Crush (Karen Vail Series)

by Alan Jacobson

  “You sure you don’t know?”

  Mann swung his gaze to Vail. “Huh? Should I? Who is it?”

  “It’s a male. No ID yet.”

  Even in the fading light, Vail could see his eyes narrow. “So why should I—” He stopped. His body stiffened, and he seemed to lean back, away from her. Staring at her.

  Vail did not speak. She remained still herself, measuring Mann’s response. A brisk wind whipped through her shirt. Damn, it’s cold.

  “Vail,” Aaron called out. “Get your ass back over here!”

  Vail ignored him. She looked at Mann.

  “Well,” he finally said, “go ahead. Ask.”

  Vail folded her arms across her chest. She did it for warmth, but it served the dual purpose of exhibiting body language of someone in charge. “Where were you when each of our victims was killed?”

  “That’s not the question you want to ask me, Agent Vail. I’ll give you another shot. Ask your question or get the fuck away from me. Now.”

  “Did you kill Victoria Cameron?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill Ursula Robbins?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill Maryanne Bernal?”

  “No.”

  “How about the vic lying out in the vineyard behind me?”

  “No. Satisfied?”

  Vail snorted. “Not really.”

  “You’ve really got a set of balls, you know that? To question a person who’s given his life and career, hell, his goddamn left arm for the job—you really think I could be your killer?”

  Vail ground her teeth. “I have a job to do, Agent Mann. And part of that job is to look at this case logically, without bias. Our victims were killed by a crushing blow to the trachea. The coroner can’t rule out the use of a tool or appliance. Something that’d make crushing the trachea—normally a tough thing to do—much easier. Then you walk in with a prosthesis. And yeah, I’m thinking, shit, that’s pretty obvious. Too obvious. But I have to look into it, you hear me?”

  Mann stared at her but did not reply.

  “It’s nothing personal. In fact, someone I respect a great deal vouched for you.”

  “You discussed this with Rooney—”

  “No,” Vail said. “I didn’t. I’ve thought about it. I couldn’t rule it out in my mind, beyond saying ‘He’s a great agent and great agents don’t do this type of thing.’ Well, that doesn’t cut it when time comes to present my case. You know that. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So again. Nothing personal. Got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So as to where you were—”

  “I was out of town when you found Victoria Cameron’s body. On ATF business. You can ask my partner, if you want.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “We flew back from New Mexico yesterday morning. Two days after Mrs. Cameron was killed, if I’m not mistaken. Check it out with my partner. We were together just about every minute of the five-day trip.”

  “Vail!” Aaron said. “Now or never—”

  “You insist it’s not personal.”

  “It’s not,” Vail said. Where’s he going with this?

  “Have you brought this up to the task force? Have you or anyone else looked into other men in the vicinity who have prostheses? Because if you really think this makes it a slam dunk”—he held up his left arm—“then you would’ve checked into that. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. So don’t fucking insult my intelligence.”

  Vail sighed. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I meant no disrespect.” She extended a hand. Mann looked at it a long moment, then turned around and got back into his car.

  MATT AARON DROVE UP to the police department, in the heart of downtown St. Helena, a one-story shared-use structure that also housed City Hall. Aaron pulled to the curb and dropped off Vail in front of the building.

  Vail opened her door. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Aaron didn’t bother turning to face her. “And thanks so much for your help.”

  She could tell he didn’t mean it. Sarcasm. A dose of her own medicine.

  Vail swung the door closed, but Aaron drove off before it had completely shut.

  She pushed through the police department’s front door and walked into a small anteroom separated from the rest of the office by a pane of bulletproof glass. She spoke to the community service officer and explained she was going to be taking the Taurus. The CSO told Vail where it was parked, then gave her directions to downtown Yountville.

  As Vail pushed through the doors, her BlackBerry rang. It was Rooney. Oh, god. Please tell me Austin Mann didn’t call Art. That’d suck big time.

  “Karen, listen, we got some shit on Fuller. I had Frank look into it while I was in the air, then when I went wheels down, he called me.”

  Fuller. She shifted her brain out of panic mode and back to business. “Fuller, yeah, I know. Frank told me there was a sealed record.”

  “Not just a sealed record. Not by a fucking long shot.”

  Vail found the magnetic storage container, then unlocked the door and settled herself into the seat. The sun was now long gone and the air had taken on a typical March chill. A gray cast hovered in the sky, billowy clouds barely visible in the charcoal sky above.

  “What was it?”

  “Juvie record, Fuller was convicted of—wait for it—attempted arson. He was pissed at his teacher, so he set a school storage shed on fire. Janitor was on-site and saw Fuller, did a sketch, and picked him out of a lineup.”

  “Arson.”

  “I knew there was something about the kid.”

  “He’s the sheriff’s stepson, you know that.”

