“So what are you saying?” Robby asked. “That this isn’t our offender?”
Vail shook her head. “I’m not saying that.”
“He could’ve been trying to make it look like you killed Fuller,” Dixon said.
“Why would he do that?”
“I’m not saying he did.” Dixon turned to Vail. “But how else would you explain what he did?”
Vail picked up the sterile urine specimen container Marcus had set aside. “If the UNSUB’s motive was merely to fuck with our heads, show us he’s in charge, then it doesn’t matter how he kills Fuller. He was taking a big risk by following us, by entering this vineyard. Even though it was pitch black out, either of us could’ve heard him. But the way a narcissist thinks, he figures he can do this stuff and there’s nothing we can do to stop him. Killing one of us is a big deal. The more shit he does like this, the more it starts to add up and it becomes more difficult for us to contain the fallout. I mean, he killed a cop—the sheriff’s stepson. If he knew the relationships, then his choice was purposeful.”
“He couldn’t lose,” Robby said. “The sheriff’s stepson, a sergeant, or an FBI agent. Either way, that’s big shit.”
Vail was about to respond when Stan Owens appeared behind them. Brix was trailing a few paces back. “Stan,” Brix called out. “Stan, think about this.”
Owens stopped a few feet from Vail—a bit further than normal conversation typically occurs. But Robby was at Vail’s left elbow, and Owens no doubt remembered his recent encounter with the large Vienna detective.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Sheriff.”
“That right?” Owens said. “I don’t know what happened here, but I will find out. I don’t care what it takes, but I’ll make sure you go down for this—”
“Stan,” Brix said. “Stan, you’re not seeing things objectively.”
Owens spun on him. “I’m not? Well, you tell me what happened here. Vail’s here, my son is here, she’s already shown contempt for him, with plenty of witnesses—”
“I show contempt for a lot of people,” Vail said. “When they deserve it. Doesn’t mean I meet them in a deserted vineyard at night and shoot them.”
Owens turned fully back to Vail and set his jaw. “If you did this, I will personally come after you and do to you what you did to Scott. Count on it.”
“Threatening a federal agent isn’t smart,” Vail said. “And it sure as hell isn’t productive. Whoever did this—and it’s likely our offender—is still out there.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? Some guy knocked me out and killed the other guy, then disappeared. They made a movie about that once.”
“The Fugitive,” Vail said. “Based on a real case. Dr. Sam Shepard was arrested and convicted for the murder of his wife.”
“They caught him and we’ll catch you, too.”
“Here’s the thing, Sheriff. Shepard was innocent. Someone really did knock him out and kill his wife.”
Owens frowned and was about to reply when Brix clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do.”
As he led Owens away, Vail turned to Robby and Dixon. “If this is our offender, we’ve gotta catch him. He’s getting bolder. And if we don’t do something to stop him, we may not have a choice.”
“Go public,” Dixon said.
Vail nodded. “Give him what he wants.”
TWENTY-SIX
Ninety minutes later, the task force was convened at the request of Redmond Brix. Vail had already given her statement to Brix about the shooting and met with an agent from the Bureau’s Santa Rosa Resident Agency to swap out her Glock. Her spent weapon—the one that might have been used to shoot Fuller—was placed in a chain-of-custody evidence bag. The agent provided Vail with an identical replacement.
Afterwards, in the ladies’ restroom, Vail and Dixon splashed their faces with cold water. Dixon pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped her face.
“You feel well enough to go in there?” Dixon asked.
“I’m not going to let you or anyone else try to defend me. I’ll stand up to anything anyone wants to throw at me.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
Vail leaned over the vanity, close to the mirror, and looked at her swollen temple. She gently blotted it with the wet towel. It was extremely tender to touch. “We need to look into Fuller’s background, who he knew, who his friends were. We need a search warrant for his place and any known places he might’ve stored things. If we can establish a link between him and the arson, we can close that case without bias.”
