by Alan Jacobson


by Alan Jacobson


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In the USA Today–bestselling author’s “addictive second Karen Vail thriller,” the FBI profiler tracks a serial killer through California wine country (Publishers Weekly).

In this follow-up to the standout bestseller The 7th Victim, Karen Vail ventures to Napa Valley, where a serial killer has been crushing his victims’ windpipes and leaving their bodies in caves. But when the Crush Killer learns that an FBI profiler has joined the Major Crimes Task Force, the newfound attention emboldens him, and he sets in motion a plan that wreaks havoc on the town—as well as the task force. Although a sudden break in the case helps Vail zero in on the identity of the killer, she senses that something isn’t right. If she doesn’t figure it out in time, the consequences will be dire.

In a rousing climax that leaves readers breathless, and which Publishers Weekly termed a “shockeroo ending,” Vail must pick up the pieces—and clean up the carnage left behind by the Crush Killer.

Meticulously researched during years of work with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, this high-velocity thriller from national bestselling author Alan Jacobson features the kind of edge-of-your-seat ending that inspired Nelson DeMille to call Jacobson “a hell of a writer.”
Crush is the first installment of a two-part story that concludes with Velocity, book three in the Karen Vail Series.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781497655850
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 07/01/2014
Series: The Karen Vail Novels , #2
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 566
Sales rank: 295,553
File size: 4 MB

About the Author

About The Author
Alan Jacobson is the national bestselling author of several critically acclaimed novels. In order to take readers behind the scenes to places they might never go, Jacobson has embedded himself in many federal agencies, including spending several years working with two senior profilers at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s vaunted Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. During that time, Jacobson edited four published FBI research papers on serial offenders, attended numerous FBI training courses, worked with the head firearms instructor at the academy, and received ongoing personalized instruction on serial killers—which continues to this day. He has also worked with high-ranking members of the Drug Enforcement Administration, the US Marshals Service, the New York Police Department, SWAT teams, local bomb squads, branches of the US military, chief superintendents and detective sergeants at Scotland Yard, criminals, armorers, helicopter pilots, chief executive officers, historians, and Special Forces operators. These experiences have helped him to create gripping, realistic stories and characters. His series protagonist, FBI profiler Karen Vail, resonates with both female and male readers, and writers such as Nelson DeMille, James Patterson, and Michael Connelly have called Vail one of the most compelling heroes in suspense fiction.

Jacobson’s books have been published internationally, and several have been optioned for film and television. A number have been named to Best of the Year lists.

Jacobson has been interviewed extensively on television and radio, including on CNN, NPR, and multiple ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox network affiliates.

Read an Excerpt


A Karen Vail Novel

By Alan Jacobson


Copyright © 2009 Alan Jacobson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5585-0


St. Helena, CaliforniaThe Napa Valley

The crush of a grape is not unlike life itself: You press and squeeze until the juice flows from its essence, and it dies a sudden, pathetic death. Devoid of its lifeblood, its body shrivels and is then discarded. Scattered about. Used as fertilizer, returned to the earth. Dust in the wind.

But despite the region in which John Mayfield worked—the Napa Valley—the crush of death wasn't reserved just for grapes.

John Mayfield liked his name. It reminded him of harvest and sunny vineyards.

He had, however, made one minor modification: His mother hadn't given him a middle name, so he chose one himself—Wayne. Given his avocation, "John Wayne" implied a tough guy image with star power. It also was a play on John Wayne Gacy, a notorious serial killer. And serial killers almost always were known in the public consciousness by three names. His persona—soon to be realized worldwide—needed to be polished and prepared.

Mayfield surveyed the room. He looked down at the woman, no longer breathing, in short order to resemble the shriveled husk of a crushed grape. He switched on his camera and made sure the lens captured the blood draining from her arm, the thirsty soil beneath her drinking it up as if it had been waiting for centuries to be nourished. Her fluid pooled a bit, then was slowly sucked beneath the surface.

A noise nearby broke his trance. He didn't have much time. He could have chosen his kill zone differently, to remove all risk. But it wasn't about avoiding detection. There was so much more to it.

The woman didn't appreciate his greatness, his power. She didn't see him for the unique person that he was. Her loss.

