Velocity kv-3 Page 7

  “We’ll bring you full coverage as soon as more information becomes available. But one thing is certain, Fred: the police kept the public in the dark that a dangerous killer was loose in our community. Impossible to say yet just how many lives that decision has cost the valley. And the killer? After an apparent shootout with cops, he’s lying comatose in the intensive care unit at Napa Valley Medical Center.

  “Reporting live from the Napa County Sheriff’s Department, this is Stephanie Norcross.”

  The news anchor appeared onscreen and began talking.

  Vail and Dixon shared a concerned look and then left the building.

  13

  Well that sucks big time,” Dixon said.

  “What are the odds that Cannon saw that?” Vail asked.

  “Who the hell knows? But the bell’s been rung. It’s just a matter of time before he hears, if he hasn’t already.” They got back into the car and Dixon started driving north, toward Napa. “What happened back there with Guevara?”

  “I lost control. Just enough to get his juices flowing. Hopefully he wet his pants. But I doubt it. Cool customer.” Vail looked off, alone a moment with her thoughts. “Too cool.”

  “You think he’s involved.”

  “I know what I saw, Roxx. When he kept looking at Ray, something was going on. It was more than recognizing a guy you knew when you were a teen.” She watched a huge Walmart-anchored shopping center flash by as they headed north. “The look he was giving Ray. It was . . . anger, maybe. Like he was pissed that Ray brought us there. As if Ray should’ve found a way to stop us from going.”

  “You sure?”

  “Now that I have a free minute to clear my mind and think about it, yeah. That’s what his look said.”

  “Okay,” Dixon said. “Let’s go with that a moment. They knew each other. They were working together in some criminal enterprise. We already know Ray was doing something he shouldn’t have been, as part of his deal with Mayfield to leave his wife and son alone.”

  “Let’s look into Guevara. Deeper this time. Let’s try to get a warrant, poke around his financials. Phone logs. Superior’s business. Look for patterns. Standard police grunt work.”

  Dixon was shaking her head. “Seriously, Karen. Maybe you’d find a judge in Virginia who’d sign off on something like that. But our case is so thin you can shine a light through it. It won’t fly in California.”

  “You get a good look around?”

  “I poked around here and there. It’s a pretty clean facility. Not a whole lot there other than their rigs and machinery.” She leaned to the left and dug into her pocket. “Found this. In the corner, behind a stacked case of wine.” Dixon handed it to Vail.

  Vail took the tissue and unraveled it. “A wine cork?”

  “Yeah, but the real question is, is it real or is it synthetic?”

  Vail refrained from touching it. She tilted the tissue cradled in her hands as she examined the item from all angles. “Synthetic.” She rolled it back up and handed it to Dixon. “And this helps us, how?”

  “No idea. I’ll give it to Matt Aaron, see if the lab can find something.”

  The vibration of her BlackBerry sent her heart racing. “Shit.” She grabbed for the phone.

  “Jumpy?”

  Vail grumbled. “How could you tell?” She looked down at the display. “Text from Cannon. He’s out of town, but says he would’ve loved to get together.” She turned to Dixon. “He said, ‘Maybe your next visit out here.’”

  “Interesting. Is he really out of town?”

  “We’re getting sloppy. After what we learned about texting and cells, we should’ve had a tracer put on his line before I made that call.”

  “But we’ve still got these little problems called ‘probable cause’ and ‘a warrant.’”

  Vail shook her head and looked off at the countryside, which had once again transformed into the Napa Valley she had come to know: plots of well-tended vineyards merging with rolling hills and mountains in the distance. Wineries on both sides of the road.

  Vail’s phone buzzed again. “Ian Wirth. Returning my call.”

  “Maybe we’ll get some answers about Herndon.”

  Vail brought the handset to her ear. “Ian, this is Karen Vail. We . . . yes, we saw the news. And yes, that’s the guy. So you can rest a little easier now. But what I called you about was information . . . No, a related case. Are you available to meet for a bit?” Vail rotated the phone away from her mouth and faced Dixon. “Taylor’s? Know where it is?”

