Vail tucked her chin back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My sense is that he’s had a bad day. And right now, with the people in his office and the noises coming from inside, I think it’s only gotten worse.” She lifted the receiver and poked a button. While it rang, she said to Vail, “Not to mention he should’ve gone home fifteen minutes ago.”
Vail’s relationship with Gifford was odd, to say the least, for an ASAC and an agent. Profilers usually dealt directly with their unit chief. But Vail and Gifford always worked one-on-one. Her unit chief didn’t mind—at least, he’d never said anything to her about it—although that could’ve been Gifford’s doing. Maybe he labeled her a troublemaker and felt a more direct, hands-on approach would be the best way of keeping her reined in.
Am I a troublemaker?
Lenka set the handset back in its cradle. “You can go in.”
Vail nodded, then turned toward the office door.
“Good luck.”
Vail looked over her shoulder at Lenka, hesitated with her hand on the knob, then walked in.
And it immediately became apparent why Lenka had wished her luck. Gifford was behind his desk. Standing to his left was FBI director Douglas Knox. And to his right was DEA administrator Bronson McGuire. Gifford did not look pleased.
Knox did not look pleased.
Nor did McGuire.
In fact, they looked downright angry, like frustrated cougars who couldn’t get at their meal. And Vail suddenly felt like a sacrificial lamb.
“Agent Vail,” Knox said. “Good of you to finally join us.”
“I just got word—”
“I received a call about an hour ago,” Knox continued. “Do you know who it was?”
“I’m guessing it was Administrator McGuire,” Vail said, and glanced at McGuire. Is he salivating?
“That’s right,” McGuire said. “I had a scheduled meeting with the president, which was supposed to be happening—” he consulted his watch “—right about now. Only once have I ever told a president I had to reschedule. And that was when I was in an ambulance on the way to an emergency appendectomy.”
Vail licked her lips. Something tells me I’m about to have some scars of my own.
“Do you know what the problem is?” Knox asked.
“No sir, not exactly.” There’ve been so many things I’ve fucked up. Take your pick.
Knox’s eyes flicked over to McGuire before settling back on Vail. “I’m pulling you off this case. Effective immediately.”
“You mean Rob—Detective Hernandez’s case?”
“That would be the one,” McGuire said. “You weren’t officially authorized to be working it, anyway. And if you’d kept your nose out of things, we wouldn’t be needing to have this discussion.”
“Okay,” Gifford said, lifting a hand. “Just hold it right there. We all know that’s not true.”
McGuire snorted. “We don’t know it’s not true. Agent Vail—”
“No need to rehash it,” Gifford said. “I’ve heard your position.”
McGuire’s hard stare spoke volumes. Gifford, a subordinate, was standing up to the DEA administrator. Ballsy. Risky. And—holy shit—it sounds like he’s defending me.
“Your actions,” McGuire said to Vail, “have seriously jeopardized a years-long effort to take down the Cortez cartel. And while I understand your knee-jerk, ill-conceived, half-assed attempt to find your boyfriend, we are professionals. We all know the risks when we go undercover. Detective Hernandez certainly knew them.”
Gifford shifted his feet, turned his head, and looked off at the wall. Vail couldn’t help noticing. Interesting body language—that statement made him uncomfortable. Why? Because he feels responsible for what happened to Robby?
“This operation is far more important than absolving yourself of guilt over having blown his cover. And possibly costing him his life.”
Vail clenched her jaw. She had reached her tolerance point for taking the bullshit McGuire was doling out. Respect for authority or not, she could not let his statement stand without a response.
“I resent the implication, sir,” Vail started.
“I’m not implying anything. I thought I was pretty damn clear.”
“Bronson,” Knox said firmly, “that’s enough. This has been a tragedy. For the DEA op, for Detective Hernandez—and, yes, for Agent Vail. Pointing the finger is not going to get us anywhere. Move on.”
