Crush - Alan Jacobson [150]
His left wrist had been sliced, the blood moist around the wound. He was killed moments ago—which meant Mayfield was likely still nearby.
Agbayani’s boots were on his feet—but at this point, it didn’t matter. Mayfield didn’t need to leave his calling card. They would know who was responsible.
As she glanced back up—she’d taken her eyes off the room too long—a text came through. Brix:
covered east upper level and turrets. zip.
Then Dixon:
courtyard and surrounding rooms, banquet room clear. on second floor. no way of knowing if he’s still here
Vail replied to all:
still here big room. found a db. still warm.
She sent it without saying it was Agbayani—the revelation would no doubt upset Dixon—but then realized she had no choice. They needed to know one of their boots on the ground was now, literally, on the ground.
She took a deep breath, looked over at Agbayani, and typed a new message:
sorry, rox. vic is eddie
Tears filled her eyes. She knew Dixon would take it hard. And though she didn’t know him well, he seemed to be a good guy.
If Vail were to follow standard crime scene procedure, as was her duty, she needed to secure the area and remain with the body. But that was a low priority. Her greater duty was to find the killer. Besides, they knew who did the murder. And Agbayani was dead. No sense in remaining. No one was going to walk up to a dead body.
Vail rose and moved back into the larger room. That’s where she stood while she figured out what to do, where to go.
That’s where she stood when the lights went out.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Dixon was on the second level, her neck aching and swollen from Mayfield’s attack in the steam room.
The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now, as time passed and the inflammation increased, she could no longer shrug it off. Her throat was narrowed and she was having difficulty swallowing and breathing.
And her neck’s range of motion was diminished. She had to twist her torso—which was also sore—because the cervical muscles were bruised and in spasm.
Dixon left the room she had just cleared and moved back into the corridor when her phone vibrated. She pulled it from her belt. A text from Vail:
in some kind of large room filled with oak barrels. past gift shop. somewhere in tunnels. no sign of mayfld. ur 20?
Dixon shifted her weapon to her left hand and texted back.
courtyard and surrounding rooms, banquet room clear. on second floor. no way of knowing if he’s still here
Flipped the phone closed, proceeded carefully. One run-in with John Mayfield was enough. She felt fortunate to have escaped; trying to pull off a second miracle in the same night might be asking too much of her Creator. Another buzz. Pulled her cell, flipped it open. Text from Vail:
still here big room. found a db. still warm.
Goddamn it. She took a deep breath. They had to find this monster. Fast. Phone in hand, Dixon steadied her weapon with both hands and moved forward a few feet, toward a doorway that led to a balcony overlooking the square below. Black iron lights hung at various intervals from the brick walls, under alcoves and from rusted brackets, throwing romantic—but minimal—light on the courtyard.
Her phone buzzed again. She twisted her right wrist and read the display.
sorry, rox. vic is eddie
Dixon stood there staring at the message. What? How can that be? Read it again: vic is Eddie. Eddie?
She started walking, unsure where she was headed, moving toward a staircase that would take her down. Dixon wasn’t paying attention to where she was going or what was in front of her. She kept moving, through corridors, across the square, down a staircase. Someone bumped her. Brix. She looked at him.
“Roxxi, I’m so sorry—”
She blinked away tears. Looked off ahead of her. “Where. Where is he?”
Brix took her by the arm and led her around the gift shop, through tunnels and small rooms lined with barrels and