  “Tell him we can be there in twenty-ish.”

  Vail relayed the info, thanked him, then hung up.

  “Taylor’s is a straight shot down 29, in St. Helena,” Dixon said. “Owner renovated an old, dilapidated hamburger stand and started serving Ahi and halibut burgers. And, of course, for the health challenged, good old artery-clogging red meat and mouth-watering shakes.”

  “Sounds like a place I should visit before I leave town.” Which isn’t that far off now. The mere thought made her curl her fingers into a fist. “Are we wasting our time with this, Roxx? I mean, I’ve gotta find Robby. And it’s down to hours now.”

  “It’s not down to hours, not while I’m on the case. I’ll keep working it. Remember, I used to be a detective. I know how to do this shit.”

  Vail tried to smile, but the thought of leaving town before finding answers brought tears to her eyes. She turned toward the window and let her forehead rest against the glass.

  14

  Taylor’s Automatic Refresher was as Dixon had described it. A half dozen red picnic tables were arranged in front of the hamburger joint, where a long line of customers stood staring at the menu or chatting among themselves.

  Dixon parked and found Ian Wirth near the front of the line. They ordered, then grabbed a table.

  Wirth set down his glass of iced tea. “So you found the killer. The guy who murdered Victoria Cameron, Isaac Jenkins—”

  “John Mayfield,” Vail said. “The Crush Killer. Now you see why we couldn’t be straight with you about what was going on.” Vail and Dixon had told Wirth the causes of death had been strokes, but Wirth’s father had been a cop, so he was wise to their subterfuge. They admitted there was more to what was going on, and advised him to be careful.

  “The victims’ names haven’t been released yet,” Dixon said, “so keep that info to yourself till we can deal with the families.”

  “Of course.” He tilted his head. “But you didn’t ask me to lunch to talk about John Mayfield.”

  “No,” Dixon said. “We need some information on setting up a winery.”

  Wirth glanced from Dixon to Vail. “You two thinking of going into business?”

  Dixon laughed. “No. And I can’t say any more because—”

  “Because it’s an ongoing investigation,” Wirth said. “Why do I get the feeling this Crush Killer thing isn’t quite over?”

  Vail sighed. “You know we can’t say any more. But as to Investigator Dixon’s question . . . ”

  “Obviously I know a fair amount about it. What’d you want to know?”

  Their food was ready: Ahi tuna burger, rare, with ginger wasabi mayo for Dixon; Wisconsin sourdough burger, with bacon, mushrooms, and cheddar for Vail; marinated grilled mahi mahi in corn tortillas for Wirth.

  And a double rainbow chocolate shake for Vail. Hell with the calories. I need the chocolate. No, I need Robby. The chocolate will have to do for now.

  Dixon lifted the bun and examined her burger, seemed pleased, and continued. “Ever hear of a start-up, Herndon Vineyards?”

  Wirth held his tortilla with both hands. “No. Should I?”

  “Not necessarily,” Vail said. “But it would’ve made our jobs a little easier. So here’s the deal. We want to find the owners of this start-up. They’re supposedly due to release their first wine in a couple years. Wouldn’t they have to file paperwork to get approval to operate a winery?”

  “Your easiest call might be to
the valley appellation organization, in this case the Napa Valley Vintners, who regularly announce new winery members. That’s assuming that this new winery decided to join the organization. It’s not mandatory. So if you hit a goose egg there, you have to go the more bureaucratic route. Operating a winery is regulated by the TTB, the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau. For some reason, it’s part of the Treasury Department. As you can imagine, it’s the government, so there’s a ton of paperwork to fill out and regulations to follow.” He leaned back a bit and looked at Vail. “No offense.” Wirth bit into his tortilla.

  “None taken.”

  “Herndon Vineyards,” Wirth said, “would have to go through the federal application process.”

  Dixon brought a napkin to her lips. “Just a guess, here. But unlike the Napa Valley Vintners, the federal application part is mandatory.”

