Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(39)

“I got it.” A voice in the background. César Guevara. The door swung farther open, revealing the man of the house. He was wearing a sport coat and a black silk shirt. Dressed to go out, perhaps. And in the distance, Vail could make out the tips of high heels. Smelled floral perfume. Wife—or girlfriend. Definitely going out on the town. This may work out better than I thought.

“Sorry to bother you on your way out,” Vail said. “But we’ve got a couple questions.”

“Come by my office. Tomorrow.” Guevara started to close the door, but Vail stuck out her foot and the heavy wood hit against her shoe. Guevara turned back and eyed her with a narrow gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We won’t take much of your time—”

“I guess I should cooperate. At least you’re not sticking your gun in my face this time. Very decent of you, Agent Vail. By the way, I’ve got that videotape all ready to go to your . . . what do you call it? Your behavioral analysis unit?”

Vail felt Dixon’s gaze bearing down on her. Ignore it. Guevara’s trying to get under your skin. Block it out. Don’t let him make you do something you’ll regret. Vail grinned, which helped diffuse her anger. “We just need a couple of minutes of your time.” Plowing forward without pausing, she said, “Ray Lugo told us you two were more than just friends who worked the vineyards together as kids. He said he was helping you out. You and John Mayfield.” Vail stopped, watched the creases in his face. There was decent illumination from the porch light, and some ambient brightness pouring in from the entryway. His face twitched, the eyelid fluttered, much in the same way it had this morning when she had questioned him and shown him Robby’s photograph. “And that interests us, Mr. Guevara, because John Mayfield is a serial killer. He’s done some bad things. And that means you . . . ” She shrugged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Guevara said. “And it’s probably all bullshit anyway, because if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be standing here chatting. You’d be sweating me out in some hot interrogation room. Isn’t that what you people do? But then I’d call my lawyer, who charges seven hundred bills an hour, and, well . . . we both know how the game is played.” He turned away from the door and called to one of his men, “Vaya a la limusina. Ahorita llego.” Go to the limousine. I’ll be there in a minute.

“A limo. Very nice.” Vail let her eyes demonstrably roam the interior of his home. “Guess the mobile bottling business pays well.”

“Good evening, Agent Vail. We’re done here.” He moved back from the door. And it slammed closed in their faces.





26


Vail pushed her head back into her severely reclined seat. They were parked a block and a half away, across the street in a neighbor’s driveway. “That looks like a Hummer limo. What do you think?”

Dixon lifted her head and took a peek. “Yeah.”

“You think his bodyguards are going with them?”

Dixon kept her eyes forward, watching the lights of the vehicle move away from them. “They wouldn’t be very effective bodyguards if they didn’t . . . guard him. Would they?”

“Good point.” The lights faded and then disappeared. “Ready?”

“You sure you want to do this?”

Vail reached up and turned off the dome light. “Are you really asking me that question?” She opened the door and pulled herself off the reclined seat, then turned to Dixon. “Better move it onto the curb. In case the neighbor complains.”

Dixon propped up her seat, started the car, and moved it. Then she joined Vail as they made their way toward César Guevara’s house.

“Karen, I’m gonna say it again. Because you’re not hearing me.”

“I heard you the last three times. Breaking and entering. Not like I’m a goddamn dimwit. I know what I’m doing. You wanna save your ass, stay back. Go take a drive. Pick me up in twenty.”

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

“Then stop reminding me what we’re doing is wrong. But I’m leaving, Roxx. And Robby could be in trouble. John Mayfield’s in a coma. Lugo’s dead. And the only person we know of who knows anything about anything is this asshole. And the goddamn judge won’t give us a warrant. Do you think we’ve got a choice?”

“There are always choices, Karen.”

Vail gave Dixon a hard look. But she kept moving, stepped over the low picket fence, and made her way to a dark side of the house, bordered by manzanita hedges. “If you’re with me, watch my back. And if you see any security cameras, let me know.”

“I didn’t see any when we were talking to him.”

“Me neither,” Vail said, keeping her back against the bushes and shuffling forward. “Doesn’t mean he hasn’t got any.”

“What about dogs? I didn’t hear or see any, but—”

“They’d be on us by now.” Am I insane? What the hell am I doing? Robby would do the same for me. There’s no choice.

Vail moved to the back of the house and pointed at security lights mounted above the large ivy-covered arbor. “Motion sensors. Follow me.” She made her way in a circuitous route that took them beyond the reach of the infrared lenses. Seconds later, they stepped up to the door without having tripped the sensors. “You don’t happen to have a lock picking kit with you.”