Velocity kv-3

by Alan Jacobson

  “Karen,” Thomas Gifford began. “I realize this comes at a bad time, but I’m afraid I have to interrupt your vacation.”

  Vacation . . . oh, yeah. That’s what this was.

  “In fact, Hernandez is gonna kill me for this,” Gifford continued, “but I need you back here ASAP—”

  “Yeah,” Vail said. “About that. We’ve got a problem here, sir. I shoulda called you this morning, but it’s been a nightmare.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still working the Crush Killer. I specifically told you you’re off the case, and you assured me, Karen. You promised me—”

  “It’s not what you think, sir.”

  His volume leaped a notch. She could picture his face turning red through the phone. “It’s never what I think, is it?”

  “Sir, listen to me—”

  “No, you listen to me for once.”

  “No sir. Just—just stop. You need to hear me out.” She took a deep breath, then felt Dixon’s hand on her shoulder. “Sir, give me a minute to explain. And if you still wanna go off on me, fine.” He was silent, so she continued. “We caught the Crush Killer last night. He was shot in the process and underwent surgery. He made it through but he’s in a coma.”

  “If you think that’s an excuse—”

  “During the day, I kept trying to reach Robby. But he wasn’t answering. Late last night I went to our room at the bed-and-breakfast. He wasn’t there. No sign of him at all. We’ve been looking for him since.”

  “Have you alerted the local field office?”

  “No. We’ve been following up leads on the Crush Killer.”

  “Wait a second,” Gifford said. “Just hang on a second. You’ve lost me.”

  His tone calmed, which was a good thing. Maybe he would understand. Help her out.

  “I don’t get it. What’s the Crush Killer got to do with Hernandez?”

  Vail closed her eyes. “Things weren’t adding up. I kept feeling we were missing something. But I didn’t know what. When we arrested him, I did the interview. He said to me, ‘There’s more to this than you know.’ And then one of the sergeants on the task force, Ray Lugo, burst into the room and shot him. A ricochet caught Lugo and killed him. During transport to the ER, he said John Mayfield, the Crush Killer, had, at some point in the past, kidnapped his wife and son. Lugo apparently cut a deal of some sort with Mayfield to keep his family safe. What kind of deal, what he was doing, we don’t know. And with Robby missing, and Mayfield saying there was more to this than we know . . . we can’t rule out the possibility his disappearance is somehow related to Mayfield.”

  “And?” Gifford asked.

  “We’re already running down a lead that suggests Mayfield may’ve had an accomplice. If we find this guy, we may find Robby. Or at least some info that might lead us to him.”

  Gifford sighed audibly. She could see him at his desk, head bowed, free hand on his forehead, rubbing it.

  “The task force is working this?” he finally asked.

  “What’s left of it, yes. They’ve got the assistance of the Napa Special Investigations Bureau.”

  “I’m going to call the ASAC in San Francisco. And the RA in Santa Rosa. See if we can coordinate efforts. How long has he been missing?”

  “No way of knowing. My last contact with him was 8:30 yesterday morning.”

  Dixon leaned closer to Vail’s free ear. “The carpet.”

  “Oh,” Vail said, nodding. “The CSI here found blood on the carpet in our B&B. He’s running it—”

  “Blood. You sure? Any other signs of struggle in the room?”

  “It’d been cleaned by the maids before we got there. So we have no idea. The crime scene—if it was one—was probably destroyed. The CSI did a full workup, just in case.”

  “Have a sample of that carpet sent here, to our lab. I want our guys looking at it, too. And we’ll need an exemplar from—”

  “Done. Paul Bledsoe’s at Robby’s place getting his hair and toothbrush. You should be getting one of them soon.”

  “Fine.” There was a pause, then he said, in a softer tone, “This makes what I’m about to tell you even more difficult. But I need you back here. We caught a high-profile case. I can’t talk about it on an unsecure line.”