“Fine,” McGuire said. He turned to Vail. “Then let’s get something straight. If you ever get in the face of one of my ASACs, I’ll make sure you’re busted down from the BAU so you regret your behavior for a good long time.” He faced Knox. “The Bureau is done here. Don’t come near my operation. I’ll let you know when we find Hernandez. Alive—” he turned to Vail—“or dead.”
McGuire slammed the door on his way out. The room was silent.
“Don’t worry about him,” Director Knox said. “He’s got no jurisdiction over Bureau personnel matters. I’ll clean up the mess once he calms down. But me . . . that’s another story. We are done with this case, and you do have to do as I tell you, Agent Vail. Because I do have the power to make your life miserable. And I know you’re not even close to retiring from the Bureau, so let’s be honest. Your work is exceptional but you tend to find yourself in deep shit more often than is acceptable. Don’t think I’ve not been made aware of all your recent escapades. And for an FBI director to be made aware of the actions of a profiler in the BAU, that means something’s wrong with its management.”
Knox did not look at Gifford, but the implications were clear.
Shit. Gifford deserves a lot of things, but blame for my screw-ups is not one of them. “Mr. Gifford suggested suspending me by a crane over the Potomac to keep me out of trouble.” Levity. Did it work?
Knox looked at her, an expression that said he was gauging whether or not she was serious. Gifford was facing away, clearly uncomfortable.
Gazing squarely at Vail, Knox said, “That may yet be a good idea.” He turned to leave. “I’ll take it under consideration.”
When the door clicked shut, Vail found a nearby chair and fell into it. Hard.
Gifford stood there, staring at her, sucking his bottom lip. Seconds passed. “Damn it, Karen.”
“Sir—”
“No. Just goddamn it. I have a love-hate relationship with you, you know that? You frustrate the hell out of me. I don’t know what the hell to do with you sometimes. If you weren’t so damn valuable to the unit, I’d recommend you be kicked out of the Bureau so far you wouldn’t be able to find your way back.”
Vail leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees. This time, for once, she kept her mouth shut.
“What the hell were you thinking? Threatening Yardley, a DEA ASAC? What possible good did you think would come out of that?”
“We were trying to get information about Sebastian’s CI,” Vail said. “Yardley didn’t want to help us out. I was just trying to save Robby.”
“Yeah, about that. Your behavior might just have sealed your boyfriend’s fate. Because we can’t do anything to help find him now. And we’re the ones who are most concerned about his well-being.”
Gifford’s voice was now so loud Vail was sure it could be heard on the other side of his door.
“Do you realize that? We are fucked. You heard the director.”
“I heard him, but—”
“Robby’s status—a task force officer—was some goddamn fabrication we created to help him advance his career because there was no task force. But it leaves him in no-man’s-land. He’s not one of DEA’s own. Will they go to the end of the earth to save him? Probably. But do you see any written guarantees? Because I sure don’t. I can tell you that this op is hugely important to them. They have to nail it to show the war on drugs is worth pumping more money into. With all federal budgets under pressure, you bet they need a home run on this. Normally, they’d do everything they could to get Robby back. But
with all this in play, it’s not a normal situation.” Gifford hung his head and said, beneath his breath, “And it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“No sir. I’m the one who blew his cover.”
Gifford’s head snapped up. “And I’m the one who pulled strings to get him into that operation in the first place.” He shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and massaged his face briskly with a hand.
Vail watched him. He was under unaccountably severe duress. Yes, a law enforcement officer was in danger. And some time ago, Gifford had promised Robby’s mother he would look after him. Was that all there was to this? Or was there something more?
“Sir, we’ll find him. Hector and I have got a line—”
“Karen, I don’t want to hear this. I can’t hear this. Did you get what the director just said to you? The Bureau’s done, we’re out of this. Our hands are tied.”
“Your hands are tied, sir. I don’t intend to sit by and wait for Robby’s body to show up on a morgue slab, or worse—along the side of some Mexican highway. Not gonna happen.”
