Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(53)

“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.”