  Vail pulled the phone from her ear, her face contorting into sarcastic disbelief. Fortunately Gifford couldn’t see her—it’d most likely set him off. She brought the handset back against her head. “Sir,” she said in a measured tone. “I’m sure you can understand that I’ve got my mind on finding Robby. I can’t just leave here. Assign the case to someone else.”

  “What I understand is that I still have the behavioral analysis units to run and that’s my priority. What I understand is that you’re in a tough way right now. And I also understand that we’ve got a task force there working the case, and a well-equipped San Francisco field office ready to step in that can do the job just fine.”

  “With all due respect, I disagree.”

  “Not the first time, is it, Karen?”

  “Frank. Why can’t Frank take that new case?”

  “Del Monaco left yesterday to teach a seminar at New Scotland Yard that goes for another week, then he’s due to consult on a case they’ve been asking for our help on for two months. And Hutchings is on sick leave with an ulcer. Van Owen’s wife was diagnosed this morning with ovarian cancer, so he’s out on bereavement leave. Boozer just retired and we’ve got no one to take his place. I tried pulling Art out of arson and bombing, but they just caught a big case the White House wants them to consult on that might involve a trip to Iraq. And Director Knox isn’t about to tell the president no.”

  “So get me the crime scene photos, autopsy photos, victimology—and I’ll look it all over when I get back. Give me a week.”

  “Karen . . . ” He paused, no doubt to gather himself, to phrase it in a way that kept him from exploding.

  She realized now she had pushed him as far as she could. But for Robby’s sake—she felt justified.

  “Karen, this is close to home and the crime scene is fresh; it’s the perfect opportunity to see things as they are. I don’t have to tell you it’s a world better than photos and reports. No, that won’t cut it. Not for this case.”

  Vail slunk down in her seat. I’ve got no choice. Short of resigning, I have no leverage, no valid reason for staying behind.

  “Karen. You probably know I’m fond of Hernandez. I knew his mother.”

  After a long silence, Vail asked, “How soon?”

  “How soon, what?”

  “Till I have to leave. How soon?”

  “Lenka is booking your flight as we speak. You leave tomorrow morning, a 6:30 connecting flight out of SFO. She’s arranging a car to pick you up at 4:00 AM. She’ll email you the flight info.”

  Vail set her jaw. “Anything else, sir?”

  “We’ll find him, Karen.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.” She disconnected the call and let her hand drop into her lap.

  “He wants you back,” Dixon said.

  “I’m leaving at 4:00 AM tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll handle it, Karen. I’ll stay in touch with you. We’ll be your eyes and ears. We won’t let you down. Okay?”

  Vail nodded out the windshield at no one in particular, numbly and blindly. “No. Not okay. We’ve got several hours.” She turned to Dixon, her face hard. “Before I leave, god help me, I’m gonna have some answers. We’ll find Cannon. We’ll find out what Merilynn Lugo knows. And we’ll know if César Guevara is involved in Robby’s disappearance.” She pressed a hand against her pocket, which contained the photo of Robby. “You with me on this?”

  Dixon did not hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Good. Then start the fucking car. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  12

  Vail and Dixon’s first stop was Superior Mobile Bottling, located in a light industrial area of nearby American Canyon.

  The company was a local concern that brought equi
pment-laden semis to wineries throughout the region to perform bottling and labeling functions. It was a cost-effective approach for many wineries, as they didn’t have to expend resources and take up prime space for production machinery used only once a year.

  The facility was overseen by César Guevara, a man who supposedly served as its CFO but appeared to be much more. Vail, Dixon, and Ray Lugo had questioned him a couple of days ago. Vail had picked up on strange body language—silent communication between Lugo and Guevara. It was an observation that led the task force to aggressively investigate Guevara as the Crush Killer. The likelihood of him being their UNSUB, or unknown subject, shriveled like a desiccated grape when John Mayfield emerged as the offender.

  But Lugo’s involvement with Guevara remained in Vail’s craw, though with the harried pursuit of Mayfield, it became a lost seedling among a forest of concerns.

