Vail locked eyes with Brix, waiting for him to disclose to the group his ownership interest. He met her stare and held it until she looked away. Then he said, “The guest lists are being cross-referenced by officers I’ve got working the case behind the scenes. So far, nothing unusual has shown up. Only a handful of locals, half of them women. The others are being looked at. They’ll be interviewed to see if they’ve got alibis for the time in question. I’ll let you know if we get anything interesting.”
Fuller said, “Population B, the excavated cave, is a problem. There’s a gate on the property, but anyone could realistically bypass it. But if we’re assuming it’s not leaky, you’re looking at a lot of potential people, from housecleaners to caterers, to gardeners, to maintenance people. All will be granted access without much resistance. I don’t think your access theory is going to get us anywhere.”
Vail entertained thoughts of responding, but before she could speak, Lugo said, “I met with Kevin Cameron. Karen and Roxxann joined me and we asked him all the standard questions. He didn’t know anyone who’d want to harm Victoria. There was something about a family disagreement going back forty years or so between the owners of Silver Ridge and the Montalvo family.”
“And we spoke with Frederick Montalvo,” Dixon said. “We delivered the news, and he was pretty broken up, as you’d imagine. Karen and I didn’t feel there’s much to this disagreement—”
“Hold on a second,” Mayor Prisco said. “The Montalvos and the owners of Silver Ridge have had a long-running feud and you don’t think it’s relevant?”
“We’re looking into everything,” Vail said. “But since we’re dealing with a serial killer, and since these types of things—bad blood between families—don’t fit with the psychopathy seen in the behaviors at the crime scene, it’s unlikely there’s a relationship. But as I said, we’re looking into it.” She again glanced at Brix.
Brix cleared his throat. “Just . . . have confidence that we know how to run an investigation. We’re good at this type of thing, Mayor.”
Prisco’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’m just concerned, is all.”
“We’re all concerned,” Owens said. “That’s why we’re taking this very seriously.”
“And it’s why I think we need to take the next step,” Vail said. “If we want to accelerate this investigation, we want to push this killer into the open. We want to play to his weaknesses.”
Zimbrowski pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What weaknesses?”
“He’s a narcissist,” Vail said.
Fuller sat forward. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“I think we do. At least from what we’ve seen, there’s a good chance that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“And how does this impact your investigation?” Prisco asked.
“Narcissists feel they’re superior to everyone else. They recognize that what they’re doing is wrong, but they just don’t care. And they want credit for what they’ve done. One such case you may be familiar with is the Zodiac Killer from nineteen—”
“Don’t even say it,” Zimbrowski said.
“That case is still unsolved,” Prisco said. “If you start talking like that around here, people will absolutely freak out—”
“I don’t want to hear those words again,” Nance said. “In this room or outside it.”
Vail looked around the room, waiting for someone to object. All the cops were looking down at the table or stimming with pens or the edge of their binders.
Finally, Vail said, “No disrespect, but I’m giving you advice on how to catch this killer. I can’t be swayed by your sensibilities about—whatever it is you’re worried about. Because this killer, if we can get him to communicate with us, will reveal information about himself we can use to catch him. And that’s vital, because right now, we’ve got shit. And that’s something to be worried about.”
There was quiet before the mayor asked, “How do we get him to communicate with us if we don’t know who he is?”
“We go public with this, we go on TV, the newspapers—”
“Are you out of your mind?” Fuller asked. “We’ll have widespread panic.”
Vail crossed her arms. “Sounds to me like you’ve read all of the Douglas and Ressler and Underwood books on profiling, Scott. You know what I’m saying is right.”
“I don’t know that. Those books don’t talk much about narcissism. Besides, you don’t know for sure this guy is a narcissist, so going public now is the wrong thing to do. Let’s get more evidence first, see more behaviors before we can determine if he’s really got Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”
Fuller, in throwing around medical terms, sounded authoritative and, judging by the way the suits were looking at him, had captured their attention. He also appeared to be saying what they wanted to hear.
“More behavior,” Vail said, “means more bodies. How long do you think you can keep this under wraps? And how upset are people going to be when they find out you knew you had a serial killer loose and you failed to warn them?”
“I challenge your theory of a serial killer,” Nance said.
Vail shook her head. “I’m not a politician, okay? I’m a cop. But I see what’s going on here. Understand this: I’m not worried about tourism levels or income to the state, or the federal government. I’m concerned with catching this guy before he kills again.”
“Thank you, Agent Vail,” Brix said. “And we appreciate your input. But this is our community, and we have to live with all the various interests and forces that govern our local economy. Putting out a public notice may save the life of one person, but it’ll have a profound effect on thousands of people’s lives. If not tens of thousands. A lot of family businesses depend on the wine-growing and wine-selling economy. Sales tax on purchases, bed-and-breakfast room taxes, income taxes from the booming trade of people just being in town: restaurants, gift shops, stores. We tip that scale the wrong way, we may never recover.”
Nance added, “There’s a lot of competition from wine regions all over the world now. Washington state, Argentina, Chile, France, Italy. Not to mention other areas in California. We don’t want to jump the gun and cripple the Napa Valley in a way it might not be able to recover from financially.”
