Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (21 page)

Scott Ful er vanished from her thoughts when she felt a nudge on her forearm.

She turned to see Margot looking at her, wanting attention. Vail sat down on the floor and Margot jumped into her lap. Quinn came running over, and having lost the

“prime real estate” to Margot, took up the next best location—alongside Vail’s thigh.

With a hand on each dog, Vail felt soothed by their curly fur. She got as much comfort from stroking them as Margot and Quinn seemed to be getting from the human contact.

Dixon walked into the room and gathered Vail’s soiled towel and bedsheets.

“Maybe I need one of these,” Vail said as Margot reached back and gave Vail a lick on the cheek.

“Standards are terrific dogs. Extremely smart, very athletic and physical, and they live for the human connection. Great companions—and excel ent watchdogs.

A lot of upkeep, though. Trimming their coats, keeping their fur free of tangles—”

“Seems like it’s worth it.”

“I don’t regret it for a minute.”

Vail patted Margot’s chest and the dog disengaged herself from Vail’s lap. Vail pul ed herself off the floor and grabbed what amounted to an overnight bag.

She said good-bye to Margot and Quinn, then left the house with Dixon. En route to Napa Val ey Medical Center, Vail cal ed the car service that Gifford’s secretary, Lenka, had arranged, and gave them the new address where she was to be picked up.

When they arrived, Vail sat in Dixon’s Ford, staring out the windshield at the ER

bay. “When were we here with Mayfield?”

“A couple days ago?”

Vail brought both hands to her face and rubbed at her eyes and cheeks. “This has been a week from hel .”

Dixon popped open her door. “Look on the bright side. When was the last time you caught two serial kil ers in one week?”

Vail gave Dixon a weary look. “Nice try, Roxx. But until I find out what happened to Robby—or find him alive—I won’t consider the past ten days a success.”

Dixon got out and closed her door. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

They made their way into the ER and found the charge nurse. Cannon had been brought in, triaged, and sent directly to the OR. “Brain surgery. No tel ing how long he’l be in there.”

“What was wrong?”

“Subdural hematoma. That’s bleeding in the brain due to traumatic—”

“Yeah, we got that part,” Vail said. “Thanks.”

“Roxxann.”

Behind them, Austin Mann was approaching. He looked surprisingly fresh for nearly 3:30 in the morning.

“Cannon’s in surg—”

“We know,” Vail said. “You get a chance to talk with him before they took him back?”

Mann twisted his mouth. “No such luck. Came in unconscious.”

Vail looked around for a seat. Ahead and down the hal was the waiting room.

She led the way and wearily lowered herself into a chair. “So that’s it.”

“Hey, we’re not giving up,” Mann said. “Just because you’re gettin’ on that plane doesn’t mean this is ‘case closed.’ We’re stil gonna work it. Soon as Cannon is conscious, he and I wil have a chat. We learn anything, we know where to find you.”

Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She sighed, then lifted it out of its holster. “Vail.” She listened a moment, then said, “You’re early.” She pul ed herself straight in the chair and said, “I’l be right out. Yeah, in the back, by the ambulance bay.”

Vail shoved her phone onto her belt, looked at Dixon and Mann, then stood up.

They rose as wel .

“There’s nothing more to do here,” Mann said. “At this point, ten, fifteen minutes isn’t going to make a difference.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

Dixon gave Vail’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s time to go.”

Vail smirked. “I think the fat lady is singing, Roxx.”

Dixon gave her a firm hug. “The fat lady doesn’t sing under my watch, Karen.

She’s not even here.”

Vail turned and shook Mann’s hand, thanked him, then headed off to grab her bag from Dixon’s car.

As the cool night air struck her cheeks, she thought back to when she and Robby landed at SFO. The time ahead ful of promise, fun, play, and relaxation. And now, as she settled into the rear seat of the black Towne Car, she wished she could have a “do over.”

If only I hadn’t insisted on working the Victoria Cameron case. If only I’d taken
Robby’s advice and let it go.
If only she had done nothing that she had done.

Things would be different. Robby would be here with her. And she wouldn’t feel the empty void that now enveloped her like a straitjacket.