  “I don’t give a shit. I’m sure the sheriff knows about this. And here we’ve got an arson in his town and he doesn’t tell us about Fuller’s history?”

  “That’s a fine line, Art. Asking a father to rat out his son.”

  “Hey, the fucker tried to kill you, Karen. This goes way beyond family. This kid’s a killer.”

  “Okay, I’m with you on this. What now?”

  “I want you to steer clear of it. I’ll call Mann and have him coordinate with an agent in the San Francisco office. We’ll handle this internally. I don’t want Owens finding out, tipping off Fuller, and giving him a chance to cover up evidence, or bolt or whatever the hell he’ll do. Wish I hadn’t flown back.”

  “We can handle it from here.”

  “Not we, Karen.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She depressed the brake pedal, then shoved the key in the ignition. A pair of headlights came on a few dozen feet behind her. She flipped the rearview mirror into night mode and pulled out of the parking lot, headed right, down Highway 29 toward Yountville. “Keep me posted, okay?” Rooney did not reply. She looked down at her BlackBerry. It had dropped the call. Didn’t matter—she was sure he, or Mann, would let her know what was going down, and when.

  Vail sighed. She had thought Fuller was annoying—but harmless. It now appeared she was wrong. Not that she was never wrong—but it didn’t happen often, which was a good thing—because in her profession, being wrong often met with disastrous consequences.

  She was looking forward to seeing Robby, to sharing a glass of wine with him and unwinding, telling him about Fuller. She was grateful that Rooney was such a hound dog with an acute intuitive sense.

  So much had happened in the few days since they had arrived. And this was supposed to be a time for her to get away from the stress of the past couple months.

  As she drove along 29, she thought about where she’d like to take her real vacation. But when would she go? She couldn’t leave Jonathan again, certainly not right away; that wouldn’t be fair to him. And they will have burned through Robby’s vacation time. She’d gotten so caught up in the hunt—in the need to help—that she had selfishly, and foolishly, pursued this case at Robby’s expense. This was supposed to be their time together, and she had ruined it.
And at the moment, she wasn’t even sure she had done the community any good. Like Gifford had said, she seemed to be a magnet that frequently sent the Shit-Happens Meter off the scale.

  Perhaps she and Robby could steal a weekend here and there for an overnight or two. Maybe the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg—she’d forgotten about that place. Close to home, but far enough away that it would provide a needed change of scenery for both of them.

  Vail was surprised at how few cars were on the road. She knew most wineries closed around 5 p.m., so the tourists were probably back at their bed-and-breakfasts, dressing for dinner and a relaxing night out—something she would be doing very shortly, as well.

  Her headlights hit the sign ahead that announced Calistoga would be coming up in fifteen miles. Calistoga? Her Napa geography was fairly poor, but she remembered Calistoga being toward the top of the map—farther down the road, after St. Helena—meaning she should’ve turned left onto 29, not right.

  She slowed to see where she could make a U-turn, but headlights in her mirror caught her attention. Same ones she saw a few moments ago when leaving the police department? Impossible to say—and normally she wouldn’t give it much thought. But last night someone—Fuller?—had tried to turn her into a french fry and today a serial killer texted her phone. Her sense of awareness, always pretty good, was heightened. Paranoid? Realistic. Someone might be following her. She wasn’t about to let whoever it was have the upper hand again.

  A few yards ahead was Pratt Avenue. Without signaling, she hung a sharp right onto the narrow, two-lane road and accelerated, coming up quickly on Park Street. Swerved right again, then made an immediate left onto Crinella Drive. Residential.

  Glanced up, saw nothing—no headlights. All that for nothing. She felt her heart rate moving at a good pace. Nothing like a little scare to get the blood pumping. She followed the road as it curved right, keeping an eye on her mirror, just in case. If nothing else, it’d be a long way around to getting back onto 29 in the correct direction.

  Parked cars populated driveways and lengths of available curb space. To her right, a portable basketball standard stood poised for action, sandwiched between neatly placed garbage and recycling containers.

  She followed Crinella as it proceeded straight, then hooked right again. Perfect, a circle. She would stay on it and loop back onto Park, then get back onto 29. Of all things—a detour when she desperately wanted to meet up with Robby and relax. If she told him about this, he’d laugh at her. Then again, given all they’ve been through lately, he probably would not find it amusing.

  After turning right onto Park, she took a couple of deep breaths to slow her pulse rate. This can’t be healthy, she thought. Doesn’t stress kill? A totally different kind of serial killer. One I’d never be able to catch. She chuckled at the absurdity of her thought, how the mind turned to humor at strange times.

  As she passed the opening of the Crinella loop, she caught a glimpse of a car sitting at the curb ahead of her, its headlights burning. So what? It’s just a mother who’s running to the store for milk. Waiting for me to pass so she can turn onto Park.