Vail realized Gifford was not listening. He was staring ahead, at nothing in particular. Eyes glazed.
“I promised his mother I’d look after him. On her death bed, I promised.”
Vail studied his face a long moment—and then it hit her. She should have seen it before . . . the information had been there, teasing away at her brain for months, but she never put it all together. Until now, the look in Gifford’s eyes. Guilt—but not just guilt.
“Robby isn’t just the son of a good friend, is he, sir? He’s your son. Biologically.”
Gifford’s eyes found hers. But he did not reply.
Back when they were working the Dead Eyes case, Robby told her he suspected Gifford of having a fling with his mom. Vail assumed it was a recent occurrence, in the year before his mother died. But what if it had been a much longer relationship than Vail realized—than Robby realized? “You knew Alexandra a great many years,” she said softly. “You had an affair with her. A long time ago.”
Gifford rocked forward in his seat and dropped his gaze to his desk. In a weak voice as flat as Texas, he said, “I think it’s time you left.”
Vail sat there, debating how hard to push. But she realized she knew all there was to know—for now. Her time was best spent trying to find Robby. After what just went down, she had to operate under the radar of both the Bureau and the DEA.
It was then that she realized it was a good thing the man assisting her was Hector DeSantos. Under the radar was his specialty.
58
Vail met DeSantos at the World War II memorial. When she had called and told him she was officially removed from the case, he told her to put that thought on hold.
“I’ve got someone who wants to meet.” He told her where and encouraged her not to be late.
She caught a cab and was there two minutes early. Vail got out and walked toward the towering southern entrance, the limestone block four-poster Pacific gateway. A giant stone wreath hung above, supported by eagles in midflight. Splitting off to both sides of the archway were dozens of freestanding pillars, each lettered in relief with the states’ names, in addition to the various U.S. territories. The columns were dramatically lit from below and curved in a gentle semicircle, forming a recessed central plaza, where a large, active fountain sat. Carved in bas relief along two long walls were scenes depicting iconic milestones in the war.
Standing a few yards from the edge of the rainbow pool was Hector DeSantos. Several clumps of people milled about the water’s periphery, including the usual contingent of tourists with cameras; older men reminiscing about the war and commiserating about how the world had changed in the intervening decades; children holding their grandfathers’ hands, learning their country’s history in a way that transcended textbooks and two-dimensional black-and-white photos.
Vail walked up to DeSantos and was about to speak when he tapped her arm, then turned to his right and began walking. He stopped twenty yards later, near a cutout in the pool’s rim, midway between the Pacific and Atlantic gateways. A man sat at the water’s edge, hands clasped around his knees.
Vail eyed him closely. It was Sammy, DeSantos’s DEA contact.
DeSantos sauntered toward the man but kept a distance so that the two of them did not appear to know each other. Vail stood at DeSantos’s left, between him and Sammy. She figured it was her job to stand there and make like DeSantos was chatting with her, when in fact he was talking across her to Sammy.
“What’ve you got?” DeSantos asked.
Sammy looked down at his lap and picked at a loose thread on his shirt. “I haven’t heard anything about your guy.”
“Who would you be hearing this from?” Vail asked. She glanced at DeSantos and noticed his tight jaw. But she couldn’t help herself.
Sammy did not react. Calmly, he said, “We have more assets in place than just the two you knew about. They send us texts using clean phones, but contacting them is risky and not always possible. We prefer to keep it a one-way street.”
DeSantos faced Vail, as if he was talking to her. “And?”
“They’re gearing up for some big changes. Some new shit with real bad consequences.”
“How so?”
Sammy looked out at the fountains a moment, then tucked his chin.
Vail realized he was probably hiding his face in case anyone was attempting to read his lips. Good tradecraft—but paranoid as shit.
“You know about the wine bottles? The labels?”
“The black tar heroin,” DeSantos said. “The LSD.”
