Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(27)

“Name’s Hector DeSantos. I met him on another case a couple years ago; this guy’s involved with a bunch of people who’ve got access to information no one else has. I think he’s some kind of spook. But if there’s info tucked away somewhere in a police or hospital database that can give us a clue as to Robby’s whereabouts, DeSantos will be able to find it.”

“Awfully nice of him to help us out.”

“I haven’t asked him yet,” Bledsoe said. “But he owes me, and if he’s stateside, I think we’re good. I’ll see if I can set something up for when you get back.”

“I’m on a flight tonight—actually, I guess it’s tomorrow morning. Anything changes, I’ll let you know. And Bledsoe . . . thanks again. For everything.” She hung up and rejoined the group.

Brix said, “Wireless carrier had the same Soscol address. They emailed his bills, which were paid by direct debit to his credit card. NSIB’s now trying to get the address from the credit card company.”

“Without a warrant?” Gordon asked.

A forensic technician handed Brix a bag containing the handcuffs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Brix said. “Be surprised what customer service reps will tell you.”

“It’s not against the law to ask for information,” Dixon said. “It’s not even illegal to lie about who you are—as long as you don’t say you’re James Cannon.”

“We’ll see what we can get,” Brix said.

Dixon took Vail’s elbow and led her toward the street. “That call. Good news or bad?”

“My friend, Bledsoe. He wants me to meet with someone back home who might be able to dig up info on Robby.”

Dixon unlocked her car doors with the remote. “Take any help we can get.”

“Where we headed?” Vail asked.

“Mayfield’s place. That’s one warrant we didn’t have a problem getting.”





17


Vail and Dixon arrived at John Mayfield’s house, a small Victorian-style two-story with a compact footprint on a postage stamp lot. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and the shingle siding seemed to be the recipient of a recent coat of brick red paint.

Parked out front, neighborhood cars. A large hockey net with a noticeable rip in the polyester mesh, shoved up against the curb.

Vail and Dixon were the first to arrive. They walked up to the front door, tried the knob, and found it locked. “Kick it, pick it, or call for a battering ram,” Vail said.

Dixon slid sideways and slammed her left foot against the jamb, just below the lock. It burst open with a splintering pop. “Much more satisfying that way.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

They moved inside the quiet house. Whenever Vail entered an offender’s residence, a strange feeling washed over her. All the evil this killer conjured was conceived here. Like the behaviors the killer left at his crime scenes, his home was a diary of sorts: unedited, the raw idiosyncrasies and habits of human nature lay bare before her. The way he folds his towels, his laundry, his clothing. Are his shirts on hangers in closets? Neatly arranged on shelves? Are there dishes in the sink? Does he hoard newspapers, magazines, odd trinkets?

Everything she saw before her was like words in a novel; each room a chapter. Overall, that book told an important story about this offender. Who he was, at the core of his daily existence, unfiltered. Because he never expected to get caught, he had no reason to hide who he was.

And Vail was not disappointed. She had anticipated a neat, orderly living environment. Possessions well cared for. Trophies and framed certificates of his accomplishments. And nothing to suggest anyone else was responsible for, or had contributed to, his achievements.

After walking through the living room—dominated by an intricately carved walnut table with matching formal chairs—she moved into the hall and then the family room.

Dixon called out to her from the den. On a couch in the corner was a box containing an unopened pay-as-you-go phone. “No surprise there. I’m sure the one he’d been using is here somewhere, if he didn’t already dump it before we grabbed him up.”

“Even better,” Vail said, heading toward a desk along the far wall. “His PC.”

Dixon joined her by the window, which looked out at the mountains.

“Does the Sheriff’s Department have a cyber crime division that can go through the hard drive?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if it’s as good as what you’ve got at the Bureau. You want to wait, or do you want to see if there’s anything on here about Robby?”

All questions should be that easy. Vail turned on the monitor and flicked the keyboard. The computer fan whirled to life and the screen read, “Windows is resuming.” She looked over at Dixon. “It was on standby.”

“How’d you know?”

“Narcissists tend to leave their computers asleep so they can get right to work when inspiration stirs them.”

Dixon squinted. “Really?”

“No,” Vail said. “I just made that up.”

Dixon suppressed a smile, then nodded at the desktop, which had loaded.

“But narcissists think they’re immune to the consequences of their own actions, functioning on almost a delusional sense of omnipotence.”