  Wirth grinned. “That’d be correct. And because of that, they’ll know everything there is to know about the owners. But you’d also need the state’s approval. ABC—Alcohol and Beverage Control. Heck, even if you just change or modify the name of your winery, you have to file new applications. You’re not officially a winery until they approve your apps and say you are.”

  “When do you have to file the paperwork?” Vail asked, then sucked deeply on her shake. The dark chocolate high washed over her.

  Wirth tilted his head in thought. “That’s tricky to answer. The owners could purchase land and get everything drawn up and ready to go. Architectural plans, engineering studies, and so on. But there’s a gray area. I spoke to the TTB once and they told me I was supposed to have the applications in place before I purchased equipment. But I wasn’t about to spend two hundred grand until I knew I had a viable and approved winery. So I called back, got someone different, and received a totally different answer. A colleague of mind said the same thing. Different people, different information.”

  Dixon sighed. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

  Vail vacuumed out the last of her shake with a sucking sound. “Let’s take one step at a time. See if we can get something from the Napa Valley Vintners. If not, Plan B is TTB. That fails, Plan C would be ABC.”

  Dixon smirked. “You trying to be funny?”

  “I’m not in a laughing mood,” Vail said.

  Wirth lifted his napkin and wiped his hands. “Anything else I can answer for you?”

  Vail rose. “If there is, we’ll give you a call. Thanks for lunch. Mind if we run? We’re up against a deadline here.”

  “Not at all.” Wirth stood and shook both their hands. “Good luck.”

  As Vail headed back to the car, she thought, A little good luck sure wouldn’t hurt.

  15

  He did not have long. For twenty minutes, he had been driving around searching for the perfect setting. If he was going to make the splash that he felt he deserved, which meant preventing the police from containing news of his kills, he had to place the body where it would be seen by the average passerby. After much thought, he settled on just the spot.

  The body in the trunk would stiffen, that much he was sure of. It would make his task that much more difficult, if not impossible. How long until rigor mortis set in? He wasn’t sure. Best to get there quickly, do his deed, and leave.

  Zipping along Silverado Trail, he passed a string of wineries—Clos Du Val and Hagafen on the left, Luna on the right—before the road dead-ended at Trancas Street. He swung right and followed it over the Napa River, then approached the traffic light and hung a quick turn onto Soscol Avenue, barely beating the yellow.

  But apparently the Napa police officer behind him observed otherwise.

  He glanced at the flashing lights in his rearview mirror, then considered his options. He had a fresh corpse in his trunk, and he had murdered a cop—though he doubted they’d already found her body. It couldn’t be about that, not yet.

  Floor it? That was one option—try to evade capture. But if he acted normal and polite, there’d be no reason for the cop to search his vehicle. All he had done wrong, in the eyes of the law, was run a red light. Marginally, at that.

  He turned right into the adjacent parking lot and brought the old Mercedes diesel to a stop. The cruiser pulled in behind him. He watched as the cop shoved the gear shift into park, then brought the radio to his mouth.

  Good thing he hadn’t driven the minivan. By now it could be listed as stolen—and besides, there was no place to hide a dead body.

  He looked up. The cop was still chattering away on his radio. He tapped his fingers on the dash. Come on, get out and move this along. Ask for license and registration and send him on his way. Simple. Easy. He’d pay the fine without dispute. He had an important appointment to keep, before the body in his trunk went stiff.

  He waited, took a few deep breaths to calm his escalating nerves, and watched as the cop finally—finally—got out of his car and headed toward his window. He rolled it down, stuck his head out, and grinned broadly.

  “Morning, sir. Any idea what you did wrong back there?”

  Absolutely, he did. Why play games? “I assume I didn’t quite make it through that yellow in time.”

  “Correct. License and registration, please.”

  He handed them over. “Sorry, officer. Guess I wasn’t paying attention. Won’t happen again.”

  “Napa 2X1,” the man said into his shoulder-clipped radio.

  The dispatch operator responded: “2X1, go ahead.”

