Velocity kv-3

by Alan Jacobson

  “It’s a credible threat,” Sammy said. “We’re taking it very seriously. Only solution is to take down his organization. Or cut off its head and weaken it.”

  DeSantos let go of Vail’s hand and put his arm around her. “I think it’s time we got back, honey.”

  Vail rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear. Let’s get back.”

  DeSantos said, “Anything comes up on our guy, let me know.” He turned to glance at Sammy—but the man was thirty feet away, heading toward the steps at the far end of the plaza.

  59

  Vail called Gifford to update him on what they had learned from Sammy—and Lenka informed her he had just left the office. She could reach him on his cell, as he was headed into Georgetown for a late dinner.

  Gifford agreed to meet them at the restaurant provided they got there quickly and didn’t stay long.

  Georgetown Seafood Grill was located below street level in a marble-faced office building. DeSantos pulled his car to the curb, again with no regard for the district’s parking enforcement laws and the five—five—stacked No Parking signs that towered in front of the restaurant’s entrance.

  “They have valet parking,” Vail said, pointing to the A-frame sign at the curb.

  “Won’t be here that long. We’re fine.”

  They walked past a handwritten “50 cent Clams & Oysters” sign locked inside a display case that featured the restaurant’s menu, then descended the stone steps and pushed through the glass doors.

  Vail moved past the bar and into the maritime-themed dining area. Clinking glasses and silver-on-ceramic clatter mixed with the rumble of idle chatter among the patrons. Polished cherrywood booths were separated by frosted dividers, neatly finished by crisscrossed wires that wove through riveted holes in the glass. Oars hung overhead, alongside inverted canoes and three sizable swordfish.

  Gifford sat at a booth along the side wall, alone, a mixed drink in his hand and a menu propped up to his left. Vail slid in beside him. DeSantos stood at the end of the table, not wanting to invade the ASAC’s space without asking permission.

  Gifford motioned him in. “My friend should be here soon. Make it fast.”

  “We need to get the Bureau back in the game,” Vail said.

  Gifford set his drink down beside a metal porthole carved into the wall just above the table’s surface. He removed his reading glasses and said, “No.”

  “Sir—”

  “I realize ‘no’ is a hard concept for you, Karen. But this is a DEA op, and the FBI has no part in it. No jurisdiction.”

  “What about interstate trade? Crossing state lines? Kidnapping?”

  Gifford was silent.

  “Karen can be a pain in the ass,” DeSantos said, “But I think she’s right here.” He proceeded to recap what Sammy had told them. When he finished, Gifford sat back. He lifted an oversize canister marked SEA SALT and absentmindedly rotated it in his hand.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes. Yes. Kidnapping.” He set the salt container on the table. “This flies in the face of interagency cooperation. If we’re running our own op and not coordinating with DEA, it’s just bad. So let’s do it right. Keep DEA in the loop.”

  “And just how are we going to do that?” Vail asked. “We have no contact on the case other than Yardley. I don’t even know if Sebastian is still working it.”

  “He is. More than that, I don’t know. But the docs have cleared him for duty as of tomorrow.”

  DeSantos pushed his glasses back up his nose. “As soon as you tell Yardley we’re back in, he’ll throw a fit.”

  “Let me worry about that. Meantime, work it as a kidnap case, not a drug case.”

  “And the difference is?” Vail asked.

  “A matter of interpretation. But your objective is to find Robby—Detective Hernandez. It’s not to bring down the cartel. Let the DEA handle that. That should clarify it for you.”

  Not really. It’s not always possible to separate one string from a ball of yarn. You pull and yank and the whole thing starts to unravel.

  “Start out by letting DEA know about this BetaSomnol thing.”

  “Yeah . . . ” Vail said. “Can’t do that. And what I told you has to remain in confidence.”

  Gifford threw up his hands. “Karen—”

  “I’m sorry. It came from a very sensitive source.”

  “This isn’t the way to start off our newly restored relationship with DEA.”

  “I think it’s safe to assume the DEA knows all about Cortez’s plans for BetaSomnol.”

  “And how is that?”

