Crush - Alan Jacobson [16]
THEY WERE ALL SILENT A MOMENT before Vail said, “Lieutenant, can you get these men out of here?”
Brix complied without comment, giving head signals to the workers. Toland followed. “I’m gonna have to ask you not to go public with those photos, Randy.”
The Press photographer chortled as his gaze flicked between Brix and Vail. “We can discuss that later.”
“Nothing to discuss,” Brix said. “I invited you here as a guest because I thought you’d appreciate the exclusive on the cave. If you want to come back when we finish this thing, you’ll honor my request.”
Randy gave him a hard look, but nodded.
Brix extended a hand. “The memory card.”
Vail could see Randy’s facial muscles contracting as he flipped open the side compartment and withdrew the compact flash card.
Brix took it from him. “I’ll make sure you get this back.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Randy said, then walked off.
When he was out of earshot, Vail said, “Well, guess that answers our question. This guy has killed before.”
Brix’s shoulders were rolled forward and his gloved hands hung at his sides. He spoke without meeting her eyes. “What’s the procedure for bringing the profiling unit on board?”
“It’s a pretty informal process. If an agency wants help from the BAU, they’d either call the unit and talk with an agent, or contact their local FBI office. Since I’m already here, all you had to do was ask. I’ll call my supervisor for approval. Be a good idea to write me a formal request on letterhead for the file. But that’s all just a red-tape formality. I’m here, and I want to help. Let’s not waste any time.”
“We’ve got a major crimes task force. Obviously, this is top priority. We’ll start in the morning. I’ve got your number, I’ll text you the info.”
ELEVEN
John Wayne Mayfield sat in his idling white Jeep in the parking lot of Dean & Deluca, munching on a veggie sandwich. Country music was pouring from the dash speakers, the vocals pining about hating his job but not having a choice because he needed the money for alimony.
Mayfield didn’t have the alimony problem, but it made him think of his job, and how he always strived to do it the best he could—but was it too much to ask that he wanted to enjoy himself, too? Sometimes he did, but oftentimes he did not—the reasons were obvious, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was given a task to complete and if he didn’t complete it successfully, he didn’t get paid. Simple as that.
It was a common dilemma with workers all over the world, he imagined: the desire to do something you enjoyed doing, but still earn a living doing it. In his case, it was not always possible to accomplish both.
But his hobbies, those were where he was able to feed his hunger, where he satisfied his desires.
As he bit into his sandwich, he saw a blonde exit the store, a white bag hanging from her hand. Diamond ring on her finger, but no male companion in sight. Was he waiting for her in their car? Mayfield watched her as she traversed the parking lot, passing right in front of his truck. His eyes were riveted to the sway of her hips, the slink of her thighs as they rhythmically moved through space. She stopped at a dark blue Mercedes and got into the passenger seat.
Mayfield swallowed, then took another bite of his sandwich. All in all, it wasn’t a bad existence. And to be able to live in the area where he lived, in the house that he owned, that had to be factored into the equation. Some people killed for the sport, some killed over drugs, or money, or sex, or anger. Those were largely unfulfilling, without any of the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment he sought when he stalked his victims, and then ended their lives.
Unfulfilling, but necessary. Some things just had to be done, whether you liked it or not. For John Wayne Mayfield, this was both fulfilling and enjoyable. He crumpled the paper wrapping of his sandwich and shoved his truck into gear.
There was work to be done.
TWELVE
They ate dinner at Angèle, which abutted the recently refurbished Napa River embankment. The food was exquisitely tasteful. But Robby