Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(33)

She swung the car around, floored the pedal, and drove past the winery building, which flew by on her right. And then, as she surmised, in the distance, a plume of smoke billowing behind him, was James Cannon and his ATV.

Vail climbed out of the car and started on foot after Cannon. It was hopeless, really. She knew that. But to just stand there and watch as the killer who had posed the woman in front of the Hall of Justice got away was more than she could stomach at the moment. Cannon’s mind game of leaving the vic on law enforcement’s doorstep had worked: Vail’s anger was close to boiling over into a red zone of danger.

She tore the Glock from her holster and headed into the vineyard.





23


Vail ran down an aisle, knowing the risks to her knee. Knowing it was something she had to do.

Behind her somewhere, Dixon and Brix were shouting.

She wasn’t about to turn around—or stop. Now in the same vineyard row as Cannon, all she could see was the brown plume of smoke. She smelled the acrid gasoline fumes and tasted the dirt on her tongue. Her sweat-soaked face was coated with a fine film of soil.

Trying to keep the dust from infiltrating her lungs—already irritated from the fire a few days ago—she brought her left arm to her mouth and buried her nose and lips in the crook of her elbow.

And as James Cannon continued increasing the distance between them, the sheer futility of her efforts hit her full on. She slowed to a jog, then stopped, bent over at the waist, hands on her knees.

She looked up to see the cloud of brown dirt hooking into the dense blind of trees to her right. Just as she had suspected.

Vail straightened up, her eyes tracking Cannon’s visible trail as she felt with her fingers to insert the Glock into its holster.

A moment later, she was joined by Dixon and Brix. She pointed toward the plume, somewhere in the distance, a location that was now only accurate in her imagination. She had no idea where James Cannon had gone. She just knew he wasn’t lying at her feet, handcuffs encircling his wrists.

“Totally sucks,” Dixon said.

“Saw it coming. Nothing I could do.”

Brix stepped forward and peered out over the vines, into the forested land half a mile away. “I called it in. There weren’t any choppers on alert. I think we just gotta face the fact he’s gone.”

“For now,” Vail said. “Let’s poke around his house, see what we can turn up.”

Dixon sighed. “Somehow that doesn’t seem . . . adequate.”

Vail turned and headed back toward their car. “It’s not.” She spit a mouthful of grainy soil from her mouth. “Not even close.”



CAP KRANDLE HAD CONTACTED Herndon’s chief executive and asked him to pull James Cannon’s employment application and hiring paperwork, which contained a home address that matched the one Gordon and Mann had obtained. If it had been as she suspected, that Cannon had not been looking to be a killer when he’d taken the job with Herndon, but had merely been someone capable of violence and had it unlocked through an association with Mayfield, then it made sense that he had not had the forethought to use subterfuge by listing false addresses and using disposable phones.

And if he was truly a narcissist like Vail believed, then Cannon probably felt he was smarter than everyone else and would be capable of eluding the grasp of law enforcement if the need ever arose.

Thus far, Vail had to admit, Cannon’s plan—whatever it was, and though far from ideal—had kept him a free man. Just how long that lasted, however, was not something the guy should take to the track. If Vail had something to say about it, he’d end up being disappointed with the results.

Vail finished cleaning her face with the wet cloth Krandle had given her. “Something to keep in mind, Mr. Krandle. We’ve got reason to believe James Cannon is a violent individual. You’d be smart to avoid contacting him. And if he comes back here—which I sincerely doubt—play it cool. We didn’t tell you anything and you don’t know anything. But as soon as it’s safe, call us. Better yet, text us so there’s no chance of him overhearing you.”

Brix handed him his card. “He calls, comes by, anything—let us know.”



WHILE BRIX TENDED TO AN ERRAND, Vail and Dixon made their way to Cannon’s house. Upon arriving, they saw three county vehicles parked out front at various angles, a haphazard job that suggested they arrived on scene in a hurry.

Through the front window, its blinds parted by the tip of a SIG Sauer handgun, Burt Gordon was motioning them in. He stepped back and the aluminum slats fell closed.

Vail led the way across the lawn, green and thick and robust—which did not surprise her. The medium gray house, set back and sandwiched between two equal size single-story homes, was located in what appeared to be a respectable middle class neighborhood.

Vail pushed the door open and entered ahead of Dixon. As expected, the interior was well-maintained and obsessively clean.

A series of reference texts on the art and science of enology lined the bookshelves of his family room. Dixon pulled one and thumbed through it. “He was clearly serious about being a wine maker.”

“Lots of people have dreams,” Vail said. “Just because he had books about the subject doesn’t mean he would’ve been any good at it. But the point is, he didn’t think there was much value in being an inventory control manager. It was a job he took because he couldn’t secure the position he really wanted. To him, being a wine maker held the prestige he sought.”