  Vail bit her lip. He’s not going to like this. “Hypothetically. What if I told you that our sensitive source is a DEA agent working the case?”

  “Hypothetically, I’d have to say you’re finding new ways to shorten my life. Just when I thought I’d figured out what to expect from you—”

  “I got the info, didn’t I?”

  Gifford rubbed his face with both hands.

  “As soon as you have information you can share with DEA, I expect you to do that. For now, consider Antonio Sebastiani de Medina to be your contact. I’ll have Lenka text you his cell when I get in tomorrow.”

  Vail tossed a quick glance toward DeSantos. “I believe we’ve already got it, sir.”

  A woman dressed in a clinging violet dress and diamond drop necklace walked up to the table. The stress drained from Gifford’s face like water through a storm drain.

  DeSantos rose and nodded at the woman. Vail followed and excused herself.

  “Remember what we talked about,” Gifford said. “Both of you.”

  “Yes sir,” Vail said. She bowed slightly, as if he were Asian royalty. “Absolutely, sir. You know that whatever you say goes.”

  As they moved past the bar, DeSantos leaned close to her ear. “What’s up with that bowing thing?”

  “Just trying to make him look important in front of his date. He and I have our moments, but overall he’s a good man.”

  DeSantos grinned. “If you were his date, would you have bought that crap?”

  “Me?” She chuckled. “Come on.”

  They emerged from the restaurant and ascended the steps. DeSantos stopped short and yelled. “Fuck!”

  Vail turned to see what he was looking at—or, rather, what he was not looking at. The curb space was empty. His Corvette had been towed.

  60

  The morning arrived, a welcome occurrence given her futile attempt at sleeping. Earlier in the evening, Vail had spent a few hours with Jonathan, relating an edited version of her adventures in Napa and dancing around Robby’s disappearance by explaining that he was working undercover.

  They capped the evening by watching the latest Star Trek movie, during which Vail nursed a glass of bargain-priced Cabernet—a throw-back to her pre-enological education. The inevitable comparison to the fine Napa Valley out-of-her-budget reds that she had recently tasted was a foreseeable disappointment.

  Upon climbing into bed, instead of shutting down, her mind up-shifted to a gear in which she had spent too much time lately. Images, thoughts, and ideas zipped and flowed for hours. Mayfield, Fuller, Owens, Lugo, Cannon. Her friendship with Dixon, even Brix. Everyone paid a visit to her thoughts, except the sandman. But ultimately her focus was Robby. Not knowing if he was still alive . . . and if he was, what were they doing to him? She didn’t have to ask the DEA how cartel members treated exposed undercover agents.

  At four o’clock, in the desolate silence of the dark night, her pillowcase had absorbed an hour’s worth of tears and needed to be changed. She rolled out of bed, retrieved the new linen, and walked into Jonathan’s room. She sat down on his ottoman and watched him awhile. It was only a short time ago she had done this very thing—in a hospital, hoping to God he would regain consciousness. A huge battle among many in a war she was fighting at the time.

  And now, still engaged in that war, just a different theater. Like Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Vail grabbed breakfast wi
th Jonathan and Faye, then sent her son off to school while Faye went to visit Vail’s mother at the assisted care facility.

  “I saw her before I left for California,” Vail said as she cleared the table. “She seemed to be doing well.” She stopped in front of the sink, a plate in each hand, lost in thought. “As well as someone can be with advancing Alzheimer’s.”

  “I’ll tell her you send your love,” Faye said.

  Vail shook the funk from her thoughts, then set the dishes down. “Give her a kiss for me, will you?”

  Faye’s grin conveyed empathy mixed with pity. She gave the back of Vail’s head a thoughtful stroke. “Of course.”

  Vail spent the next hour in her den jotting down all she knew about Robby’s disappearance. It was not much help, but it passed the time until DeSantos picked her up. She slid into his Corvette, which looked no worse for its trip to the impound lot.

  DeSantos had summoned two cabs last night, one to take Vail home and the other to bring him to the tow yard.

  “Your Vette looks fine,” Vail said as he eased it onto the interstate. “I assume you got it all straightened out.”