“We need more to go on before we go public,” Prisco said.
“And we need to be sure that going public is the right thing,” Fuller said. “I mean, contacting this guy may be the wrong way to go. He could look at it as a challenge, and really go off the deep end. And go on a killing spree. You see what I’m thinking?”
A killing spree? What the hell is Fuller talking about?
“What I’m thinking is that a little knowledge is very dangerous,” Vail said. “You’ve asked me here to help. I hate to say it, but sooner or later you’re going to have to go public with this. It’s our best chance at catching this killer.”
“I want you to promise,” Nance said, “that you won’t act without seeking the proper permission from the sheriff, whose office is spear-heading this investigation and who personally bears ultimate responsibility for the disposition of the case and its impact on the community.” He looked over at Owens, who did not react one way or another. “Do I need to make myself clearer, or do you understand what I’m saying?”
Vail stifled a chuckle. “I’m not an imbecile, Mr. Nance. I understand what’s driving you and I know exactly where you’re coming from. As to promising you what I will or will not do, I’m not going to do any such thing. I’m part of this task force. I don’t work for you and I don’t work for Congressman Church. I work for the federal government. And for the victims, for the People. I’m sorry if that bothers you.” She rose from her chair and pushed it tight against the table. “No, check that. I’m not sorry at all.”
VAIL WALKED OUTSIDE and descended the first flight of stairs directly ahead of her. She turned and leaned against the metal railing and looked up at the thr
ee flags blowing hard in the wind. The sky was now deep blue, a few barely visible clouds dotting the expanse. She closed her eyes and let the gentle breeze slink through her red hair. This was supposed to be a vacation. What the hell was I thinking? All I can do is advise, I can’t make these people do the right thing.
She put her head back. The coolness of the evening’s arrival relaxed her, cleared her mind.
“You have a knack.”
Vail opened her eyes and spun around. Dixon was standing there. “A knack?”
“For pissing people off. I thought I was the only one.”
“Oh, no, I’ve perfected it.” Vail grinned, then let the smile fade. “I don’t do it on purpose. But I challenge people. I don’t hold back what I’m thinking. Good or bad, it’s who I am.” She took a deep breath and looked around. “I’m not trying to piss anyone off. This is something I know about and feel strongly about. I do have a knack, a kind of sixth sense, I guess. I don’t know how to describe it. I just understand these killers. It’s not like reading a textbook, like Fuller. I’ve seen it, I’ve been down in the trenches.”
“I hear you.”
“There’s a saying in my unit, one of our profilers started using it maybe a dozen years ago and it stuck: Knee deep in the blood and guts. That kind of describes what we do. After a while, you get dragged down in the muck, and you start to slog your way through it, and pretty soon you’re emotionally and physically stuck in it. And it affects you.” She stopped, thought a moment, then continued. “But more than that, you begin to see things you didn’t see before, have a better understanding of what you’re looking at when you see these behaviors. I’ve talked to these killers, I’ve sat a foot from their faces, I’ve asked them questions, I’ve made them cry. And in all those interviews, all these years, they add up to a deep understanding of who these ass-holes are. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but being inside their heads affected me.”
Vail pushed away from the railing, then checked her watch. She didn’t realize how late it was; Robby would be arriving in a few minutes. “Can you drop me at my B&B?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Mountain Crest, in St. Helena.”
Dixon looked back over her shoulder at the sheriff’s department building, as Fuller, Lugo, and Brix were walking through the door. The meeting had ended.
Dixon turned back. “Sure, let’s go. I live out that way anyway.”
JOHN WAYNE MAYFIELD waited until the two women got into their car. He was now sure they were cops—detectives, actually, because they weren’t in uniform. But they had the look, he decided. Other men in suits left the building, too. He wasn’t sure if they were with the women, but the fact that they were leaving, and not entering, made the task ahead easier.
He got out of his vehicle and walked up the two flights of stairs to the entrance. He had nothing to fear; he’d been in this building many times before and would not be out of place. But he’d never been here to do what he was about to do. And that made him nervous.
But he was good at handling himself and defusing potentially hazardous situations. He knew what to say if someone stopped him. But they’ve got no reason to stop me.
Mayfield pushed through the door and moved down the hall, nodded at the legal clerk behind the glass, then swiped his prox card and walked through the door. He surveyed the nearby rooms on either side of him. He needed to look confident, like he was supposed to be here and not snooping or doing anything nefarious or suspicious. So he opened the first door he came to on the left and stepped in. Looked around. Nothing of interest.
Moved back out into the hall and tried the next door. He knew one of these rooms had to be where the cops met, where they kept their case files and notes. Over the years, he had read about the Major Crimes task force that convened to track fleeing felons, bank robbers, kidnappers, and the like. He figured this task force had already met to discuss him. Maybe that’s what those women were doing. And those men.
But this building was a maze of the worst kind: The hallways and doors all looked alike, save for the teal and white placards mounted outside each door. As he continued to wander the hallway, he read the little signs looking for some kind of task force notation . . . or a large meeting room of some sort.
