Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(24)

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 called in. That was a problem. Not to mention his unwilling 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’ll short out.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

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

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


For 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 pulled 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 milled about. A news van sat skewed at the end of Brown Street, where it intersected with Third: at the Hall 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 illuminated 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. Called 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 really 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 Killer?”