in large silver decals.
“Hey,” Bledsoe said. “I just wanted to check in with you. You get anywhere?”
“Treading water. You?”
“I got Hernandez’s DNA sample over to the FBI lab and I’ve also got a sample coming your way, to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Very good, thanks. And—you think you can keep your guy on Jonathan til I get home? I—this Mayfield thing may not be over. And it could be related to Robby’s disappearance.”
Bledsoe hesitated. “I think I can swing it. But are you sure? You think Mayfield had an accomplice?”
“Or a ‘student.’ I’m not sure, but it’s possible. And until we can rule it out, and until we find out what happened to Robby, I can’t take the chance it’s personal.”
“I’m working on something on my end,” Bledsoe said. “A guy I know, someone who owes me.”
In the background, Dixon continued her conversation with Gordon and Mann. Vail plugged her left ear to mute their discussion. “Who is this guy and what do you think he’s going to be able to do for us?”
“Name’s Hector DeSantos. I met him on another case a couple years ago; this guy’s involved with a bunch of people who’ve got access to information no one else has. I think he’s some kind of spook. But if there’s info tucked away somewhere in a police or hospital database that can give us a clue as to Robby’s whereabouts, DeSantos wil be able to find it.”
“Awful y nice of him to help us out.”
“I haven’t asked him yet,” Bledsoe said. “But he owes me, and if he’s stateside, I think we’re good. I’l see if I can set something up for when you get back.”
“I’m on a flight tonight—actual y, I guess it’s tomorrow morning. Anything changes, I’l let you know. And Bledsoe . . . thanks again. For everything.” She hung up and rejoined the group.
Brix said, “Wireless carrier had the same Soscol address. They emailed his bil s, which were paid by direct debit to his credit card. NSIB’s now trying to get the address from the credit card company.”
“Without a warrant?” Gordon asked.
A forensic technician handed Brix a bag containing the handcuffs. “Maybe we’l get lucky,” Brix said. “Be surprised what customer service reps wil tel you.”
“It’s not against the law to ask for information,” Dixon said. “It’s not even il egal to lie about who you are—as long as you don’t say you’re James Cannon.”
“We’l see what we can get,” Brix said.
Dixon took Vail’s elbow and led her toward the street. “That cal . Good news or bad?”
“My friend, Bledsoe. He wants me to meet with someone back home who might be able to dig up info on Robby.”
Dixon unlocked her car doors with the remote. “Take any help we can get.”
“Where we headed?” Vail asked.
“Mayfield’s place. That’s one warrant we didn’t have a problem getting.”
17
V ail and Dixon arrived at John Mayfield’s house, a smal Victorian-style two-story with a compact footprint on a postage stamp lot. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and the shingle siding seemed to be the recipient of a recent coat of brick red paint.
Parked out front, neighborhood cars. A large hockey net with a noticeable rip in the polyester mesh, shoved up against the curb.
Vail and Dixon were the first to arrive. They walked up to the front door, tried the knob, and found it locked. “Kick it, pick it, or cal for a battering ram,” Vail said.
Dixon slid sideways and slammed her left foot against the jamb, just below the lock. It burst open with a splintering pop. “Much more satisfying that way.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
They moved inside the quiet house. Whenever Vail entered an offender’s residence, a strange feeling washed over her. Al the evil this kil er conjured was conceived here. Like the behaviors the kil er left at his crime scenes, his home was a diary of sorts: unedited, the raw idiosyncrasies and habits of human nature lay bare before
“Hey,” Bledsoe said. “I just wanted to check in with you. You get anywhere?”
“Treading water. You?”
“I got Hernandez’s DNA sample over to the FBI lab and I’ve also got a sample coming your way, to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Very good, thanks. And—you think you can keep your guy on Jonathan til I get home? I—this Mayfield thing may not be over. And it could be related to Robby’s disappearance.”
Bledsoe hesitated. “I think I can swing it. But are you sure? You think Mayfield had an accomplice?”
“Or a ‘student.’ I’m not sure, but it’s possible. And until we can rule it out, and until we find out what happened to Robby, I can’t take the chance it’s personal.”
“I’m working on something on my end,” Bledsoe said. “A guy I know, someone who owes me.”
In the background, Dixon continued her conversation with Gordon and Mann. Vail plugged her left ear to mute their discussion. “Who is this guy and what do you think he’s going to be able to do for us?”
“Name’s Hector DeSantos. I met him on another case a couple years ago; this guy’s involved with a bunch of people who’ve got access to information no one else has. I think he’s some kind of spook. But if there’s info tucked away somewhere in a police or hospital database that can give us a clue as to Robby’s whereabouts, DeSantos wil be able to find it.”
“Awful y nice of him to help us out.”
“I haven’t asked him yet,” Bledsoe said. “But he owes me, and if he’s stateside, I think we’re good. I’l see if I can set something up for when you get back.”
“I’m on a flight tonight—actual y, I guess it’s tomorrow morning. Anything changes, I’l let you know. And Bledsoe . . . thanks again. For everything.” She hung up and rejoined the group.
Brix said, “Wireless carrier had the same Soscol address. They emailed his bil s, which were paid by direct debit to his credit card. NSIB’s now trying to get the address from the credit card company.”
“Without a warrant?” Gordon asked.
A forensic technician handed Brix a bag containing the handcuffs. “Maybe we’l get lucky,” Brix said. “Be surprised what customer service reps wil tel you.”
“It’s not against the law to ask for information,” Dixon said. “It’s not even il egal to lie about who you are—as long as you don’t say you’re James Cannon.”
“We’l see what we can get,” Brix said.
Dixon took Vail’s elbow and led her toward the street. “That cal . Good news or bad?”
“My friend, Bledsoe. He wants me to meet with someone back home who might be able to dig up info on Robby.”
Dixon unlocked her car doors with the remote. “Take any help we can get.”
“Where we headed?” Vail asked.
“Mayfield’s place. That’s one warrant we didn’t have a problem getting.”
17
V ail and Dixon arrived at John Mayfield’s house, a smal Victorian-style two-story with a compact footprint on a postage stamp lot. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and the shingle siding seemed to be the recipient of a recent coat of brick red paint.
Parked out front, neighborhood cars. A large hockey net with a noticeable rip in the polyester mesh, shoved up against the curb.
Vail and Dixon were the first to arrive. They walked up to the front door, tried the knob, and found it locked. “Kick it, pick it, or cal for a battering ram,” Vail said.
Dixon slid sideways and slammed her left foot against the jamb, just below the lock. It burst open with a splintering pop. “Much more satisfying that way.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
They moved inside the quiet house. Whenever Vail entered an offender’s residence, a strange feeling washed over her. Al the evil this kil er conjured was conceived here. Like the behaviors the kil er left at his crime scenes, his home was a diary of sorts: unedited, the raw idiosyncrasies and habits of human nature lay bare before
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