As he made his way around yet another bend, he was beginning to doubt he would find what he was looking for. And the longer he was here, the more likely he’d run into trouble. But he was sure he had blown them away with the wine cave murder. He left it for everyone to see. They had to be working his case. They had to be. He was surprised there was nothing in the newspaper. Not even a death notice.
He paused beside another door, whose teal placard read, Conference Room # 3. Mayfield pushed through and walked in. The motion sensors fired and turned on the lights. This was it, the base of operations. A whiteboard with a grid. Names, what looked like tasks and assignments. Oh, yes. Very good. He fished around his deep pocket for the digital camera. He aimed and depressed the shutter. Once, twice, three times.
This was too much—it was all about him! Of course it was.
Then something caught his eye. The word “Vallejo.” So they knew about Vallejo and Detective Edward Agbayani. Well, that was impressive.
He looked over the names on the whiteboard. Brix and Lugo: no introduction necessary. Dixon, Vail, Fuller—he needed to look those up.
Mayfield walked around the room, realizing he’d already gotten most of the info he needed. Best to get out of there. While he could explain away his presence, why take the risk?
As he turned to leave, he saw a laptop beside scattered papers lying on the conference table. He grabbed a sheet off the top and glanced at it. Names and phone numbers. Neatly typed into a grid, hole-punched for binders.
Very good.
He folded the paper into his pocket and walked out. Moved down the hall to find a computer he could use. The laptop in the conference room would have sufficed, but if any of the task force members walked in on him, that would be a lot more difficult to explain than if he was discovered in front of a PC somewhere else, in an unoccupied office.
But it was late in the day, and most of the clerical staff had clocked out. He wasn’t looking to hack into anyone’s terminal . . . just a computer with Internet access he could safely use that wouldn’t leave behind search results traceable to him. He turned the corner into a large, cubicle-filled room. The dividers were tall, nearly ceiling height, and he couldn’t see over them. He walked around, turned the corner, and entered the main aisle that cut through and past all the desks. He kept his head forward, not wanting to look suspicious. But the area was largely deserted, except for a black-haired head thirty feet away.
He slid into the cubicle and faced the monitor. Turned it on, hit the spacebar, and the screen lit up. It looked like a plain vanilla Windows desktop. No password screen, so it was likely a standalone computer, not connected to the county network. Exactly what he needed.
He opened Internet Explorer, and in the Live Search field, typed “Roxxann Dixon Napa California.” Got several hits, including one that contained a photo of her and a brief bio of her position with the district attorney’s office. It said she served on the Major Crimes Task Force. Bingo. This is the blonde I saw.
Next he typed in “Karen Vail Napa California.” No relevant hits. Narrowed the search to “Karen Vail.” And got references to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Clicked on one: “FBI Profiler Karen Vail, fresh off the case of the Dead Eyes killer, the notorious serial killer who terrorized women in the Virginia area . . .”
Mayfield slid back his chair. “Whoa.” He said it aloud then quickly snapped his flapping lips shut. FBI. A profiler. They are taking this seriously. I must’ve scared the shit out of them. That’s why they haven’t told the media. They’re afraid they don’t know what they’re dealing with.
His eyes were drawn again to the words “FBI Profiler.” A federal case. As it should be. John Wayne Mayfield deserves nationwide coverag
e. But there’s no fun in spoon feeding them the story. They have to realize themselves what they have here. Once enough pressure’s applied, it’ll reach a point where they can’t contain it anymore. Then the newspapers and TV would find out. Everyone would know. It would blow up into a huge story.
A broad smile spread Mayfield’s lips.
He looked back at the screen, fingered the mouse. Time to turn up the heat. And he had just the thing to get their attention. Something that would drive them nuts.
NINETEEN
V ail and Dixon pulled into Mountain Crest’s small gravel lot beside Robby’s Murano. His brake lights were still glowing.
Vail had the door open before Dixon brought the Ford to a stop. “Hey, come out for a sec. I want you to meet someone.”
Vail jumped out of the car and into Robby’s arms. He gave her a big embrace, then seemed to notice Dixon standing there and released his grip.
“Oh—this is Roxxann Dixon,” Vail said. “We’re working together on the task force.”
Robby straightened up, then reached out to shake. “Robby Hernandez.”
“Good to meet you.”
“So . . .” Robby said. “How was your day?”
Vail and Dixon shared a look before Dixon said, “Let’s just say it was . . . productive and leave it at that.”
“Uh huh.” Robby squinted and shifted his gaze from Dixon to Vail, then decided to heed Dixon’s advice.
Dixon backed away. “You two have a great evening. Pick you up tomorrow? Eight-thirty?”
“Sure,” Vail said. “See you in the morning.”
Dixon got in her car and drove off.
Vail tilted her head at Robby the way a mother looks at a son expecting an explanation.
“What?”
“You found her attractive,” she said. “I can tell.”
“Well, yeah. She is. Is that up for debate?”
Vail slapped him in the arm. “Wrong answer.”
“I’m just saying. It is what it is. I didn’t say I was attracted to her. I said she was attractive.”
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