Crush - Alan Jacobson [42]
He looked over the names on the whiteboard. Brix and Lugo: no introduction necessary. Dixon, Vail, Fuller—he needed to look those up.
Mayfield walked around the room, realizing he’d already gotten most of the info he needed. Best to get out of there. While he could explain away his presence, why take the risk?
As he turned to leave, he saw a laptop beside scattered papers lying on the conference table. He grabbed a sheet off the top and glanced at it. Names and phone numbers. Neatly typed into a grid, hole-punched for binders.
Very good.
He folded the paper into his pocket and walked out. Moved down the hall to find a computer he could use. The laptop in the conference room would have sufficed, but if any of the task force members walked in on him, that would be a lot more difficult to explain than if he was discovered in front of a PC somewhere else, in an unoccupied office.
But it was late in the day, and most of the clerical staff had clocked out. He wasn’t looking to hack into anyone’s terminal . . . just a computer with Internet access he could safely use that wouldn’t leave behind search results traceable to him. He turned the corner into a large, cubicle-filled room. The dividers were tall, nearly ceiling height, and he couldn’t see over them. He walked around, turned the corner, and entered the main aisle that cut through and past all the desks. He kept his head forward, not wanting to look suspicious. But the area was largely deserted, except for a black-haired head thirty feet away.
He slid into the cubicle and faced the monitor. Turned it on, hit the spacebar, and the screen lit up. It looked like a plain vanilla Windows desktop. No password screen, so it was likely a standalone computer, not connected to the county network. Exactly what he needed.
He opened Internet Explorer, and in the Live Search field, typed “Roxxann Dixon Napa California.” Got several hits, including one that contained a photo of her and a brief bio of her position with the district attorney’s office. It said she served on the Major Crimes Task Force. Bingo. This is the blonde I saw.
Next he typed in “Karen Vail Napa California.” No relevant hits. Narrowed the search to “Karen Vail.” And got references to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Clicked on one: “FBI Profiler Karen Vail, fresh off the case of the Dead Eyes killer, the notorious serial killer who terrorized women in the Virginia area . . .”
Mayfield slid back his chair. “Whoa.” He said it aloud then quickly snapped his flapping lips shut. FBI. A profiler. They are taking this seriously. I must’ve scared the shit out of them. That’s why they haven’t told the media. They’re afraid they don’t know what they’re dealing with.
His eyes were drawn again to the words “FBI Profiler.” A federal case. As it should be. John Wayne Mayfield deserves nationwide coverage. But there’s no fun in spoon feeding them the story. They have to realize themselves what they have here. Once enough pressure’s applied, it’ll reach a point where they can’t contain it anymore. Then the newspapers and TV would find out. Everyone would know. It would blow up into a huge story.
A broad smile spread Mayfield’s lips.
He looked back at the screen, fingered the mouse. Time to turn up the heat. And he had just the thing to get their attention. Something that would drive them nuts.
NINETEEN
Vail and Dixon pulled into Mountain Crest’s small gravel lot beside Robby’s Murano. His brake lights were still glowing.
Vail had the door open before Dixon brought the Ford to a stop. “Hey, come out for a sec. I want you to meet someone.”
Vail jumped out of the car and into Robby’s arms. He gave her a big embrace, then seemed to notice Dixon standing there and released his grip.
“Oh—this is Roxxann Dixon,” Vail said. “We’re working together on the task force.”
Robby straightened up, then reached out to shake. “Robby Hernandez.”
“Good to meet you.”
“So . . .” Robby said. “How was your day?”
Vail and Dixon shared a look before