“There’s more to it. They’re testing something new, something that could turn the drug trade on end. A potent drug with a revolutionary delivery system. No needles. Using the wine bottle labels.”
“What drug?”
“BetaSomnol. Ever hear of it?”
Vail couldn’t help but turn toward Sammy. “Fuck yes. I was shot up—”
“Honey,” DeSantos said with a forced chuckle. “Please watch your language.” He grinned at her, then said in a whisper, “Keep your eyes in my direction and lower your goddamn voice.”
“I was injected with it,” Vail said. “It put me to sleep. Why would ‘our guy’ think there’s anything special about that?”
“Injecting the drug causes different effects,” Sammy said. “But put the drug on a film—or a label—and then put the film on your tongue . . . and you’ve got a novel delivery system. Oral and transdermal. It releases part of its total drug content orally—which produces the nap you experienced with the injection. But the rest of the drug is transdermally released to produce the lasting high upon waking a few minutes later.”
“Who’d want to walk around with this film in your mouth?” DeSantos asked.
Sammy shook his head, then examined something he was holding in his hand. A digital camera. He thumbed through the pictures on the display while he talked. “Transdermal delivery deposits the drug in the dermis, the tongue’s top layers under the patch. When the patch is removed, the dermis continues to release the drug into the person’s system. So the euphoria continues even though the film’s been removed. It’s a very intense, long-lasting high. The gift that keeps giving.”
Vail looked out at the milling tourists as they snapped photos. “This is new?”
“Totally. BetaSomnol is used in hospitals as a powerful, fast-acting sedative—”
“I know how it’s used.”
“Then you know it’s a growing problem. Abuse by physicians on long shifts. They take the drug and it induces a rapid nap. After they wake, they have an intense, momentary high—which doesn’t last because they’re not using the transdermal film—but it does make it seem as if they’d slept for hours, even though it’s only been about twenty minutes. Helps on long shifts.”
“And that’s legal?” Vail asked.
“Not exactly. But it’s becoming an abuse problem among hospital docs and nurses. Guevara found out about
this. There was a doc at the hospital in Napa who nearly killed himself when he screwed up and misadministered the BetaSomnol to himself. Guevara heard about it, had an idea, took it to Cortez, and their chemist started working on it. Five months later, he came up with this transdermal film, modeled after a patented process that’s currently used in the manufacture of Duragesic. Transdermal Fentanyl.”
“And there’s a market for this?” DeSantos said.
“Guevara wanted to bring something big to Cortez. Be a big feather in his cap. He’d already looked into using Propofol, the shit that killed Michael Jackson. But it was too damn dangerous. Too easy for some junkie to OD—that’d bring serious addict heat.”
“Addict heat?” Vail asked.
“When addicts start dying, the police take notice and come down hard. The cops know they’ve got a big problem, so it gets more attention. I’m not saying we look the other way when there aren’t as many junkies dying—but it’d make the papers. And once that happened, word would get out the stuff’s no good. Bad for business. So the cartels gotta keep their customers happy. And alive. Dead customers tend to stop buying stuff.”
DeSantos took Vail’s hand in his. He obviously wanted this to look believable. It didn’t help that Vail turned and gave him a hard stare.
“Cortez wasn’t totally convinced it was safe. Apparently skin permeability varies person to person and he didn’t want to risk it. But a couple days ago, his chemists came up with a fix. They refined the product by processing the film with some chemicals. It worked. Word is that it produces a very intense, long-lived high—that’s completely safe. And the return on investment’s very high. The label can be sliced into multiple smaller sections, multiplying the doses per smuggled wine bottle. His goal is to create a whole new craze in the marketplace. And Cortez is the only one who’s got it. He’s the sole supplier. He’ll clean up.”
“Great,” Vail said. “Not good enough we’ve got tens of millions of drug abusers in this country. Now he’s gonna make it quick, easy, and safe to walk around stoned. Great goddamn world we live in.”
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