“You two broke up?”
Vail waved a hand. “No, nothing like that. We had a great time in Napa.” Of the time we had together. Before he vanished. She rose from the bed and swept a hand across his cheek.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up with that cop who’s following me around? It’s annoying.”
“Just a precaution, sweetie. I don’t want my work spilling over into my personal life.” Now there’s a novel idea. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.” She pointed at his Xbox. “Get back to your game. I’m going to go unpack.” Jonathan slipped on his headphones and Vail walked out.
36
Care to tell me what really happened in California?”
Vail let go of Jonathan’s doorknob and turned to see Faye standing in the hallway, hands on her hips.
She was tired and mentally drained. Now was not the best time. Still, she owed Faye some explanation. And she needed to ask her for a favor.
Vail walked back toward the living room and they sat down next to each other on the couch. Not two months ago, she and Robby were making out on this sofa, headed toward a promising future, despite a brief interruption by the Dead Eyes killer.
“How was your visit with Jonathan?”
Faye’s face brightened and broadened into a grin. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I rather enjoyed it. We had some good talks. About his father. He had some unanswered questions.”
Vail sighed. She had talked with Jonathan about what happened between her and Deacon but held back some of the details. She wasn’t sure what the raw truth would do to a young teen and his place in the world. Then again, it was no secret to Jonathan that his father had turned into an abusive deadbeat. And Vail explained to her son that Deacon was a different person when she had met and married him. It was a good lesson as to the depths one can sink when a perfect storm of mental imbalance, medication indifference, and the spiral of depression conspire to bring down a person to the nadir of human suffering.
“How’d he take the answers?” Faye had a background in counseling, so Vail was not surprised that she had broached the topic with her nephew.
“Very maturely, I thought. He had a healthy perspective. I think he’ll be fine. So—your trip.”
“It started out wonderful and I stuck my nose where it shouldn’t have been. I got involved in a case. And because of that . . . ” She looked down at the coffee table. The short, squat bottle of V. Sattui Madeira she had shared with Robby was still there, a memory of their night together. A reminder of the start of a meaningful relationship. If she thought there was a chance it would hold Sebastian’s fingerprints, she would’ve driven it directly to the lab.
“And because of that,” Faye prompted.
“Because of that . . . Robby went missing a few days ago.” She brought her eyes up to Faye’s. Her aunt’s mouth was open.
“What do you mean, ‘went missing’?”
Vail got a couple glasses from the adjacent kitchen, poured some Madeira, and told Faye the whole story, beginning with their arrival in Napa. Soon the alcohol was flooding her bloodstream, making her head and arms feel like dumbbells.
“Do you think Detective Bledsoe’s friend will be able to help?”
It was a question Vail had asked herself on the drive home from Clyde’s. “I sure as hell hope so.” She set her glass down on the table. “Aunt Faye, I have a favor to ask. And a proposition.”
Faye leaned forward, apparently sensing the weight of Vail’s request.
“Because of the nature of the investigation into Robby’s . . . disposition, it may be necessary for me to come and go. Where, I don’t know. But it could also entail long hours away from home.” She put two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Point is, I have no idea what’s coming around the bend.”
“You need me to stay,” Faye said. Her demeanor was flat, neither excited by the idea nor turned off by it.
“And that brings me to my proposition,” Vail said. “The room in the back. It’s got a separate entrance, its own bathroom. There’s even a plug for a mini fridge.”
“Move here, move in with you.”
“You’d be closer to me and Jonathan, and to Mom.” Vail’s mother, Emma, had Alzheimer’s, and Vail had moved Emma from her childhood home in Westbury, New York, to an assisted care facility in Virginia.
“First things first,” Faye said in a measured response. “Of course I’ll stay for as long as you need me to. As to a longer-term arrangement, let me think about it. I don’t have much keeping me in New York, but I just need to sit with the thought for a while. Okay?”
“Take as much time as you need.” Vail barely got out the words before a yawn overtook her and flooded her eyes with fluid. “I’ve gotta get to bed. I haven’t slept worth anything in days.”
“Don’t worry about anything here, Kari. You just work on finding out what happened to Robby. I’ll handle the rest.”
Vail said good night to Jonathan, walked into her bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress.
37
Following their dinner at Bistro Jeanty, Robby ordered dessert to go, and when they arrived at their bed-and-breakfast room, he made her wait outside. When she protested, he smiled. “You said you trusted me.”
She tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. “I do.”
Inside, a room full of candles. And a night of passionate lovemaking . . .
Vail awoke from her dream curled into a tight ball. Her shirt was soaked, her hair matted to her face. Only this was not a nightmare—it was a memory. A memory of their last night together. The next morning, when she gave him a kiss on her way out, would be the last she would see of him.
Vail sat up in bed, wiped away the tears, and steeled herself. It was time to go to work.
VAIL WALKED INTO the behavioral analysis unit and found it a flurry of activity. Despite Thomas Gifford’s claim that most of the profilers were out on leave, on assignment, or engrossed in vital projects, there was plenty going on.
