’ve gotta do something. We have to figure out what happened to Robby. The first forty-eight hours are crucial—”

  “Karen,” Dixon said, a hand on her arm, “we need to take a breath. We need to sort ourselves out, figure out what everything means, where we go from here.”

  Vail grabbed her head with both hands and leaned her elbows on her knees. “I can’t lose him, Roxx, I can’t—I have to find out what happened. What if Mayfield—”

  “You can’t think like that. If Mayfield killed Robby, don’t you think he would’ve said something? Wouldn’t a narcissistic killer do that? Rub it in your face?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know. I can’t think.” Vail took a deep breath. Coughed—she’d inhaled smoke from a fire a few days ago and it hadn’t fully cleared her lungs yet—and then leaned back. “He kind of did just that, Roxx. When we interviewed him. He was gloating that we hadn’t really figured things out. We’d caught him, but that wasn’t everything. That’s what he was saying. That he was smarter than us. Superior to us—” She stopped, then turned to Dixon. “Superior. Superior Mobile Bottling.”

  “We’ve been down that road,” Brix said. “César Guevara was a dead end.”

  Guevara, an executive of a mobile corking, labeling, and bottling one-stop shop for wineries that lacked their own in-house production facilities, had been their serial murder suspect until the task force failed to turn up anything compelling linking Guevara to the victims. When John Mayfield emerged as the Crush Killer, Superior Mobile Bottling—and César Guevara—fell off their radar. Vail shook her head. That was only a few hours ago. So much has happened in such a short period of time.

  “I don’t think anything’s off the table now,” Vail said. “We missed something. I’ve had that feeling all along. Something wasn’t right, I just couldn’t figure it out.” She dropped her head back against the metal cage. Tears streamed from her eyes, streaking down the dried blood on her cheeks.

  Dixon put an arm around her and pulled her close. Vail felt immediate guilt: Dixon had just suffered her own loss—Eddie Agbayani, her estranged boyfriend, someone she loved—had been John Mayfield’s final victim. But at the moment, Vail could not summon the energy, the outward empathy, to grieve for her friend. She had only enough strength to keep herself together, to keep her wits about her before she fell apart and lost it.

  “We’ll figure this out, Karen,” Brix said. “We may’ve caught Mayfield, but we’re far from solving this case.” He pulled his phone. “I’m getting everyone back to the Sheriff’s Department. We’ll hash this out.”

  As Brix sent off his text message, the Department of Corrections van pulled in front of the sally port roll-up door in the jail’s parking lot. “Hold it,” Brix said. Vail had used her shirt to keep pressure on Lugo’s neck wound. Brix quickly unbuttoned his uniform top and helped Vail into it.

  They got out, then climbed into their cars, frigid air sneaking into the vehicle like an unwanted passenger. Vail was silent for most of the short drive, lost in a fugue of disbelief and depression.

  Finally, staring straight out the windshield, she said, “I’m sorry. About Eddie.”

  Dixon nodded but did not speak.

  Vail turned to face her and saw tears shining on her cheek. The past week had been an emotional and trying time.

  But what lay ahead for Karen Vail would be like nothing she had ever experienced.

  3

  After parking their car in the Napa County Sheriff’s Department lot, Vail and Dixon headed up the two flights of stairs. In the restroom, they cleaned themselves up as best they could, replacing their soiled tops with Sheriff’s Department T-shirts. Vail’s nylon fanny pack was beyond cleaning, so she dumped it in the trash.

  “I’ve got a paddle holster you can use,” Dixon said, then led her down the hall and pulled one from a bin on a shelf in the detectives’ off-duty office, which adjoined the major crimes task force conference room.

  They pushed through the side door and saw Brix seated at the long table with Detective Burt Gordon and ATF Special Agent Austin Mann. Vail and Dixon took chairs. Vail settled beside Mann—an awkward choice. Because of his prosthetic left forearm, and the manner in which the Crush Killer collapsed his victims’ windpipes, Vail had considered the highly regarded Mann a suspect. She came to regret the accusation. At present, that was the least of her concerns. Robby. I have to find Robby.

