Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(87)

“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.