Mayfield wiped the knife of fingerprints and, using the clean handkerchief, slipped the sharp utensil beneath the dead woman's lower back. He stood up, kicked the loose dirt aside beneath his feet, scattering his footprints, then backed away.


As Karen Vail walked the grounds of the Mountain Crest Bed & Breakfast, holding the hand of Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez, she stopped at the edge of a neighboring vineyard. She looked out over the vines, the sun setting a hot orange in the March chill.

"You've been quiet since we got off the plane. Still thinking about your application to the Academy?"

"Am I that transparent?" Robby asked.

"Only to a sharp FBI profiler."

Robby cradled a tangle of vines in his large hand. "Yeah, that's what I'm thinking about."

"You'll get into the Academy, Robby. Maybe not right away, with the budget cutbacks, but I promise. You'll make the cut."

"Bledsoe said he could get me something with Fairfax County."

"Really? You didn't tell me that."

"I didn't want to say anything about it. I don't really want it. If I talk about it, it might come true."

"You don't really believe that."

He shrugged a shoulder.

"Fairfax would be a step up over Vienna. It's a huge department. Lots more action."

"I know. It's just that there's an eleven-year wait to become a profiler once I get into the Academy. The longer it takes to get into the Bureau, the longer I have to wait."

"Why don't you call Gifford," Vail asked. "I thought he owes you. Because of your mother. Because of their relationship."

"That was Gifford's perception, not mine. He promised her he'd look after me." Robby glanced off a moment, then said, "He doesn't owe me anything. And I don't want any favors."

"How about I look into it, quietly, under the radar, when we get home?"

Robby chewed on that. "Maybe."

"I can call first thing in the morning, put out a feeler."

"No. We're here on vacation, to get away from all that stuff. It'll wait."

They turned and walked toward their room, The Hot Date, which was in a separate building off the main house. According to the information on the website, it was the largest in the facility, featuring spacious main sleeping quarters, a sitting area with a private porch and view of the vines, and a jetted tub in the bathroom. A wooden sign, red with painted flames, hung dead center on the door.

Vail felt around in her pocket for the key they'd been given when they checked in fifteen minutes ago. "You sure?"

"Absolutely sure. I'm wiping it from my mind right now. Nothing but fun from here on out. Okay?"

Vail fit the key into the lock and turned it. "Works for me." She swung the door open and looked around at the frilly décor of the room. She kicked off her shoes, ran forward, and jumped onto the bed, bouncing up and down like a five-year-old kid. "This could be fun," she said with a wink.

Robby stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, grinning widely. "I've never seen you like this."

"Nothing but fun from here on out, right? Not a worry in the world? No serial killers dancing around in our heads, no ASACs or lieutenants ordering us around. No job decisions. And no excess testosterone floating on the air."

"The name of this room is The Hot Date, right? That should be our theme for the week."

"Count me in."

"That's good," Robby said. "Because a hot date for one isn't much fun."

Vail hopped to the side of the bed, stood up precariously on the edge, and grabbed Robby's collar with both hands. She fell forward into him, but at six foot seven, he easily swept her off the bed and onto the floor, then kissed her hard.

He leaned back and she looked up at his face. "You know," Vail said, "I flew cross-country to Napa for the fine wine and truffles, but that was pretty freaking good, Hernandez."

"Oh, yeah? That's just a tasting. If you want the whole bottle, it'll cost you."

As he leaned in for another kiss, her gaze caught sight of the wall clock. "Oh—" The word rode on his lips and made him pull away. "Our tour."

"Our what?"

"I told you. Don't you ever listen to me?"

"Uh, yeah, I, uh—"

"The wine cave thing, that tour we booked through your friend—"

"The tasting, the dinner in the cave." He smiled and raised his brow. "See, I do listen to you."

"We've gotta leave now. It's about twenty minutes away."

"You sure?" He nodded behind her. "Bed, Cabernet, chocolate, sex ..."

She pushed him away in mock anger. "That's not fair, Robby. You know that?

We've got this appointment, it's expensive, like two hundred bucks each, and you just want to blow it off?"

"I can think of something else to blow off."

Vail twisted her lips into a mock frown. "I guess five minutes won't hurt."

"We'll speed to make up the time. We're cops, right? If we're pulled over, we'll badge the officer—"

Vail placed a finger over his lips. "You're wasting time."

