Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (10 page)

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 fil out and regulations to fol ow.” He leaned back a bit and looked at Vail. “No offense.” Wirth bit into his tortil a.

“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 Val ey Vintners, the federal application part is mandatory.”

Wirth grinned. “That’d be correct. And because of that, they’l 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 official y 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 cal ed back, got someone different, and received a total y different answer. A col eague 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 Val ey 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’l give you a cal . Thanks for lunch. Mind if we run?

We’re up against a deadline here.”

“Not at al .” 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

H
e 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 kil s, 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 fol owed it over the Napa River, then approached the traffic light and hung a quick turn onto Soscol Avenue, barely beating the yel ow.

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. Al he had done wrong, in the eyes of the law, was run a red light. Marginal y, at that.

He turned right into the adjacent parking lot and brought the old Mercedes diesel to a stop. The cruiser pul ed 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 stil 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 final y—final y—got out of his car and headed toward his window. He rol ed 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 yel ow 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 yel ow lights. Yel ow 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. Wil do, sir.”

He sat back and waited while the officer completed the ticket. Wiped a col ection 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 cal ed in. That was a problem. Not to mention his unwil ing 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’l short out.”

“I’l get right on it.”

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

He faked a hearty laugh. Too hearty? “Just hot, is al . 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

F
or 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 pul ed 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 mil ed about. A news van sat skewed at the end of Brown Street, where it intersected with Third: at the Hal 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 il uminated 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.

“Can someone shut that fountain down?” Dixon asked.

Brix pushed his way toward her. “Working on it. Cal ed Public Works. They’re en route.”

Vail stepped closer, to within a couple feet of Matt Aaron. “Was she—is her trachea crushed?”

“Haven’t gotten to that yet, but my money’s on it.”

“I’m not interested in betting,” Vail said. “Just give me goddamn answers.”

Aaron hardened his jaw, then said, “There’s bruising over the trachea. It
looks
like it’s been crushed. But until I can get my hands on her, I can’t real y answer your question.” He pointed at the body. “That said, the toenail’s missing. Right second toe. And her wrist has a transverse gash.”

Emerging from the far end of the quad was Austin Mann and Burt Gordon. And a haggard Sheriff Stan Owens. Brix motioned them to an area near the twin flagpoles, a few feet from the jail building’s facade. Owens remained at Aaron’s side—something the forensic technician probably wasn’t too pleased with, but would no doubt keep to himself.

The remainder of the task force gathered between the flag poles and stood there staring at one another until Brix spoke up. “Okay, what the fuck are we dealing with here?” He looked at Vail. “Karen—did we or did we not arrest the Crush Kil er?”

Vail brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear. “John Mayfield’s the Crush Kil er.

We didn’t release any details of the murders to the press, so the only people who know what Mayfield did with the bodies would be Mayfield himself—which isn’t possible because of the timing—or he had a partner. That wasn’t evident at any of the crime scenes, so if I had to guess—and that’s what I’m doing here—he was mentoring someone, teaching him how to kil . Someone with a similar personality.

Narcissistic.”

“James Cannon,” Brix said. “Mayfield’s bodybuilding buddy.”

“That’d be the first place I’d look.”

“Cannon’s out of town,” Dixon said.

“Says who? Cannon?” Vail turned to the others. “I cal ed him a little while ago and left a voice mail, told him I was sorry for turning him away, that I wanted to grab lunch or dinner with him. He texted back and said he’d love to, but he’s out of town.”

“Which could be bul shit,” Brix said.

Vail kicked at a dead branch by her feet. “If he’s our guy, yeah, it’d be bul shit.”

Gordon shifted his thick legs. “Do you think your cal tipped him off?”

“Anything’s possible,” Vail said. “But if he’s a narcissist, he probably wouldn’t permit himself to think we’re on to him so soon. He thinks he’s smarter than us, and my message was a little suggestive of some sexual rendezvous, which would play right into his mind-set. I think we’re okay.” She thought a moment, then added: “If this body is fresh—and it looks like she is—then clearly, he’s comfortable kil ing.

And he’s comfortable bringing the body to a public place.”

“What do we know about the vic?” Austin Mann asked.

“Not a whole lot,” Brix said. “We didn’t want to disturb the scene til we got that water shut.” Thirty feet away, as if on cue, the fountain stopped bubbling. Heads turned. Aaron moved toward the woman’s body.

“We should have a few answers soon,” Burt Gordon said.

“Why here?” Brix asked. “Why did he dump the body here?”

“He didn’t just dump the body,” Vail said. “He posed her. And he placed her facing the street. Posing is a very different behavior. The Crush Kil er left his victims out in the open where they’d be found, for sure. But this woman wasn’t just left in public. She was placed at the Hal of Justice, right in the front, posed. For al to see. You can’t get much more insulting to law enforcement, much more ‘in your face’ than leaving her right on our doorstep. He’s sending a message.”