Washington Dulles International Airport

Fairfax & Loudoun Counties

Dulles, VA

T
he flight home was uncomfortable. Vail hadn’t expected to sleep, but the woman next to her seemed to have bathed in some horrendous floral perfume—enough to perfuse every passenger on the plane. It irritated Vail’s nose and she launched into a sneezing fit multiple times throughout the flight. And there was nothing she could do about it. There were no vacant seats—but she wasn’t sure any seat was far enough away to evade the offensive scent.

After landing and powering up her phone, Vail e-mailed Dixon to ask if anything had broken while she was in the air. Dixon replied immediately: “Cannon’s no help.

Amnesia. Hang in there.”

Now, standing in a Dul es restroom before heading out, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. It may not have been a red-eye, but she exhibited al the manifestations of it. Add in the bruises and cuts, and she looked like a boxer who’d gone twelve rounds and lost. Felt like one, too.

She passed a coffee kiosk and grabbed a shot of espresso—ful octane to get her brain and body moving—and went out to the curb, where Detective Paul Bledsoe was due to pick her up.

It was a quarter past five and the early evening was masked by a gray, depression-draped sky. Vail was not dressed for the weather, which she estimated at around 45 degrees. She waited just inside the doors until she saw Bledsoe arrive out front. She tossed her overnight bag into the backseat and climbed into his department-issued Crown Victoria.

“Where’s your luggage?”

“It ended up being reduced to fine dust and aerosolized into the Napa air.”

Bledsoe pul ed away from the curb and entered the airport traffic, which was headed en masse toward other terminals—and the exit. He looked at her for additional explanation.

“Long story.”

“With you, I know better than to ask.” He merged left and fol owed the exit sign.

“So, this case your boss brought you back for. Know anything about it?”

“Not a whole lot. I wasn’t paying much attention, other than trying to get out of having to come home. Robby’s stil missing and when I left, we stil had a lot of unanswered questions.”

Bledsoe leaned forward in his seat to check his mirror, then changed lanes.

“Make any progress?”

Vail bobbed her head from side to side. “I guess ‘progress’ is a relative term.”

She summarized what had transpired the past ten days with surprising detachment.

“Hopeful y your luck’s gonna turn,” Bledsoe said as he entered the interstate. “I’m taking you over to meet my guy, name’s Hector—”

“DeSantos. I remember. You real y think he can help?”

“Don’t know. But he’s got access to people and information most law enforcement agencies don’t even know exist.”

“Hope you’re right. I’m tired and pissed off and desperate.”

“Good,” Bledsoe said with a grin. “So nothing’s new.”

That brought a smile to Vail’s face. “I guess, in a sense, it’s good to be home.”

He elbowed her, then accelerated.

DESPITE THE RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC, they arrived at the D.C. location of Clyde’s a quarter past six. They started to put their names down, but Bledsoe made a point of brushing his sport coat back, which had the effect of flashing a little brass of his badge. Whether or not it made a difference, Vail didn’t know, but they were seated within ten minutes. From what she knew of Clyde’s at prime dinnertime, that was pretty damn good.

They were ushered up the grand staircase, past the hostess station, and into the strikingly ornate dining room. Elaborate blown glass dish- shaped light fixtures hung from the walnut wood ceiling, suspended by multiple wires that splayed out from a central point, providing just enough il umination to be romantic without being dark.

Square columns rose throughout the room, dividing it into private dining areas.

Plate clanks, utensil clinks, and inspired chatter rose from the patrons. It was either a good place for a covert conversation or a bad one: you might not be able to hear what the other person at your table was saying—but neither would an eavesdropper hovering nearby.

They settled into a booth along the far wal , where gold leaf frames hung suspended adjacent to one another, covering the expansive wal . A busboy delivered a flat aluminum pitcher, embossed with black letters that read “Filtered Water.”

“You ever been here before?” Bledsoe asked.

Vail was stil taking in the décor. “First time.”

“Everything’s good. The sandwiches fit my budget and are delish. Especial y the Reuben and the gril ed Portobel o.”

