pan out, that I’d cal them if anything broke.”
“Did you?” Dixon asked. “Cal them?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
Dixon held up a hand. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism, sheriff.”
Dixon glanced at Vail, who inched her chair closer to the table. Tread lightly here
. . . “No one knows that John Mayfield, the man lying in a coma at Napa Val ey Med Center, is a serial kil er, and that he’s kil ed a bunch of people here.”
“Not this again,” Owens said.
When the Crush Kil er had started taking lives, Vail had lobbied hard to publicize his existence, which would’ve played into his narcissistic needs and enabled them to open a dialogue with him. Though she was vetoed for political reasons, their silence on the issue now might work to their advantage.
“No, no,” Vail said, holding up a hand. “This is a good thing, sheriff. This guy, James Cannon, if he’s an accomplice of John Mayfield’s, then he doesn’t know Mayfield’s been caught. If he is involved, he’s got no reason to be concerned.”
Brix splayed both hands palm up. “Until he tries to reach Mayfield and his buddy doesn’t answer.”
“Right,” Vail said. “So we’ve got a limited window to act. We’ve gotta move fast.”
Dixon rose from her seat. “Okay.” She looked down, brought a hand up to her chin, seemed to be lost in thought. “Burt. You and Austin see if you can locate Herndon Vineyards. Sheriff, coordinate with NSIB and let us know if anything comes up with either Robby’s photo or his friend Sebastian. Karen and I are going to pay a visit to Superior Mobile Bottling. Redd, can you get a copy of Mayfield’s phone records, home and cel , and see if there are any unusual connections we can make? We know there’l be cal s to Cannon—they were buddies—so even if we have to cal every number in his logs, we might find Cannon that way.”
Vail snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute—Cannon was a member at Fit1. Maybe we can grab their records without a warrant.”
“That’d be good, because we don’t have near enough yet to get a warrant,”
Dixon said.
Vail rose from her chair, then reached over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Dixon’s shirt. She leaned back and appraised her partner. “Yeah, but I think we’ve got enough to get what we want.”
11
T he twenty-something tight-shirted front desk attendant smiled when Dixon and Vail stepped up to the counter. Vail looked pretty damn good for thirty-eight—especial y considering al she had been through of late. But Dixon, several years younger, not only possessed a natural beauty but worked hard to keep herself in shape. Eddie Agbayani, her former boyfriend, had cal ed her “Buff Barbie,” a description Vail would’ve been hard-pressed to dispute.
And the dude behind the desk took notice, too.
“I haven’t seen you around here,” Dixon said, a coy smile spreading her lips and a straightening of her shoulders spreading her blouse.
“Rolando,” the guy said, his eyes drifting down to the last fastened button as he extended his hand.
Dixon took it and squeezed, which got Rolando’s attention. “There’s a guy who works out here,” she said. “He asked my friend here out on a date and she lost his number. Can you look it up for us?”
Rolando’s eyes final y focused on Dixon’s face. “His phone number?”
“I’l take his address, too,” Vail said, “if you’ve got it.”
Rolando squinted, hesitated, then moved to the computer at his right. In a low voice, with a glance over his shoulder, he said, “No go on his address. But I can give you his phone. Just don’t tel anyone.” He hit some keys and looked up. “Guy’s name?”
“James Cannon.”
“Cannon . . . ” Rolando said as he scrol ed down the list.
“Know him?”
Rolando typed, frowned, then typed some more. “Big dude?”
“That probably describes half the guys in this gym,” Dixon said with a grin. “But, yeah.”
“Al we’ve got is a
“Did you?” Dixon asked. “Cal them?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
Dixon held up a hand. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism, sheriff.”
Dixon glanced at Vail, who inched her chair closer to the table. Tread lightly here
. . . “No one knows that John Mayfield, the man lying in a coma at Napa Val ey Med Center, is a serial kil er, and that he’s kil ed a bunch of people here.”
“Not this again,” Owens said.
When the Crush Kil er had started taking lives, Vail had lobbied hard to publicize his existence, which would’ve played into his narcissistic needs and enabled them to open a dialogue with him. Though she was vetoed for political reasons, their silence on the issue now might work to their advantage.
“No, no,” Vail said, holding up a hand. “This is a good thing, sheriff. This guy, James Cannon, if he’s an accomplice of John Mayfield’s, then he doesn’t know Mayfield’s been caught. If he is involved, he’s got no reason to be concerned.”
Brix splayed both hands palm up. “Until he tries to reach Mayfield and his buddy doesn’t answer.”
“Right,” Vail said. “So we’ve got a limited window to act. We’ve gotta move fast.”
Dixon rose from her seat. “Okay.” She looked down, brought a hand up to her chin, seemed to be lost in thought. “Burt. You and Austin see if you can locate Herndon Vineyards. Sheriff, coordinate with NSIB and let us know if anything comes up with either Robby’s photo or his friend Sebastian. Karen and I are going to pay a visit to Superior Mobile Bottling. Redd, can you get a copy of Mayfield’s phone records, home and cel , and see if there are any unusual connections we can make? We know there’l be cal s to Cannon—they were buddies—so even if we have to cal every number in his logs, we might find Cannon that way.”
Vail snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute—Cannon was a member at Fit1. Maybe we can grab their records without a warrant.”
“That’d be good, because we don’t have near enough yet to get a warrant,”
Dixon said.
Vail rose from her chair, then reached over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Dixon’s shirt. She leaned back and appraised her partner. “Yeah, but I think we’ve got enough to get what we want.”
11
T he twenty-something tight-shirted front desk attendant smiled when Dixon and Vail stepped up to the counter. Vail looked pretty damn good for thirty-eight—especial y considering al she had been through of late. But Dixon, several years younger, not only possessed a natural beauty but worked hard to keep herself in shape. Eddie Agbayani, her former boyfriend, had cal ed her “Buff Barbie,” a description Vail would’ve been hard-pressed to dispute.
And the dude behind the desk took notice, too.
“I haven’t seen you around here,” Dixon said, a coy smile spreading her lips and a straightening of her shoulders spreading her blouse.
“Rolando,” the guy said, his eyes drifting down to the last fastened button as he extended his hand.
Dixon took it and squeezed, which got Rolando’s attention. “There’s a guy who works out here,” she said. “He asked my friend here out on a date and she lost his number. Can you look it up for us?”
Rolando’s eyes final y focused on Dixon’s face. “His phone number?”
“I’l take his address, too,” Vail said, “if you’ve got it.”
Rolando squinted, hesitated, then moved to the computer at his right. In a low voice, with a glance over his shoulder, he said, “No go on his address. But I can give you his phone. Just don’t tel anyone.” He hit some keys and looked up. “Guy’s name?”
“James Cannon.”
“Cannon . . . ” Rolando said as he scrol ed down the list.
“Know him?”
Rolando typed, frowned, then typed some more. “Big dude?”
“That probably describes half the guys in this gym,” Dixon said with a grin. “But, yeah.”
“Al we’ve got is a
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