Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(57)

Though it was a fair amount of blood, it was not of sufficient volume to indicate a body had bled out in that spot. But if he’d been shot or stabbed—certainly possible. Then again, he could’ve been moved—he wasn’t left there, so how soon after whatever violence befell him was he taken away? Or was that not his blood at all?

Vail opened Outlook and scanned through her mail. There was a message from Dixon, which came through yesterday around the time Vail was climbing into bed. As if Vail had sensed it, Dixon was writing her about a follow-up note regarding the blood on the carpet. She had spoken with the owner of the B&B, who said she knew about it, and claimed it was from a suicide attempt two or three years ago.

But the woman couldn’t be absolutely sure it was the same room, and she thought it was on the other side of the bed—but whichever room it involved was cleaned with some sort of organic enzyme. They had thought of hiring a company that did crime scene cleanup, but it was costly and the chemical worked well enough that they did not need to replace the carpet. And the spouse, who had found her, did not want a police report filed, so the owner agreed to keep it quiet—which certainly was in the B&B’s best interest, as well.

Vail replied, thanking Dixon and telling her she’d met with DeSantos and had no sense of whether or not it was going to bear fruit. As she hit Send, there was a knock on her open door. She swiveled her chair around and saw the stoic Art Rooney. She smiled and leaped from her chair, almost running toward him. She gave him a firm hug and told him she was glad to see him.

“Yeah, I got that from the greeting. Good to see you, too. Back home in one piece. Sometimes I’m concerned about you, Karen.”

“If I had any sense, I’d be concerned, too.”

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“For you? Always.” She took her seat behind the desk and Rooney took the lone guest chair.

“I wanted to touch base with you on the Crush Killer. Gifford said you guys found him?”

Vail leaned back. “Yeah, he won’t be plying his trade anymore. Ray Lugo shot him while I was questioning him, and he’s now in a medically induced coma.”

“What the hell was Lugo’s problem?”

Vail told him. She described her interview with Mayfield, the shooting, meeting with Merilynn Lugo, the DVD, the Guevara connection and her less than legal foray into his residence, the discovery of the new victim, and the apprehension of James Cannon. And then she told him about Robby.

Rooney sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. His gaze roamed the small office as he worked through the particulars of the case. “So we’re settled that Mayfield was a narcissist. And it sounds like Cannon was, to some extent, too—but his is an entirely different story. He was just learning to kill. Mayfield was his mentor. However it happened, they crossed paths and realized they had common inclinations. Mayfield took him under his wing and Cannon followed along, observing, learning. Then it was his turn to try his hand at the trade.”

“That’s probably why we caught him so quickly,” Vail said. “He wasn’t sophisticated as a killer. He rushed into it, had not planned his cover. He killed in the same community in which he lived—and not so anonymously. Even after crossing paths with a cop and an FBI agent, and making a pass at one of them, he still thought it was safe to kill.”

“Remember, these killers don’t think they’re leaving behind markers for us to follow. We pick up on things they aren’t even aware of.”

“Yeah, thank god for all that. Makes our job possible.”

“So that brings us to Detective Hernandez.” His eyes roamed the room again. “There would normally be no logical reason to conclude there was a relationship of any kind to John Mayfield or James Cannon. Far as we know, they hadn’t seen you with him. There’d be no reason why he’d have contact with either of them, no clear connection. So on the surface, I’d say you don’t have to worry about Mayfield’s comment about there ‘being more to this than you know’—at least as it relates to Detective Hernandez. Maybe he was talking about Cannon’s coming murders.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She tapped her foot while she processed it.

Rooney pushed his chair back and rocked on the rear legs. “That brings us to the next question: what happened to him? Let’s approach this as a typical missing persons case. A ton of people go missing each year. The possibilities include someone who disappears because of a criminal act he’s committed and he drops under the radar. Another is because he’s witnessed a criminal act and is afraid for his life. Or the most common, he’s having an affair or escaping a failed relationship, and this is a less confrontational way out for him.” He let the chair fall forward with a thump, then rested his forearms on his knees. “How are you handling it?”

“I haven’t totally lost it. But I’ve come close.”

Rooney nodded slowly. “If it was me, Karen, until I saw a dead body, I’d treat it as if he’s alive; I’d need that in order to function.”

“I now know what a victim goes through when her child is taken, presumed dead . . . but the body isn’t found.”

“Contrary to media myths, finding a body doesn’t bring closure. It helps a little, I guess, but the pain never goes away.” He waved at the air, as if dispersing smoke. “That’s not what we’re dealing with here. We’ll find answers—and we’ll find Detective Hernandez.”