Vail entered her office and sat down heavily. A stack of files on the corner of her desk was exactly as she had left it when she departed for California. A pile of messages was skewered on a pin to the right. She pulled them off, flipped through them, determined that none were time sensitive, and put them back on their holder. Except one: a reminder of her forthcoming counseling appointment with Dr. Leonard Rudnick.
She turned on her PC and watched as Windows booted up. While she sat there, she began to acknowledge the feeling she’d been fighting for days: that Robby had been murdered. The blood on the carpet in the B&B bothered her. If tests showed it was Robby’s, it would increase the odds of a violent confrontation that Robby likely did not survive.
Though it was a fair amount of blood, it was not of sufficient volume to indicate a body had bled out in that spot. But if he’d been shot or stabbed—certainly possible. Then again, he could’ve been moved—he wasn’t left there, so how soon after whatever violence befell him was he taken away? Or was that not his blood at all?
Vail opened Outlook and scanned through her mail. There was a message from Dixon, which came through yesterday around the time Vail was climbing into bed. As if Vail had sensed it, Dixon was writing her about a follow-up note regarding the blood on the carpet. She had spoken with the owner of the B&B, who said she knew about it, and claimed it was from a suicide attempt two or three years ago.
But the woman couldn’t be absolutely sure it was the same room, and she thought it was on the other side of the bed—but whichever room it involved was cleaned with some sort of organic enzyme. They had thought of hiring a company that did crime scene cleanup, but it was costly and the chemical worked well enough that they did not need to replace the carpet. And the spouse, who had found her, did not want a police report filed, so the owner agreed to keep it quiet—which certainly was in the B&B’s best interest, as well.
Vail replied, thanking Dixon and telling her she’d met with DeSantos and had no sense of whether or not it was g
oing to bear fruit. As she hit Send, there was a knock on her open door. She swiveled her chair around and saw the stoic Art Rooney. She smiled and leaped from her chair, almost running toward him. She gave him a firm hug and told him she was glad to see him.
“Yeah, I got that from the greeting. Good to see you, too. Back home in one piece. Sometimes I’m concerned about you, Karen.”
“If I had any sense, I’d be concerned, too.”
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“For you? Always.” She took her seat behind the desk and Rooney took the lone guest chair.
“I wanted to touch base with you on the Crush Killer. Gifford said you guys found him?”
Vail leaned back. “Yeah, he won’t be plying his trade anymore. Ray Lugo shot him while I was questioning him, and he’s now in a medically induced coma.”
“What the hell was Lugo’s problem?”
Vail told him. She described her interview with Mayfield, the shooting, meeting with Merilynn Lugo, the DVD, the Guevara connection and her less than legal foray into his residence, the discovery of the new victim, and the apprehension of James Cannon. And then she told him about Robby.
Rooney sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. His gaze roamed the small office as he worked through the particulars of the case. “So we’re settled that Mayfield was a narcissist. And it sounds like Cannon was, to some extent, too—but his is an entirely different story. He was just learning to kill. Mayfield was his mentor. However it happened, they crossed paths and realized they had common inclinations. Mayfield took him under his wing and Cannon followed along, observing, learning. Then it was his turn to try his hand at the trade.”
“That’s probably why we caught him so quickly,” Vail said. “He wasn’t sophisticated as a killer. He rushed into it, had not planned his cover. He killed in the same community in which he lived—and not so anonymously. Even after crossing paths with a cop and an FBI agent, and making a pass at one of them, he still thought it was safe to kill.”
“Remember, these killers don’t think they’re leaving behind markers for us to follow. We pick up on things they aren’t even aware of.”
“Yeah, thank god for all that. Makes our job possible.”
“So that brings us to Detective Hernandez.” His eyes roamed the room again. “There would normally be no logical reason to conclude there was a relationship of any kind to John Mayfield or James Cannon. Far as we know, they hadn’t seen you with him. There’d be no reason why he’d have contact with either of them, no clear connection. So on the surface, I’d say you don’t have to worry about Mayfield’s comment about there ‘being more to this than you know’—at least as it relates to Detective Hernandez. Maybe he was talking about Cannon’s coming murders.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” She tapped her foot while she processed it.
Rooney pushed his chair back and rocked on the rear legs. “That brings us to the next question: what happened to him? Let’s approach this as a typical missing persons case. A ton of people go missing each year. The possibilities include someone who disappears because of a criminal act he’s committed and he drops under the radar. Another is because he’s witnessed a criminal act and is afraid for his life. Or the most common, he’s having an affair or escaping a failed relationship, and this is a less confrontational way out for him.” He let the chair fall forward with a thump, then rested his forearms on his knees. “How are you handling it?”
“I haven’t totally lost it. But I’ve come close.”
Rooney nodded slowly. “If it was me, Karen, until I saw a dead body, I’d treat it as if he’s alive; I’d need that in order to function.”
“I now know what a victim goes through when her child is taken, presumed dead . . . but the body isn’t found.”