  For a long minute, no one spoke—it was as if they were taking a moment of silence for their fallen comrades.

  Vacant stares and bowed heads.

  Brix cleared his throat. “This has been a tough week. For all of us. But if we’re going to be effective in what we need to accomplish, we’ve gotta pull ourselves together and put our personal feelings aside.” He pushed his chair back and walked over to the white board. Found a clear space and uncapped a marker.

  Vail leaned closer to Mann. In a low voice, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Our deal is settled,” he said. “We’re good.”

  “Okay,” Brix said. “We’ve got a lot of unanswered questions. Let’s set them out, then start digging. As we answer them, we’ll cross them off the list. And hopefully, when all our questions are answered, Detective Robby Hernandez will be safe, and in our custody.” He looked around the room.

  Vail pushed herself up straight in her chair. “The biggest question involves Ray.”

  Brix wrote “Ray Lugo” on the board. “What did he know? What was he involved in? What were his ties to John Mayfield?”

  To Vail, Dixon said, “You sensed some strange body language when he and Guevara saw each other.”

  “I did. But everything we thought, all our conversations with witnesses, have to be reexamined in a new light.” She turned to the others. “When we visited Superior Mobile Bottling, it seemed like César Guevara kept looking at Ray, like he was angry at him. Was he angry because he thought Ray was responsible for bringing us there?”

  Dixon pointed at the board. “We need to follow up with Guevara. Find out what his relationship with Ray really was.”

  Brix made the note. “And that disc.” He turned to Mann and Gordon. “In the ambulance, Ray said he had some kind of disc. He died before he could tell us what was on it or where it was.”

  “He also told us,” Vail said, “that his wife and son had been kidnapped. By John Mayfield. That’s why Ray shot him in the interview room. Revenge?” She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to make sure Mayfield could never come after them again.”

  Brix held up a hand. “Before you ask, no, when they were kidnapped, Ray didn’t know who was behind it, and no, he never said anything to us about it. Apparently Mayfield said he’d know if Ray told us. And he’d kill his family. Ray was also apparently forced into doing things for Mayfield.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gordon said. “What the hell does that mean?”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Finally Mann cleared his throat. “We’ve also got Mayfield’s comment, ‘There’s more to this than you know.’ Maybe he was referring to Ray’s involvement.”

  Brix’s phone rang. He reached into his pocket and fished it out. “Brix.” He listened a moment, then his eyes flicked across the face of each task force member. “And when will we know?” He nodded, thanked the caller, then snapped his phone shut.

  “What’s up, boss?” Dixon asked.

  Brix shook his head, freeing him from his fugue. “Mayfield. He’s still alive.”

  Vail rose so quickly from her chair that it flew back into the wall. “Let’s go—”

  Brix’s hand went up faster than a crossing guard stopping traffic. “He just got out of surgery. They removed a .40-caliber round lodged near his brain.”

  Mann asked, “Is he gonna live?”

  “They’re going to keep me updated,” Brix said. “Soon as I hear something, I’ll let you know. When he wakes up, if he wakes up, whoever’s closest when that call comes through, get your a
ss over there as fast as possible and find out what you can from him.”

  “He’s not going to be motivated to help us,” Vail said.

  Brix capped his marker. “Any suggestions on how to approach him?”

  Vail pulled her chair beneath her and sat heavily. “What I should’ve done from the start. My focus should’ve been to connect with him on a level he’s never experienced before, to knock him off his pedestal. Throw him a curve. I should’ve related to him intimately, deferring to his superior abilities with a subtle sexual undertone. When I did finally get him talking, that’s what I was doing.”

  “I may be able to do that,” Dixon said. “But no offense—” she tossed a glance at the other task force members—“I can’t see any of these guys connecting with him on a subtle sexual level.”

  That brought some chuckles and broke the tension for a fleeting moment.