  The officer read the pertinent information into the handset. He received a response of no wants or warrants. “I’m going to give you a citation,” the cop said. “Be more careful when you approach an intersection, and pay attention to those yellow lights. Yellow means slow . . . ”

  He smiled and nodded. Just a polite citizen with a dead body in his trunk who made an honest mistake and committed a moving violation. “Yes, sir. Will do, sir.” He sat back and waited while the officer completed the ticket. Wiped a collection of sweat beads from his forehead.

  The cop walked back to his vehicle and retrieved something, then stopped. He was staring at the trunk.

  Oh, shit. What could he possibly see? A smear of blood? A sliver of pink material hanging out that got snagged by the lock?

  He started running scenarios by in his mind. He could hit the cop hard and fast, then leave and make as many turns as possible. But his license plate had already been called in. That was a problem. Not to mention his unwilling passenger. “Assault” would instantly turn to “murder.” No matter how he parsed it, there was no good excuse for a violently executed woman to be crammed into his trunk.

  As he began to perspire profusely, the officer returned to the window. Here it was. If the cop asked him to open the trunk, he would have to take his chances. Clobber him, then leave town.

  “Here you go,” the officer said. “Your left rear brake lens is cracked, but the light’s working. Keep an eye on it. Water gets in, it’ll short out.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  The cop squinted and twisted his body to face him. “You all right, sir?”

  He faked a hearty laugh. Too hearty? “Just hot, is all. I’m also late for an important appointment.”

  The officer eyed him a moment, then nodded and handed him the ticket. “Obey the speed limit. And watch the traffic signals.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” He watched in his rearview as the cop headed back toward his cruiser, then poked his head out the window. “Have a great day!”

  He didn’t know about the officer, but his own prospects for doing just that had improved immeasurably.

  16

  For Karen Vail, good luck was not on the horizon. Before they had gotten out of the parking lot, Dixon’s phone buzzed. She hit the hands-free Bluetooth speaker and answered. It was Brix.

  “You’re not going to fucking believe this,” he said.

  “Uh-oh,” Dixon said. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “Trust me. You won’t. There’s a
new vic.”

  Vail shot forward in her seat. “What?”

  “Maybe the vic’s from yesterday,” Dixon said, “before we grabbed up Mayfield.”

  “My first thought, too,” Brix said. “But no. According to first-on-scene, she’s fresh.”

  Dixon looked over at Vail, who was staring out the windshield. Thinking . . . what the fuck is going on? How could this be?

  “Sounds like the same MO,” Brix said. “I mean, same ritual. Gotta be a copycat, right?”

  I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. Vail’s phone buzzed. She absentmindedly pulled it from her belt and glanced at the display. “Is this the address?” she asked Brix.

  “I had Mann text it to everyone.”

  Vail rotated her phone to face Dixon, who, after digesting the location, turned the car around and headed back down 29, toward downtown Napa.

  Unfortunately, even Vail knew the address.

  DIXON PULLED TO A HALT at a makeshift barrier created by haphazardly parked Sheriff’s Department cruisers blocking Third Street. Deputies and Napa Police Department officers milled about. A news van sat skewed at the end of Brown Street, where it intersected with Third: at the Hall of Justice complex, where the courthouse and the Napa jail were located.

  Dixon parked behind Brix’s vehicle, and she and Vail made their way toward the clot of detectives surrounding a quad area nestled between three large gray buildings. As Vail picked her way through the crowd of law enforcement bodies, she caught sight of Matthew Aaron holding a digital SLR up to his face. The burst from his flash illuminated the area of interest: a black square water fountain that sat atop two concrete rectangles.

  And seated on the lower step was a woman, posed in such a way to make it appear as if she was reclining against the stone, her right leg extended in casual repose. Except that a trail of diluted blood cascaded down from her hands. A set of handcuffs dangled from her left wrist and her head was canted back, hanging at an unnatural left-leaning kink. The water from the fountain was lightly spraying her head, which now featured stringy-wet brunet hair.