Crush - Alan Jacobson [41]
Vail pushed away from the railing, then checked her watch. She didn’t realize how late it was; Robby would be arriving in a few minutes. “Can you drop me at my B&B?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Mountain Crest, in St. Helena.”
Dixon looked back over her shoulder at the sheriff’s department building, as Fuller, Lugo, and Brix were walking through the door. The meeting had ended.
Dixon turned back. “Sure, let’s go. I live out that way anyway.”
JOHN WAYNE MAYFIELD waited until the two women got into their car. He was now sure they were cops—detectives, actually, because they weren’t in uniform. But they had the look, he decided. Other men in suits left the building, too. He wasn’t sure if they were with the women, but the fact that they were leaving, and not entering, made the task ahead easier.
He got out of his vehicle and walked up the two flights of stairs to the entrance. He had nothing to fear; he’d been in this building many times before and would not be out of place. But he’d never been here to do what he was about to do. And that made him nervous.
But he was good at handling himself and defusing potentially hazardous situations. He knew what to say if someone stopped him. But they’ve got no reason to stop me.
Mayfield pushed through the door and moved down the hall, nodded at the legal clerk behind the glass, then swiped his prox card and walked through the door. He surveyed the nearby rooms on either side of him. He needed to look confident, like he was supposed to be here and not snooping or doing anything nefarious or suspicious. So he opened the first door he came to on the left and stepped in. Looked around. Nothing of interest.
Moved back out into the hall and tried the next door. He knew one of these rooms had to be where the cops met, where they kept their case files and notes. Over the years, he had read about the Major Crimes task force that convened to track fleeing felons, bank robbers, kidnappers, and the like. He figured this task force had already met to discuss him. Maybe that’s what those women were doing. And those men.
But this building was a maze of the worst kind: The hallways and doors all looked alike, save for the teal and white placards mounted outside each door. As he continued to wander the hallway, he read the little signs looking for some kind of task force notation . . . or a large meeting room of some sort.
As he made his way around yet another bend, he was beginning to doubt he would find what he was looking for. And the longer he was here, the more likely he’d run into trouble. But he was sure he had blown them away with the wine cave murder. He left it for everyone to see. They had to be working his case. They had to be. He was surprised there was nothing in the newspaper. Not even a death notice.
He paused beside another door, whose teal placard read, Conference Room # 3. Mayfield pushed through and walked in. The motion sensors fired and turned on the lights. This was it, the base of operations. A whiteboard with a grid. Names, what looked like tasks and assignments. Oh, yes. Very good. He fished around his deep pocket for the digital camera. He aimed and depressed the shutter. Once, twice, three times.
This was too much—it was all about him! Of course it was.
Then something caught his eye. The word “Vallejo.