  Vail continued along Park, headed toward Pratt. Looked in her side mirror. The car had turned onto Park but was several dozen feet behind her. But what if it’s not an innocent resident?

  She reasoned most people would turn left here, to get to the main drag, Highway 29. So she turned right, down toward a darker area. If the other vehicle stayed with her, the chances were greater its occupant was trailing her. She would then call Robby, have him drive toward her. Enough of this shit.

  As she crossed a set of railroad tracks, Vail wished she had Stella with her. She didn’t know her way around—especially in the dark—and the Taurus wasn’t equipped with an in-dash GPS. She then realized she should’ve headed back to 29, a road she had been on and which was a main thoroughfare. Then she could have gone back to the police department.

  As she mentally kicked herself, the two pinpricks of bright light appeared in her mirror. The car had turned right and was now behind her again. She accelerated hard, took it up to seventy for the next half mile as the road doglegged left. This had to open up somewhere, spill onto another road. If not, she’d need to find a street to turn around, then head back toward whoever was following her. She pressed her left forearm against her waist and felt her Glock.

  While she mulled her options, Pratt dead-ended at what looked like a main road a hundred feet ahead. She remembered looking at the map when they were planning the trip and seeing another artery that paralleled Highway 29. Silver-something. It was the road she was on earlier today with Dixon.

  Yellow traffic sign: Narrow Bridge. She slowed hard, then crossed the two-lane cement-walled overpass. Street sign—Silverado Trail. Yes, that was it.

  She turned left while sneaking a peak in her mirror. No one there. No lights. Was he still behind her, running silent? She accelerated hard through the turn and brought the Taurus up to sixty, alternating her gaze between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. She flipped the signal bar forward and threw her headlights into the brights setting so they illuminated a wide arc on the asphalt ahead. They also stretched upward, reaching the lower branches of the tree-lined road.

  She pulled out her BlackBerry and struggled to navigate to Robby’s phone number. But because this was a new phone, none of her contacts were loaded. She’d have to go into her call history, to when he had called her. That’s all she needed—to get into an accident by dividing her attention among three different tasks. But no one else appeared to be on the road, which was good. If those headlights appeared again, she would have to take action.

  And as luck would have it, a few seconds later when she glanced up, she saw those fucking headlights appear in her mirror, turning onto Silverado from Park. She thought of texting the killer back on his number—but she had to keep her head about her. What would that accomplish? If it wasn’t the Crush Killer following her—if it was Fuller, for example—she could set in motion a series of events that would be potentially disastrous. If she had her original phone, she could call Fuller and find out if it was him behind her.

  Up ahead—a turnout. She cut her headlights and downshifted into low. The car lurched hard as it abruptly dropped into third gear. Vail yanked hard on the wheel, screeching round the bend onto a narrow, unmarked road—without applying the brakes. She wanted to give her pursuer the illusion her car had disappeared from existence. Beamed away into thin air—neat trick if it were possible, but this should work fine, too.

  Vail swerved onto the narrow side street, regained control of the vehicle, then hung an abrupt U-turn, using the skills she had learned in the tactical driving course at the Academy. She brought the car around facing Silverado Trail and pulled hard right against the soft shoulder. Cut her lights and disabled the interior dome light—in case she had to exit the vehicle.

  She sat there and counted. Based on the distance the car was behind her, she figured she had no more than four seconds before it would pass her. But she was ready.

  The Taurus was in neutral, her foot off the brake and her head ducked down low to prevent the driver from seeing her—in case he was looking in her direction when he passed.

  There! The car zoomed by, its headlights off now. Speeding, no doubt looking for where she had gone. Keeping her own lights off, she pulled the Ford into drive, accelerated hard and went into pursuit mode.

  He was traveling fast—but with a dark dashboard, she could only guess at the speed. What mattered was she was losing ground. She glanced up—saw another car behind her—and ignored it. Focus on the task ahead.

  She depressed the accelerator. The engine downshifted, hesitated, roared, surged. But the vehicle ahead was still expanding the distance. The roadway curved left, then right.

  He blew through the flashing red, and with a quick glance at the intersecting street, Vail followed suit.

  She wasn’t sure he was aware of her presence; in the near-total darkness, she didn’t think
he’d be able to see her. He wasn’t driving evasively; he was driving as if he was pursuing, searching. Wondering where the hell she had gone. Whoever he was, he was clearly motivated to find her.

  I’ll bet you are, asshole.

  An oncoming truck was approaching in the opposing lane. In the glow of his headlights Vail could now see the silhouette of the driver of the car in front of her: a male, rotating his head from side to side. Looking for her, no doubt. His vehicle had the shape and smooth, curved lines of a Chrysler.

  The light from the truck was a mixed blessing: It illuminated her pursuer, but it would also lay her bare as well, should he look in his rearview. And he must have done just that—because he suddenly switched on his headlights and slammed on the brakes.