Crush - Alan Jacobson [47]
“Jonathan.” She glanced over and saw Robby look at his watch, no doubt doing the time calculation. “I just need to hear his voice,” she said. “He’s a teen, he’ll fall right back to sleep.” But he didn’t answer. His cell went straight to voicemail. She listened to his recorded greeting, grinned, then left a message, told him she loved him, and that she’d call him when she had a moment.
As Vail handed her phone back to Robby, Dixon yawned wide and loud, then said, “Let me go write up my statement, then we can get the hell out of here.”
After Dixon walked off, Vail cuddled into Robby’s chest, watching the firefighters mill about, rolling hoses, packing air tanks, and stowing tools.
Gordon’s question echoed in her thoughts: Any idea who’d want to kill you? It was a question for which she had no rational answer.
Yet.
TWENTY-ONE
Someone was shoving her. Pushing her shoulder. What. Who—
It was Robby, lying beside her in the double bed of Roxxann Dixon’s guest bedroom. Because of Robby’s breadth and the mattress’s small size, they were jammed up against one another most of the night. That is, once Vail stopped hacking and fell asleep sometime around 1 a.m.
Robby was handing her his cell phone. “Your boss.”
“I didn’t even hear it ring.”
Vail pushed herself up on an elbow—and launched into a coughing fit. She rolled out of bed, hurried into the bathroom, and spit up a glob of soot-infused mucus. She swallowed some water, leaned on the sink a moment, then turned. Robby was standing there.
“You okay?” Robby asked.
“Peachy.” She took the phone, cleared her throat, and said, “Yes, sir.”
“You sound about as good as my eighty-year-old father,” Thomas Gifford said. “Smoked two packs a day for fifty years.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s good to know.”
“I got your message. Thanks for keeping me abreast of the situation. Wish you’d called me at home—”
“There was nothing you could’ve done. With the time difference, I would’ve woken you. No point.”
“True. Okay, here’s what I’ve set in motion. Art’s been in L.A. testifying in that Blue Lake Killer case. He was due to fly back to Quantico this afternoon, but I had him switch flights. He’s gonna stop off in Napa on his way. Just a quick visit.”
Art Rooney was a sharp profiler, someone Vail respected, and the person to whom Gifford assigned most of their serial arson cases. His input could only help.
“But this is not a serial,” Vail said.
“You sure?”
Actually, she had no idea. “I’ll check on that. I never asked.”
“Do you need any medical attention? Are you okay?”
“A paramedic worked on me, I should probably follow up with someone here.”
“Good. Do it. I’ve also made arrangements for you to get a new phone. An agent from the Santa Rosa Resident Agency is picking up Art at the Napa Valley Airport, so he’ll give the phone to Art, who’ll give it to you. A new badge will be overnighted to you. Which brings me to the next item.” He waited a few seconds before saying, “Do you think this fire was targeting you?”
“Hard to say at this point, sir. No obvious suspects.”
“Fine, keep me posted. And . . . I feel like I’m always saying this to you, but . . . be careful, will you?”
What, no “arson magnet” comment?
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
HAVING ATTEMPTED to make herself presentable in Roxxann Dixon’s clothing, and despite Dixon’s claim she had something that would fit, Vail appraised herself in the mirror and frowned. It was hard enough for a woman to put on work attire each day and feel good about herself. Wearing someone else’s clothing—particularly with the figure of a Roxxann Dixon—made it more maddening.
But the reminder crept into her thoughts again—she survived the fire and that was all that mattered.
Robby came up behind her, pecked her on the neck, and, dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday, told her she looked great.
Why do women always want to hear such drivel? Because it makes us feel better. She knew she didn’t look great, but those simple words, uttered by her boyfriend, lifted her spirits. How strange the human psyche.
They met Dixon in the kitchen,