“Contrary to media myths, finding a body doesn’t bring closure. It helps a little, I guess, but the pain never goes away.” He waved at the air, as if dispersing smoke. “That’s not what we’re dealing with here. We’ll find answers—and we’ll find Detective Hernandez.”
“Thanks, Art.”
“I’ve got this thing the president needs me to deal with. Looks like I’m shipping off to Iraq in the morning, but I’ll be in touch. You need something, call. If I go, I’ll have a phone of some sort. Gifford will have the number.”
“What number will I have?”
Gifford was standing in the doorway, a stealth entrance—as was his style.
“My winning lottery ticket,” Vail said.
Gifford stared at her. “It’s so nice having you back, Karen. I missed the sarcasm and dry humor. Then again, I’ve missed my hemorrhoids, too, so that puts you in the same class. Now—we had a 9:00 AM appointment, did we not?”
Rooney rose from his chair. “César Guevara. He could be the key. I’ll give Austin Mann a call, touch base.” He gave Vail a wink, then walked out. “You hang in there, you hear?”
“Loud and clear,” Vail said. But that’s one of those things easier said than done.
38
Thomas Gifford led the way to his office. Lenka, seated behind her desk, nodded to Vail as she passed.
Gifford sunk into his black leather chair, which sat in front of a large picture window on the building’s second floor. He rolled the seat to the edge of his desk, grabbed a pair of metal-framed reading glasses, and stuck them on his nose. “This is your new case.” He reached for a file folder, then flipped it open. “Vic is a twenty-eight-year-old player for the PFL, the Pro Football League. It’s a start-up positioned to compete with the NFL. Vic’s name was Rayshawn Shines. Played for the Redskins for five years before being cut and hooking up with the PFL.” He stopped and removed his glasses. “Karen, you listening to me?”
Vail had to shake her head to dislodge the fugue into which she’d descended once Gifford began talking. “Yeah, of course. No. I’m—my mind’s on Robby.”
“Karen, I’m now talking to you as ASAC of the behavioral analysis units—”
“Since we don’t socialize, sir, have you ever spoken to me as anyone else?”
Gifford ignored her jab. “Get your shit together. You have a new case here. I need you to focus. I need a productive profiler, not dead weight.”
Dead weight? That hurts. “You have a way with words, sir.” She may’ve understood, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She rose from her chair. “Who’s the dick on the case?”
“He said he was going to touch base with you about it. Paul Bledsoe.”
“Bledsoe? He didn’t say anything—” But she immediately realized her mind hadn’t been tuned to matters other than Robby’s case. “I’ll get with him right now.” She turned and headed for the door.
“One other thing.”
Vail stopped and turned.
“Your appointment with Dr. Rudnick. I expect you to keep it.”
Vail twisted her mouth. “As if I don’t have more important things to deal—”
“Look,” he said, rising from his chair. “Your mental health is the responsibility of your unit chief and he and I have been concerned about all you’ve been through the past couple months. Dead Eyes, then the shooting at the White House, all that shit that happened to you in Napa—”
“No need for the recap. I know what my life’s been like. I’ve lived it.”
“Fine. Then look at this objectively. You may not be able to admit it to my face, but you know I’m right. Keep that appointment. That’s an order.”
“Yes sir,” Vail said with a mock salute. She pulled open the door and left.
39
Vail called Bledsoe on the way back to her office and arranged to meet at the crime scene, John F. Kennedy Stadium, in thirty minutes.
Vail parked in the player’s lot and badged the security guard, who told her he was expecting her. She was to meet Detective Bledsoe in the fitness facility, adjacent to the clubhouse.
The hallways were freshly painted and new industrial carpet had been laid recently, judging
by the chemical smells that teased her nose. Vail pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped inside. An array of physical fitness equipment stared back at her, rivaling only the volume and selection of that found at Seattle’s University of Washington facility, which she had visited once on a case. The FBI Academy’s conditioning machines were impressive, but this was like an ocean compared to a lake.
“Karen. Over here.” Bledsoe’s deep voice from somewhere off in the distance was swallowed by the large room. The rows of equipment, combined with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and awkward acoustics, made locating him a challenge.
“You didn’t tell me we had a case together,” she said.
“I started to last night, in the car. You weren’t in the mood, so I left it alone.”
“I’m still not in the mood. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She nodded at the bloodstained carpet, where white tape delineated the position and location of the corpse. “What’s the deal here?”
“Rayshawn Shines, offensive lineman for the D.C. Generals of the Pro Football League. One of their stars. Found right there, garroted. Stabbed multiple times postmortem. No defensive wounds.”
Vail stood over the bloody stain, as if looking at it would help her visualize the body as it lay the moment it had been found. It didn’t.
“So why am I here? It’s a homicide.”
“His penis and balls were cut off.”
Okay, that changes things. “So we’ve got a sexual homicide of a large male. How large?”
“Six-five, three hundred. They don’t screen for drugs in this new league like they do in the NFL. Steroid and PED use is rampant. League’s built on the concept of a narrower field, stronger armed quarterbacks, faster wide receivers. No huddles and more touchdowns.”
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