* * *

THEY ARRIVED FIVE MINUTES LATE. The California Highway Patrol was not on duty—at least along the strip of Route 29 they traversed quite a few miles per hour over the limit—and they pulled into the parking lot smelling of chocolate and, well, the perfume of intimacy.

They sat in the Silver Ridge Estates private tasting room around a table with a dozen others, listening to a sommelier expound the virtues of the wines they were about to taste. They learned about the different climates where the grapes were grown, why the region's wind patterns and mix of daytime heat and chilly evenings provided optimum conditions for growing premium grapes. Vail played footsie with Robby beneath the table, but Robby kept a stoic face, refusing to give in to her childish playfulness.

That is, until she realized she was reaching too far and had been stroking the leg of the graying fifty-something man beside Robby, whose name tag read "Bill (Oklahoma)." When Bill from Oklahoma turned to face her with a surprised look on his face, Vail realized her error and shaded the same red as the Pinot Noir on the table in front of them.

"Okay," the sommelier said. "We're going to go across the way into our wine cave, where we'll talk about the best temperatures for storing our wine. Then we'll do a tasting in a special room of the cave and discuss pairings, what we're about to eat, with which wine—and why—before dinner is served."

As they rose from the table, Robby leaned forward to ask the sommelier a question about the delicate color of the Pinot. Oklahoma Bill slid beside Vail, but before he could speak, she said, "My mistake, buddy. Not gonna happen."

Bill seemed to be mulling his options, planning a counterattack. But Vail put an end to any further pursuit by cutting him off with a slow, firm, "Don't even think about it."

Bill obviously sensed the tightness in her voice and backed away as if she had threatened him physically. Judging by the visible tension in Vail's forearm muscles, that probably wasn't far from the truth.

They shuffled through the breezeway of the winery, their tour guide explaining the various sculptures that were set back in alcoves in the walls, and how they had been gathered over the course of five decades, one from each continent. When they passed through the mouth of the wine cave, the drop in temperature was immediately discernable.

"The cave is a near-constant fifty-five degrees, which is perfect for storing our reds," the guide said. The group crowded into the side room that extended off the main corridor. "One thing about the way we grow our grapes," the woman said. "We plant more vines per square foot than your typical winery because we believe in stressing our vines, making them compete for water and nutrients. It forces their roots deeper into the ground and results in smaller fruit, which gives more skin surface area compared to the juice. And since the skin is what gives a red varietal most of its flavor, you can see why our wines are more complex and flavorful."

She stopped beside a color-true model of two grapevines that appeared poised to illustrate her point, but before she could continue her explanation, a male guide came from a deeper portion of the cave, ushering another group along toward the exit. He leaned into the female guide's ear and said something. Her eyes widened, then she moved forward, arms splayed wide like an eagle. "Okay, everyone, we have to go back into the tasting area for a while." She swallowed hard and cleared her throat, as if there was something caught, then said, "I'm terribly sorry for this interruption, but we'll make it worth your while, I promise."

Vail caught a glimpse of a husky Hispanic worker who was bringing up the rear. She elbowed Robby and nodded toward the guy. "Something's wrong, look at his face." She moved against the stream of exiting guests and grabbed the man's arm.

"What's going on?" Vail asked.

"Nothing, sigñora, all's good. Just a ... the power is out, it's very dark.

Please, go back to the tasting room—"

"It's okay," Robby said. "We're cops."


"Something like that." Vail held up her FBI credentials and badge. "What's wrong?"

"Who say there is something wrong?"

"It's my job to read people. Your face tells a story, señor. Now—" she motioned with her fingers. "What's the deal?"

He looked toward the mouth of cave, where most of the guests had already exited. "I did not tell you, right?"

"Of course not. Now ... tell us, what?"

"A body. A dead body. Back there," he said, motioning behind him with a thumb.

"How do you know the person's dead?"

"Because she cut up bad, señora. Her ... uh, los pechos ... her ... tits—are cut off."

Robby looked over the guy's shoulder, off into the darkness. "Are you sure?"

"I found the body, yes, I am sure."

"What's your name?"

"Miguel Ortiz."

"You have a flashlight, Miguel?" Vail asked.

The large man rooted out a set of keys from his pocket, pulled off a small LED light and handed it to her.