“Better if I ask for those things. I don’t know if your opinion—or requests—would carry much weight with the task force right now.”
“I agree.”
Dixon balled up her fist and crumpled the paper towel, then tossed it in the waste bin. “Let’s do it.”
Mann, Gordon, Dixon, Brix, Lugo, Nance, and Vail were seated around the conference table. Brix had scared up a sheriff’s department shirt and a pair of uniform pants for Vail to wear so her blood-smeared clothing—rather, Dixon’s blouse and pants—could be forensically tested. Given the late hour and circumstances, Robby was permitted to sit in on the meeting—which Brix promised would be brief and productive.
“You okay?” Lugo asked Vail, as he took his seat.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Ray. I have a feeling my friends in this town are dwindling in numbers.”
“I didn’t realize you had friends,” he said.
Vail wasn’t sure how to take that. Lugo was probably joking, but she was tired and hungry and still wasn’t completely back to herself—no doubt the drug she’d been given wasn’t entirely out of her system.
“All right,” Brix said. “I, for one, am going to miss Scott. Out of respect for him, the sheriff, and his family, we’re going to put everything we’ve got behind this. If Karen and Roxxann are right, this is the work of our UNSUB. I’m not so sure of that, but I don’t have a better explanation just yet.”
“I think,” Dixon said, “we should make every attempt to clear Scott’s name. Let’s look into his background, the people he knew, who his friends were. I’ll get a search warrant for his place and cell phone and financial records and any associated locations where he might’ve stored his stuff.”
“I’m not a cop,” Nance said, “but seems to me we’re investigating Scott instead of investigating who killed him.”
Vail had to fight to keep her eyes from closing. Now that she was sitting, her lids felt heavy. If she could just close them for a few minutes—
“We’ve got two issues here,” Brix said. “First is who torched the B&B and tried to roast Karen alive. Second is the Crush Killer, who may or may not have killed Scott.”
Dixon clicked her pen and scribbled a note on her pad. “If we can rule out an obvious link between him and the arson, we’d go a long way toward clearing his name.”
Nance spread his hands, palm up. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to find a link, not rule one out.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” Vail said. She felt like her speech was slow, possibly even slurred—but no one seemed to be reacting, so maybe it was in her mind. She pressed on. “We’re just trying to get at the truth. Wherever it leads”—she shrugged—“is where it leads. It’s our job at this point to collect evidence, not interpret it. Interpretation will come soon enough.”
“Hopefully,” Dixon said, “our digging will lead to someone else, in which case we clear Scott’s—Detective Fuller’s—name.”
Nance shook his head. “Witch hunt, that’s what it is. Twist it any way you want, that’s all it is.”
Dixon tossed down her pen. “Look, Mr. Nance. You’re here as a courtesy. As lead investigator, whether or not you’re allowed to remain is my call. But let’s get something straight. My generosity only goes so far. You need to understand that this is our investigation and we’re going to run it professionally and efficiently. We’re keeping you in the loop,
but you don’t have a say in what we do and how we do it. I’m not even sure why you care so much about how we handle Detective Fuller’s death investigation.”
“I care because Stan Owens is a friend of the congressman. I care because it’s the right thing to do.”
Dixon spread her hands. “Then let us do our jobs. We’ll figure out what’s going on. No one in this room is out to pin things on Detective Fuller or tarnish his reputation in any way.”
His eyes flicked over to Vail. “I’m not so sure about that.”
Vail heard Nance’s comment, but it wasn’t registering. She needed to go lie down. But first, she had to bring a matter to their attention. “There’s something else we should look into,” she said, keeping her eyes on the table in front of her. “Because of the way our victims are killed, we need to question those men in the area who have amputated upper limbs, who wear prostheses.”