Vail peeled open her menu and her eyes caught sight of the crab cakes. Her stomach growled. Without looking up, she asked, “So where’s Mr. DeSantos?”

“Cal me Hector. I won’t tel you what my friends cal me.”

Vail looked up. Standing there was a man a couple inches over six feet, impeccably dressed in a dark pinstripe suit with smal -rimmed designer glasses.

“Where’d you come from?”

“Original y?” DeSantos asked. “That’s classified.”

Vail frowned. “Look, Mr.—Hector. I’m in a real shitty mood. I’ve just had the week from hel chasing down two serial kil ers. My boyfriend’s missing. More than that, believe me, you don’t want to know.”

Bledsoe slid over in his seat. DeSantos sat, then folded his hands on the table in front of him.

“You think you’ve got a lock on shitty weeks? Believe me, you don’t want to hear some of mine.” He looked hard at her, his eyes boring into hers, reinforcing what he had just told her.

Vail had no urge to push him on that assertion.

Bledsoe, apparently concerned over the icy start to their conversation, said, “I’ve asked Hector here because he can help.”

DeSantos held up a hand. “We don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Bledsoe said firmly, “we do.”

DeSantos shook his head and looked away to his left, into the open end of the room. “I’m only here because I owe you. There are no guarantees I can offer you anything of value.”

Vail closed her menu and looked at Bledsoe. “This is a waste of time.”

“No, it’s not. Just tel Hector what you know.”

Before Vail could answer, the waitress appeared, ready to take their order.

DeSantos, who hadn’t even looked at the menu, ordered first. “You have steak?”

The waitress pointed at the closed menu in front of Bledsoe. “We’ve got a gril ed sixteen ounce rib eye with—”

“Perfect.”

“I’l have the Rueben,” Bledsoe said.

Vail handed over her menu. “Salmon for me.”

The woman asked a few more questions, then left.

Bledsoe gestured to Vail to pick up the conversation.

“Robby—Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez. Thirty years old, detective with Vienna PD.”

“Little Vienna? They have detectives on their force?” He looked at Bledsoe. “I’m serious.”

“Yes, Hector, they’re a real PD and they’ve even got real detectives.”

“So Robby and I were in Napa,” Vail said, “and I was working the Crush Kil er case, and he was out sightseeing and wine tasting.”

DeSantos held up a hand. “So if Robby wasn’t working the case with you, why did he tag along to California?”

“I didn’t go there to work. It was supposed to be a vacation for both of us. But it didn’t work out that way.” Vail felt a pang of guilt in her abdomen. Heck, it was more than a pang. It was a lancing wound.

“So from what little Bledsoe told me,” DeSantos said, “your friend’s gone.”

“That’s about it. Cel left in the room, log deleted. Everything there, even his car.

A bloodstain on the carpet, near the bed, cleaned up. We’re awaiting DNA on the blood. We did the usual workup, but no one had seen him around. He had a friend, some guy named Sebastian, but we couldn’t find a Sebastian in the whole freaking region who knew Robby. Wait, that’s not true—what I said before, about no one seeing Robby. Someone had seen him. The serial kil er we grabbed up last night recognized Robby when I showed him a photo. He wasn’t sure where he’d seen him, but then he left me a message that seemed to suggest he’d seen Robby with a guy named César Guevara.” Vail then provided further details, including background on César Guevara and his Superior Mobile Bottling business.

DeSantos leaned back, his head tilted, processing al the info. He looked at his water glass, lifted it, and took a drink. Final y he said, “This is some fucked up shit, Agent Vail. I don’t know what to make of it. Or where to even begin.”

“Cal me Karen. And I know very wel what we’re dealing with. Thanks for your expert assessment.” She looked at Bledsoe, thinking,
So far this has been real
helpful.

“You don’t even know if he’s stil alive. Chances are good he’s not. Are you prepared for that?”

“No, Hector, I’m not prepared for that. Would you be prepared to accept the death of a loved one if she went missing, without doing everything in your power to find her?”

DeSantos seemed agitated. He glanced at Bledsoe but did not look at Vail.