  On the drive to Superior Mobile Bottling, Vail explained their rationale for pursuing Guevara: if Lugo knew Guevara, and Lugo was involved somehow with Mayfield, there was an outside chance that Mayfield and Guevara knew one another . . . Lugo being the common link. At the very least, Guevara might know something—or might even have had something to do with Robby’s disappearance.

  Dixon had remarked that there were a lot of suppositions factored into that reasoning. Vail could not dispute her point, but felt they needed to pursue the lead.

  “Ray claimed he only knew Guevara when they were teenagers, working in the vineyards,” Dixon said.

  “That is what he said. But sometimes I’ve got to rely on my intuition. And I sensed there was more to it than that.”

  Dixon navigated out of Napa proper toward American Canyon, and the landscape changed from wineries to a more urbanized backdrop. “What Ray said. It’s not an unlikely story.”

  “If it’s true, I’d bet it’s only the first chapter. Working the vineyards is probably how they met. But what happened after that? How did their relationship develop? That’s what we need to find out. That could be a key.”

  Having arrived at Superior Mobile Bottling, Vail and Dixon slammed their car doors and headed toward the back of the warehouse-type structure. Bypassing the front entrance—and the interference-running administrator—they entered through the side roll-up steel door. Highly polished chrome and burgundy rigs sat stoically in their stalls in the spacious facility, like fine racehorses waiting for their turn to perform.

  Mounted on the wall, at least a dozen feet off the ground, was the largest LCD high-definition television Vail had seen outside a professional sports stadium. The volume was turned down, but it was tuned to what looked like the replay of a vintage baseball game.

  A medium-build Hispanic man appeared from behind the far end of one of the rigs. He wore a blue dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and held a long screwdriver. César Guevara. He made eye contact with Vail, then looked away in disgust. “Not you again.”

  Vail glanced sideways at Dixon. “Wonder why we always have that effect on people.”

  “More questions?” Guevara asked.

  Vail nudged Dixon with an elbow. “I told you he was smarter than he looked.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph of Robby, keeping it shielded from Guevara’s view until she was ready. She needed to watch his face carefully for the slightest of tells: a flicker, a sudden flutter of his eye, a squint, a hardening of his brow or a lift of his Adam’s apple.

  Vail flipped the photo over and handed it to him. “Know this guy or seen him around? Name’s Roberto Hernandez. Also goes by Robby.”

  There—a narrowing of his eyelids.

  “Should I?”

  Vail tilted her head and leaned forward. “I’m a federal agent and I asked a question. That usually means you give me an answer, not another question.”

  Guevara held his gaze on the photo a long moment, then lifted it closer to his face and studied it.

  “What is it?” Vail asked.

  “Obviously,” Guevara said, “he’s someone important to you. A witness?”

  “A friend and colleague. He’s gone missing. I figured you might know something about it. Do you?”

  He handed back the photo to Vail. “And why would that be?”

  Vail stepped forward. “See, there you go again. Answering my question with a question.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  Vail looked over at Dixon. “What we’re investigating is.”

  “Really,” Guevara said. “And what is it you’re investigating?”

  Dixon craned her neck around. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

  Guevara held Dixon’s gaze for a beat, then said, “In the front. Toward the office.” He cricked his head back over his right shoulder. Dixon walked off in that direction.

  “We’re investigating the disappearance of Roberto Hernandez,” Vail said. “I thought that’s obvious, since I told you he’s missing, I’m showing you his photo and asking if you’ve seen him.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t. Haven’t seen him and don’t know him.”

  Vail stepped closer. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Guevara asked. “That’s a shame.”

  In one motion, Vail reached for her Glock and cleared leather in record time. Stepped forward and slammed the muzzle not so gently against Guevara’s prominent forehead, driving him back into the fender of the adjacent rig.

  Guevara’s eyes bugged out—but he wasn’t afraid. Vail sensed anger, not fear.

  “Are you fucking out of your mind?”

  “You know what, Mr. Guevara? Yes, I am out of my mind. I’m goddamn pissed. My friend is missing and I think you had something to do with it.”

  “What does it take to get through to you? I told you, I didn’t know the guy.”