All heads rotated toward Austin Mann, who did not react. His gaze remained firmly on Vail.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I’ve already had this discussion with Agent Mann. He’s alibied.” She glanced up and saw a mix of surprise and anger on the faces of her team members. Fuck it. I had to come clean. It had to be said. She brought a hand to the back of her neck and squeezed. “It’s a bit of a long shot, but if we’re being thorough, it shouldn’t be overlooked. We need someone to follow up on this. Compile a list. Limit it to those men living within a seventy-five mile radius. That’s a bit broad, but it’ll eliminate error. If the list is too long, shorten it to fifty miles. Eliminate anyone younger than twenty-five and older than forty.”
Brix cleared his throat. “I’ll see if I can get someone from the Special Investigations Bureau on this.”
Vail rose unsteadily from her chair. “I’m not feeling so great. I’m going to lie down for a few minutes, try to shake off this fog.”
“Shift Change Room’s right down the hall,” Brix said. “Flip the sign to ‘occupied’ and no one’ll bother you.”
“I’ll be back,” Vail said. “Hopefully soon.”
JOHN WAYNE MAYFIELD fingered the pay-as-you-go phone—one of three he owned, none to be used more than once—and thought about what he would type.
It had gone exceedingly well with Vail and Fuller. He had been behind the car that was following Vail, before he realized the driver of the other vehicle was Scott Fuller. That was when an alternative plan began to take shape. He had the drug and syringe in his toolkit. Though he had never used it, he lived by the Boy Scout principle: Be prepared.
And so he was. He backed off his pursuit but remained close. Having Vail and Fuller tangle and force one another’s collision facilitated his plan. In fact, it worked out better than he had sketched it out in his mind.
Fuller’s death was the type of devastating loss that would put them back on their heels, keep them on the defensive. He would’ve loved to hang around and see their reactions when Vail awoke and tried to explain what had happened, how Fuller ended up murdered while she . . . slept, taken out by an unseen assailant. He wondered if they believed her.
But he had better things to do with his time than stick around just to see how they handled Karen Vail. More stunning things, things that would have vastly greater impact. Because he was just getting started.
He looked down at the phone and typed out a text message.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vail’s trip to the Shift Change Room turned into a four-hour nap—still the result of the residual effects of the drugging. When she awoke, Dixon was standing over her with Dr. Brooke Abbott at her side.
A slice of light fell across her face. She squinted against the glare, then held up a hand to shield her eyes.
Vail blinked several times. “Roxxann.” She sat up on the bottom bunk, but a rush of dizziness struck her like a sharp wave on a small dingy. She stuck out an arm to grab onto something. Dixon grabbed Vail’s arm and caught her, held her steady. “Sorry. I guess whatever drug he used is still in my system.”
Abbott chuckled. “That drug is BetaSomnol. Based on the tox screen we did from that blood sample the medic drew from you, and doing a little guesswork—because we don’t know how long you were out before you called for help—it’s likely you were injected with fifteen milligrams. Enough to put down someone your size and weight for about twenty minutes. That’s a pretty hefty dosage. No wonder you’ve had lingering dizziness.”
“I’ve never heard of this. Beta—”
“BetaSomnol. It’s a super quick next-generation sedative, a mixture of a benzodiazepine—a drug like valium—and an antipsychotic.”
“Who would have access to it?”
“Not many people. It was developed for use in ERs and mental institutions, where they need fast-acting preparations to quickly put down a thrashing, violent patient. BetaSomnol is gradually replacing the traditional mixture of Haldol and Ativan, which are just too slow. And when someone’s doing his best to take out your eye, you want him down PDQ.”
“Is the tox screen you ran definitive?” Dixon asked.
“I’ve sent it out to a reference lab for a quantitative analysis. They’ll do a high-sensitivity screen for several hundred licit and illicit drugs, as well as alcohol. Once we get that back, we’ll have a definitive result. But that’ll take days, maybe weeks.”
Vail rubbed at her neck. “Any lasting effects of this BetaSomnol?”
“The drug metabolizes fairly quickly, so I wouldn’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.”
