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 locks . . . they acted as deterrents and indicated to a would-be offender that the occupant was aware of her environment and personal security.