  “No,” Vail said. “You guys would have to connect with him from a distance, in a less intimate manner. More professional. Be awed by his superiority. Tell him how great he is, dwell on how he outsmarted us by eluding capture for so long. Relate to him clinically, marvel at how efficiently he handled his homicides, how you’ve never dealt with a killer as clever as he is. It’s similar to what I’d do, but where I’d admire up close and personal, you’re admiring from afar. Done well, it can be very effective.”

  The men were all wearing frowns and expressions of distaste. Vail couldn’t blame them. But this was the most effective way to get the information they needed.

  “As repulsive as it may seem,” she said, “find a way to see his point of view. Build rapport.”

  Mann asked, “Can it be done in a hospital room? With interruptions and machine noises and other people around?”

  “It’s far from ideal, but we take what we can get.”

  “I’ve got Mayfield’s booking photo,” Brix said. “I’ll email it to all of you in case you need it.”

  “There’s something else we need to look into,” Vail said. “Robby had a friend in town. I think his name was Sebastian. I don’t know anything about him. Actually—he gave Robby a bottle of delicious Madeira two or three months ago. All I can remember is that it was a winery that began with a v and it was a short bottle with red wax dripped across the top—”

  “V. Sattui,” Brix said. “Good stuff.”

  Vail pointed a finger at him. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s a long shot. Maybe they remember him, if he’s a regular customer.”

  Various members of the task force cocked their heads or licked their lips, nodded slowly . . . clearly, they didn’t hold high expectations for this “lead.”

  “Trying to find a guy who bought a bottle of Madeira is not much to go on,” Brix said. “Some wineries have a thousand people come through every month.”

  “We don’t have much to go on, period,” Dixon said. “We’ve gotta do our best with what we’ve got.”

  “Assignments,” Brix said.

  Dixon, the task force lead investigator, nodded. “Okay. Let’s grab a few hours of sleep and hit the trails as soon as people start getting to work. Mann—track down Sebastian, our V. Sattui Madeira drinker. Brix—follow up with Matthew Aaron, see what forensics he’s gotten from the B&B room Karen and Robby were staying in. Gordon. Coordinate with Napa Special Investigations Bureau and start showing Robby’s photo around. Never know, someone may give us something we can use. Karen and I will go pay Ray’s wife a visit, wake her up, and give her the bad news. See what she knows about a disc or John Mayfield. Hopefully something.”

  “‘Minor’ detail,” Gordon said. “You got a picture of Robby?”

  Vail frowned. “On my old phone.”

  “The one that burned in the fire?” Dixon asked.

  “Yeah, that one.” Vail checked her watch. It was just after 1:00 AM. “I’ll have something for you in the morning. Brix, you got another one of those contact sheets with everyone’s phone and emails? I gotta enter it all into my new phone.”

  Brix found the correct manila folder and removed a sheet of paper. “Let’s not leave it lying around.”

  Vail took the paper, folded it, then rose from her seat. “Thanks, everyone, for your help. Robby—he’s very important to me.”

  “We’ll find him,” Brix said.

  Vail made herself smile. “Thanks.” She wished she was as confident as Brix. At this point, she could not delude herself into thinking they had anything worth pursuing. That meant no viable place to start.

  And that’s what bothered her most.

  4

  Agent Vail!”

  Dixon and Vail, having just left the task force conference room, turned in unison. It was the sheriff—Stan Owens.

  “A word?” As Owens approached, his eyes flicked to Dixon, then back to Vail. “Alone.”

  Vail and Dixon exchanged glances. With Owens’s stepson, Detective Scott Fuller, having been murdered less than forty-eight hours ago—and Vail still in the sheriff’s crosshairs as the likely suspect—their silent glance was like shouting in a quiet room.

  “Go on,” Vail said to Dixon. “I’ll be fine.”

  Dixon nodded, then headed off down the hall as Owens approached.

  “Sheriff.” Vail bit her lip. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Let’s go in here and talk.” He motioned to the nearby interview room. While it would certainly give them quiet and privacy, the irony was not lost on Vail; this was where she had interviewed Walton Silva, Scott Fuller’s alleged conspirator in setting the fire designed to kill her.

