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 excellent 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 pulled 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 Valley Medical Center, Vail called 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 hell.”
Dixon popped open her door. “Look on the bright side. When was the last time you caught two serial killers 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 telling how long he’ll 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 hall 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 still gonna work it. Soon as Cannon is conscious, he and I will 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 pulled herself straight in the chair and said, “I’ll 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 well.
“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 full 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.
PART 2
TRACTION
Washington Dulles International Airport
Fairfax & Loudoun Counties
Dulles, VA
The 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 Dulles 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 all 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—full 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 pulled 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 followed 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 still missing and when I left, we still 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.
“Hopefully 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 really 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 illumination 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 wall, where gold leaf frames hung suspended adjacent to one another, covering the expansive wall. A busboy delivered a flat aluminum pitcher, embossed with black letters that read “Filtered Water.”
“You ever been here before?” Bledsoe asked.
Vail was still taking in the décor. “First time.”
“Everything’s good. The sandwiches fit my budget and are delish. Especially the Reuben and the grilled Portobello.”
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?”
“Call me Hector. I won’t tell you what my friends call me.”
Vail looked up. Standing there was a man a couple inches over six feet, impeccably dressed in a dark pinstripe suit with small-rimmed designer glasses.
“Where’d you come from?”
“Originally?” DeSantos asked. “That’s classified.”
Vail frowned. “Look, Mr.—Hector. I’m in a real shitty mood. I’ve just had the week from hell chasing down two serial killers. 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 tell 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 grilled sixteen ounce rib eye with—”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll 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 Killer 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. Cell 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 killer 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 all the info. He looked at his water glass, lifted it, and took a drink. Finally he said, “This is some fucked up shit, Agent Vail. I don’t know what to make of it. Or where to even begin.”
“Call me Karen. And I know very well 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 still 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.
Bledsoe said, “Hector went through the death of a loved one. He knows what it’s like. I don’t think he made that comment lightly.”
“I didn’t,” DeSantos said. “And the facts are that after the first forty-eight hours—”
“I’m not some ill-informed civilian. I know what the deal is with missing persons. That’s why I’ve been running myself ragged. Because I know that every minute that passes, the likelihood of finding him, if he is still alive—” She felt her throat catch and stopped.
DeSantos sucked on his cheek a moment, then said, “I’ve got some materials Bledsoe put together for me. I’m going to review them tonight and poke around. But I want to be totally honest with you. I’m probably going to have to dig deeper, use resources that should only be used for sensitive government work. Robby going missing is a personal case. At best, it’s a local case for Napa County to deal with.”
“That’s not tr—”
DeSantos held up a hand. “I deal with issues where national security’s at risk, where thousands, tens of thousands, or millions of lives are at stake. To use my resources for one life . . . ”
“Rewind a bit, Hector,” Bledsoe said. “If you were sitting in Karen’s seat—”
“I get your point,” DeSantos said firmly. “I already said I’d help and I’ll honor that. You know me, you know I’m good for that. But you’ve gotta understand there are limits. That’s just the way it is. Because if I step too deep into the shit, the director will be on my ass. I know him personally, and I try to keep my relationship with him in a good way.”
Their food came, and Vail looked at the salmon in front of her. The presentation was exquisite and the aroma rising from her food did not disappoint. But she had lost her appetite. Robby was on her mind. She thought of all the serial killer victim families she had met over the years. Most at least knew the fate of their loved ones. Robby was gone. Alive? Injured? Dead? Tortured? Inhumanely disposed of? Not knowing was an internal torment she would have to deal with for now. It would fuel her hunger for finding him. Or finding answers to what had happened to him—and why.
Then she would catch whoever was responsible. And make him pay.
35
Bledsoe dropped Vail at home. She said a few words to the cop Fairfax County had assigned to watch over Jonathan, and then trudged up to her front door.
The porch light was out, making the area darker than usual. She made a mental note to change the bulb. For safety’s sake, it’s the least she could do. Lighting and trimmed shrubs were as important as loc
ks . . . they acted as deterrents and indicated to a would-be offender that the occupant was aware of her environment and personal security.
Before Vail could bring up a fist to knock, the wooden door swung open. Her Aunt Faye was standing there, a dishrag in hand. “Well, well, well. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come home.”
Vail pulled on the screen door, then gave her aunt a hug. “It’s good to be home.”
Faye squinted, looking around Vail at the dark stoop. “Where’s your luggage?”
Vail lifted her arm, revealing the day bag. “I packed light.”
“Nonsense,” she said, looking intently into Vail’s eyes. “I remember you leaving with a large suitcase.”
Vail moved into the house and tossed her bag onto the couch. “Let’s just say it’s a long story and leave it at that.”
“Did your friend drop you off? Robby, isn’t it?”
“He’s—no, another friend of mine brought me home.”
Faye leaned in closer, then turned on the living room light. She made a point of studying Vail’s face. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Me?” You don’t want to know. Trust me. She forced a phony smile. “All in a week’s work. There’s nothing I won’t do for the Bureau.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned her head away, viewed Vail from the corner of her eyes. “So what was it, really?”
“A case. It got a little rough. Good thing is the bad guy got the worst of it.”
“Your work is so dangerous, Kari. I don’t know why you do it.”
Vail wasn’t going to be baited into this discussion. She was not in the mood to discuss it. Instead, she stepped into the hallway. “Jonathan home?”
“In his room.”
Vail took another few steps to his door. Knocked. No answer. Napping? Not likely at 8:00 PM. Tried the knob—unlocked—so she walked in. Jonathan was sitting at his desk, his back to her, large black gaming headphones covering his ears and his Xbox 360 controller in his hand.
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