  “Can we not talk about it?

  Vail suppressed a grin. And then her belt vibrated. A text from Dixon.

  can u get to a pc with internet?

  She wrote back:

  yes in about 15 min. K?

  “What’s the deal?” DeSantos asked.

  “We need a PC with a broadband connection.”

  “We can do that. When? For what?”

  “Got a text from Roxxann Dixon. Don’t know what it’s about.” Her BlackBerry buzzed again.dea bringing us on board. u and ur partner need to be plugged in. welcome to the dea

  She replied and told Dixon they would be ready. “I think we’re being added to a DEA task force.” Another text, this one from Gifford: expect a call. they’ve set up a jtf. pulled strings. u owe me. dont fu.

  Vail chuckled.

  DeSantos tossed her a sideways glance. “What’s so funny?”

  Vail shoved her phone into its holster. “Gifford. He pulled strings, got DEA to set up a joint task force. We’re apparently on it. He told me not to fuck it up.”

  “Give me a break,” DeSantos said. “With you on the case, does your boss really think things are going to go smoothly?”

  61

  A dark-skinned black man who fit the mold of a starting middle line-backer walked into the room. Sporting a shoulder slung beat-up leather messenger bag, unmoving confidence, and three day’s growth of stubble on his face, he dumped his satchel on the table. “I’m the DEA task force coordinator from the San Diego field division.” The man had the type of Brooklyn-specific accent that had faded somewhat with time and place, but still poked through on certain words. He stepped forward, found Dixon first, and extended a hand. “Guido Turino.”

  Dixon unsuccessfully suppressed a laugh.

  Turino had just clasped her hand. He tightened his grip. Narrowed his eyes. “You got a problem with something?”

  Dixon looked down at their conjoined hands, then at Turino. She squeezed back, matching his strength. “Just wondering. Is Guido your real name?”

  “My unit calls me Guy.”

  “Seriously. Guido? I mean, that was a joke we had growing up. You know, somebody screwed you over, you’d threaten to send Guido after him.”

  Turino cocked his head. “What are we in, junior high?”

  Dixon pulled her hand away, then dipped her chin. “You’re right. I apologize. I haven’t had a whole lot of sleep. It’s been a tough couple of weeks. I’m a little giddy.”

  Turino eyed her a moment, then nodded. “Then I suggest you find an empty room and get some rest.” He turned to the others. “We got a lot of work to do. Best we get down to it. First, I need to know who all of you are so I can match names in my file with faces.” He nodded at Dixon. “The tired, ditsy blonde. You are?”

  Dixon clenched her jaw. What the hell, she deserved that. “Roxxann—”

  “Dixon. Yeah, got it. And who’s Redmond Brix?”

  “Redd is fine,” Brix said. “And that’s Burt Gordon and Austin Mann.” He indicated each with a quick nod.

  Turino folded his arms across his thick chest. “I’ve been briefed on everything that’s gone down. The Mayfield thing, the Georges Valley AVA board stuff, Superior Mobile Bottling, and Guevara. You people’ve done a good fucking job on all that.” He frowned a moment at Dixon, still registering his disappointment with her, and said, “You should all be commended. And it makes me feel good that I’ll be working with all of you. Gets under my goddamn skin when I have to work with a bunch of rooks.” He threw back the flap of his bag, reached in, and extracted a thick file folder. Held it up and said, “I’ve got all your reports here, and some classified reports from our deep cover op.”

  “You got copies for us?” Dixon asked.

  “No. It’s deep cover. You got questions, I may be able to answer them. If something’s relevant, I’ll let you know. And that’s where I’m gonna start, if that’s okay with you.”

  Dixon set her jaw. “Just so we’re clear, Guy. I’m the lead investigator of this task force. So if I ask a question or make a request, I do expect you to make sure we have what we need to make correct and prudent decisions. We’re all professionals, and we’re all on the same side here. The information shared in this room stays in this room.”

  Turino sucked on his upper teeth. “I assume that doesn’t include the documents you left on the table in this here room, the one the Crush Killer stole right from your own house.”