"Wait here. Don't let anyone else past you. You have security at the winery?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then call them on your cell," Vail said, as she and Robby backed away, deeper into the tunnel. "Tell them to shut this place down tight. No one in or out. No one."

* * *

AS A FEDERAL AGENT, Karen Vail was required to carry her sidearm wherever she traveled. But Robby, being a state officer, transported his weapon in a locked box, and it had to remain there; he was not permitted to carry it on his person. This fact was not lost on Vail as she removed her sidearm from her Velcro fanny pack. She reached down to her ankle holster and pulled a smaller Glock 27 and handed it to Robby.

They moved slowly through the dim cave. The walls were roughened gunite, dirt brown and cold to the touch. The sprayed cement blend gave the sense of being in a real cave, save for its surface uniformity.

"You okay in here?" Robby asked.

"Don't ask. I'm trying not to think about it." But she had no choice. Vail had developed claustrophobia after the recent incident in the Dead Eyes Killer's lair. Though she never had experienced such intense anxiety, it was suddenly a prominent part of her life. Going into certain parking garages, through commuter tunnels, and even into crammed elevators became a fretful experience. But it wasn't consistent. Sometimes it was worse than others.

Overall, it was inconvenient—and no fun admitting you had such an irrational weakness. But she was now afflicted with the malady and she did her best to control it. Control? Not exactly. It controlled her. Manage it was more accurate. Take her mind off it, talk herself through it until she could move into roomier quarters.

Sometimes, though, she thought she might actually claw through walls to get out. Getting squeezed into an elevator was the worst. For some reason, people didn't mind cramming against you if the alternative meant waiting another minute or two for the next car.

Vail slung her purse over her shoulder so it rested on her back, then moved the weak light around, taking care not to tread on anything that might constitute evidence.

"Maybe we should call it in," Robby said. "Let the locals handle it."

"The locals? This isn't exactly Los Angeles, Robby. I seriously doubt they have a whole lot of murders out here. If the vic's been cut like Miguel says, the local cops'll be out of their league. They're going to look at the crime scene but won't know what they're seeing."

"Beyond the obvious, you mean."

"The obvious to me and the obvious to a homicide detective are not the same things, Robby. You know that. When you encounter something unusual—no matter what profession you're talking about—would you rather hire someone who's seen that unusual thing a thousand times, or someone who's only seen it once or twice?"

"If we do find something, we won't have a choice. We've got no jurisdiction here."

"Yeah, well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

They turned left down another tunnel, which opened into a large storage room of approximately a thousand square feet. Hundreds of French oak barrels sat on their sides, stacked one atop the other, three rows high and what must've been fifty rows long. A few candelabras with low-output lightbulbs hung from above, providing dim illumination. The walls and ceiling were constructed of roughened multicolored brick, with multiple arched ceilings that rose and plunged and joined one another to form columns every fifteen feet, giving the feel of a room filled with majestic gazebos.

A forklift sat dormant on the left, pointing at an opening along the right wall, where, amidst a break in the barrels, was another room. They moved toward it, Vail shining the flashlight in a systematic manner from left to right as they walked. They stepped carefully, foot by foot, to avoid errant hoses and other objects like ... a mutilated woman's body.

They entered the anteroom and saw a lump in the darkness on the ground.

Robby said, "That bridge you just mentioned? I think we just came to it."

"Shit," Vail said.

"You didn't think Miguel was pulling our leg, did you? He looked pretty freaked out."

"No, I figured he saw something. I was just hoping it was a sack of potatoes, and in some kind of wine-induced stupor, he thought it was a dead woman."

"With her breasts cut off?"

"Hey, I'm an optimist, okay?"

Robby looked at her. "You're an optimist?"

As they stood there, Vail couldn't take her eyes off the body. She'd come to Napa to relax, to get away from work. Yet lying on the cold ground a little over twenty feet away was an all-too-obvious reminder of what she'd come here to escape.

Then she mentally slapped herself. She was pissed at having her vacation ruined. The woman in front of her had her life ruined.

Vail took a deep breath. "You have cell service? We need to call this in."

Robby flipped open his phone. "No bars."

"No bars in Napa? Some other time and place, that would be funny." She shook her head. "I can't believe I just said that."


Excerpted from Crush by Alan Jacobson. Copyright © 2009 Alan Jacobson. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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