Dixon stifled a yawn, then consulted her watch. “So the obvious question would be, where did the drug come from?”
“BetaSomnol is a pretty new product, so there’s limited distribution.”
“Perfect,” Dixon said. “We should be able to find out fairly easily if any hospitals within a hundred miles reported a theft.”
“Of fifteen milligrams?” Abbott asked. “If you’ve got access to these drugs, you could easily siphon off a few milligrams here and there and no one’d be the wiser.”
Vail slowly swung her feet off the bed. “True—but you’re missing the point. Theoretically, someone who’d have access to the drug would have to work there, as an employee or contractor. More than that, these drugs are locked away. They’d likely have to hold a position that gives them access. Again, theoretically, that narrows our suspect pool.”
Abbott nodded. “I’ll get right on it. I’ll let you know what I find out.” She turned and pushed through the door.
Vail leveraged herself off the bed, squared her shoulders, and faced a small mirror that hung on the adjacent wall. She ran her hands through her hair, turned her face to the side, then shook her head. “I look like shit.”
“You had a car accident, went toe-to-toe with Scott Fuller, then got injected with an antipsychotic cocktail. Not to mention it’s four-thirty in the morning. How did you expect to look?”
“C’mon, you know none of that matters. We can rationalize all we want, but is it ever okay for us not to look good?”
“I was just trying to make you feel better.”
“Only thing that’ll make me feel better is a hot shower, a comfortable bed. And Robby’s body beside me.” They walked out of the Shift Change Room and headed down the hall. “Speaking of Robby, where is he?”
“He’s been working with Brix and Lugo.”
Vail felt a buzz on her belt. She dug out her BlackBerry and blew off the dirt that had no doubt come from rolling around in the vineyard. Looked at the text. And stopped in midstride. She felt dizzy again—only this time it was not from a next-gen drug. It was raw fear. “Oh my God,” she muttered.
Dixon stopped beside Vail and looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”
Think, Karen. Calm down. What do I do? How do I—stop. Breathe. Concentrate. She wiped at her eyes with two fingers. “Get Robby,” was all she said.
Dixon ran off. Vail dialed Jonathan. It went right to voicemail. “Fuck!” She hung up and scrolled to speed dial looking for Paul Bledsoe’
s number. But there were no speed dial entries. Damn it! Think. What’s the number? 703 . . . come on . . . She pressed her eyes shut and it came to her. Punched it in, hit Call.
Bledsoe, a friend and homicide detective with Fairfax County Police Department, answered on the third ring.
“Bledsoe, it’s Karen. I know it’s early—”
“Fuck, Karen, I was up half the night. I finally fell asleep sometime around three. What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty, your time.”
“Seven—what do you mean, ‘your time’? Where are—”
“California, working a case. I need your help.”
He moaned. “Today’s my day off. Call me back in a few hours—”
“No! Get your ass out of bed. He’s targeting Jonathan—”
“Jonathan? Who’s targeting—”
“Shut up and listen to me. Throw on your clothes and get ready to leave. I’ll call you back in thirty seconds and tell you where you’re going.” She disconnected the call.
Vail stood there staring at the text message, her pulse pounding in her head. Whoever you are, you goddamn fucking bastard—
“Karen!”
Robby came running down the hall.
She pointed at him as he approached. “Have someone look up the next flight out to DC.”
“DC? What’s wrong?”
“Jonathan.” She held up a hand. “Please, just do it.”
Robby pulled his phone and started dialing. Vail pushed Talk on her BlackBerry and waited while it rang. Bledsoe picked up.
“Bledsoe, I’m putting you on speaker. I’ve got Robby here, too, and Roxxann Dixon, an investigator I’m working with.” She pressed a button on her phone then held it out. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Bledsoe said, his voice filtered and tinny. “Now what the hell’s going on?”
“Start driving toward Jonathan’s school. Lincoln Intermediate, you know where it is?”
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