  Vail held the Glock in place. “We’ll see about that.”

  Guevara laughed. Mocking her. “I think you should remove your gun from my face, Agent Vail. I haven’t done nothing wrong. And you’ve got no proof I have, or we wouldn’t still be standing here. Would we?”

  Vail’s eyes narrowed. She felt her blood pounding in the arteries of her head. What am I doing? What can I possibly gain?

  “How did you know Ray Lugo?” she asked.

  Guevara’s eyes narrowed. “Past tense? Is Sergeant Lugo dead?”

  Vail cursed herself silently for being so careless. At present, until they knew who all the players were, it was best everyone thought that Lugo was still alive. “Answer my question. How well do you know him?”

  “What makes you think I know him?”

  Vail clenched her teeth and dug the Glock’s barrel into Guevara’s forehead. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m not in the mood!”

  “He’s a cop. First time I saw him was when you walked in here couple days ago.”

  “Bullshit.” Vail twisted her wrist, the Glock’s metal now digging into the skin and muscle of Guevara’s face. He winced and wriggled in pain. If she didn’t draw blood, he would have a substantial bruise there by this evening.

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I did. He said you two knew each other when you were kids, teens working on vineyards. He’s a good man. I believe him.”

  “Fine. Yeah, I think that’s right. I knew he looked familiar when he walked in. I couldn’t place the face.”

  “You’re such a piece of shit,” Vail said. “And you suck at lying.”

  “Did you know, Agent Vail, that I have security cameras hooked up all over this warehouse?”

  Vail had seen the cameras in the parking lot on her last visit, but she hadn’t noticed any inside. But it made sense. With so much invested in the rigs—and without the trucks there was no business—of course Superior would have instituted interior surveillance measures.

  She stood her ground. There was nothing she could do now, in the eyes of the law—or in those of her ASAC, Thomas Gifford—that would worsen her situation. Short of pulling the trigger.

  In a low voice, Vail said, “If I find that y
ou had anything to do with Robby Hernandez’s disappearance, I will find you. Where there aren’t any security cameras. And if any harm comes to Robby, harm will come to you.” She added pressure to her weapon. Guevara squinted away the pain. “You understand me?”

  “You got it all wrong, Agent Vail.” He locked eyes with her. “But I hear you. Loud and clear.”

  Vail splayed open her free hand, placed it against Guevara’s chest, and pushed herself away from him. She kept the Glock in her right hand, her index finger hovering over the trigger rather than in a safety position by the outside guard.

  “Everything okay in here?”

  It was Dixon, walking toward her from the other end of the warehouse, down the aisle between the trailers.

  Vail hadn’t taken her eyes off Guevara. “Remember what I said.”

  Dixon’s eyes seemed to find Vail’s Glock in her right hand, which she now held at her side.

  “Did I miss something?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Vail started to back away. ‘“Let’s go.”

  But Dixon stopped suddenly, her eyes pinned to the ceiling. Vail turned. No, not the ceiling—at the wall-mounted television, where a banner reading “Special Report” was scrolling across the bottom of the screen. An attractive female reporter was standing in front of the Sheriff’s Department, motioning animatedly into the camera.

  “Turn it up,” Dixon yelled at Guevara.

  He squinted anger, then reached for a shelf beneath the adjacent rig and lifted an elaborate remote. A green slider appeared onscreen and wiped across its surface, the volume rising proportionately.

  “ . . . refuses comment at this time. But KRSH-4 has learned that a man, who’s been identified as John Wayne Mayfield, has been arrested in the deaths of several Napa area residents. According to informed sources and witness accounts, KRSH has learned that Mayfield is a serial killer who’s been operating in and around the valley in recent weeks. Apparently, a number of individuals who have passed away under suspicious circumstances during the past several days may’ve actually been victims of John Wayne Mayfield. Attempts at obtaining verification have been unsuccessful, with the Napa County Coroner’s Office declining to confirm or deny whether or not the bodies of these victims are even in their morgue. The FBI is reportedly on the case as well, though they, too, have declined comment.