  As Vail pushed through the door, she caught sight of Brix lurking down the hall.

  He tilted his head ever so slightly. “Everything okay?”

  Vail shrugged. “Yeah. Sheriff just wants to talk. In private.”

  Brix squinted but didn’t reply. He headed toward her as she disappeared into the room.

  Owens was already seated at the small faux marble table. He left vacant the seat facing the concealed wall camera. On purpose? What was his purpose?

  Was he hoping to elicit a confession? Was he fishing for information? Or was this meeting something more benign?

  “What can I do for you, sheriff?”

  Owens squirmed in his chair. Leaned back, loosened his tie. But didn’t look at her. “Scott did set that shed on fire. At the school, when he was a kid.”

  Interesting. “I know. We got hold of the sealed file.”

  “Yeah.” He looked around at the table, the walls. Licked his lips. “We got him help. Therapist said it wasn’t a problem with him loving fire. It was just his way of acting out, of rebelling. He was the right age.”

  Vail wondered why he was telling her this. Because he’d made such a scene of accusing her of Fuller’s murder? Because he had vehemently denied his stepson was capable of arson?

  “Even therapists can be wrong.”

  Owens snorted, then finally made eye contact. “Apparently he wasn’t just wrong. He didn’t know shit.” He waved a hand. “Aw, that ain’t fair. I didn’t see it, either. I thought Scott was a good kid, had straightened out his act. He wasn’t my blood, but he was my son. You understand?”

  “Of course I do.” And she did.

  “He had come from a broken home. His mother . . . Anita’s a good woman, but that bastard she married wasn’t worth the shit that came out of his ass.”

  “I’ve known a few like that. It’s not necessarily Anita’s fault.”

  “I’m not saying it was.”

  He said it hard, sharp, like he resented what Vail had implied. But she wasn’t implying anything.

  “I thought that because I got hold of Scott at a young age, I could fix him. Shape him. He had a rough streak that started when his father walked out on them. But I knew Anita before then. She worked at the Sheriff’s Department as a legal clerk. That’s how we met. When we got together, I just thought I could make a difference in Scott’s life.”

  “You did. He became a cop. A detective.”

&n
bsp; “He was a good kid.”

  Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but someone who sets fires and then conspires to kill an FBI agent doesn’t deserve the “good kid” label. Instead, Vail said, “You gave him a lot of love, sheriff. Stuff he needed.”

  “Not enough, apparently.”

  “Sometimes there’s only so much we can do. We’re wired a certain way as individuals. We may learn, change, adapt, but when pushed—or if the stress gets too great—peer pressure or whatever—we fall back into our old bad habits. Because it’s familiar to us, even comforting.”

  Owens sighed, deep, hard, and uneven. “I’m gonna miss him something terrible.” His eyes canted toward the ceiling, filled with syrupy tears. “Is that wrong?”

  “Of course not. He was your boy. Just remember the good times. Focus on those.”

  Owens tightened his lips, then nodded. He lowered his eyes to hers. “Thank you, Karen.” He rose from his chair. “I hope you find Detective Hernandez. A guy like him, he’s hard to lose. He’s one big motherfucker. I know that firsthand. He sure put me in my place.”

  Vail flushed. “Sorry about that.”

  “Not at all. I deserved it.” He shrugged. “Anyway, my point is, I doubt anyone could get the drop on him.”

  Vail forced a smile. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  Owens held out a hand. “Anything—you need anything to help find him, you just let me know.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Owens pulled open the door. Brix was standing there.

  “You need something, Redd?”

  Brix’s eyes flicked over to Vail. He seemed to read her expression, then shook his head. “Nope. All’s good.”

  5

  Vail met Dixon in the break room. She was reclined in a yellow plastic chair, her eyes closed and her mouth open.

  Vail gently shoved her foot with a shoe. “Hey. Wake up.”

  Dixon rubbed two hands across her face. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.” She pushed herself out of the seat and stretched. “This is gonna suck big time.”