  Dixon felt her blood pressure building.

  But it was Mann who spoke. “I completely understand your need to protect your assets undercover. If I was the guy with my balls on the line, I’d want a hard-ass like you protecting it. But there’s a certain level of trust we need here if we’re going to work together. That’s not an ATF thing, a DEA thing, or a Napa County sheriff thing. It’s just common sense.”

  “I’m glad we’re getting all this out in the open. Better that way. And like you said, Roxxann: Let’s be clear. We’re all on the same team, and I trust you people. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. But Operation Velocity is an extremely sensitive op spanning two continents and five countries, and might be on the verge of costing one of our men his life. So excuse me if I offend some of you. I’ll take what you said under consideration. But you have my word: I’ve been doing this a long time, and I have a real good feel as to what’s necessary information to release and what’s not. I’ll make sure you have what we need to find Task Officer Hernandez.”

  Dixon, Mann, Gordon, and Brix shared looks. None of them had anything to say, so Turino opened his file and splayed it open.

  Dixon’s phone buzzed. Text from Vail. They were ready. “Hold up,” Dixon said. “We’ve got Karen Vail and Hector DeSantos joining us by teleconference. Any of you know how to work that RoundTable thing we used the other day?”

  “I got it,” Mann said. He settled himself in front of the laptop that sat in the middle of the conference table, made sure they were logged into Live Messenger, then started the RoundTable device. “Are you there? Karen?”

  Vail—and a male figure—appeared on the laptop and on the projection screen. On Vail’s computer, she would see each of their likenesses strung along the bottom, with the person whose voice was loudest taking the top position as an enlarged image.

  “Hi everyone. Long time no see. This cool-looking dude to my right is Hector DeSantos.”

  A sad-sounding chorus of grunts and greetings issued forth from the various task force members.

  “Special Agent Guy Turino’s joined us. DEA.” Dixon knew that if she introduced him as Guido, Vail would likely have some smart comment—and Dixon already regretted subjecting Turino to that once.

  “You logged on at a good time.” Turino turned away from the screen and said, “All right. Picking up where I left off. This is a DEA operation, so DEA runs the show. We appreciate
the cooperation of your respective agencies and we’ll do our best to make sure everyone’s kept in the loop. You’re now officially federal TFOs—task force officers. As federal agents, you’ll be able to carry your sidearms across state lines and we’ll have jurisdiction to conduct our business.”

  Turino looked at the RoundTable camera telescoping up from the table surface and said, “Obviously, Vail and DeSantos, you don’t have to worry about that.” He reached into his file folder and spoke as he dug through some papers. “Because of Superior Mobile Bottling and Cesar Guevara’s involvement, this area’s been an important focal point for us—and might continue to be so.”

  Brix had a can of Coke Zero in front of him. He twirled it slowly as he spoke. “Since we’re all being honest with one another, I’d like to throw something out on the table. With DEA San Diego coordinating Sebastian’s and Hernandez’s op, isn’t it safe to say they wanted to be sure we’re all on the same page, that they don’t want us poking around without their knowledge? Seems to me, Guy, the easiest way to make sure they know what we’re doing is by bringing us under your thumb. We’re happy because we’re part of the team, but in reality, you’re just keeping us busy.”

  Turino scraped an open hand across his stubble. “I’m going to respect your intelligence, Redd. So the answer would be yes. And no. ‘No’ because I got better things to do with my time than be a baby-sitter. So yeah, they don’t want you poking your dicks in places that could fuck things up. But this’ll be an active, working task force. And because I’m in charge of it, you can bet your last dollar we’re gonna be at the epicenter of anything that goes down. That good enough for you?”

  “Absolutely,” Dixon said with a glance at Brix.

  Turino found the document he was looking for and set it in front of him. “Now then. I haven’t had a whole lot of time to put stuff together for this task force, but its goals and objectives are pretty damn clear. First off, it’s my job to get you up to speed on a few things you’ll need to know about the drug trade and how these cartels operate. One or two of you may know some of this stuff, but you won’t know all of it, so I’m going to go through it because I think the answer of where we focus our efforts is right here.”