Authors: Alan Jacobson
13
A
fter stopping to use the restroom on the way out of Scotland Yard, Reid retrieved their car and drove to the Turner Gallery. He dropped Vail off in front and went to find a place to park—not an easy task in this area, particularly with media trucks taking up valuable spots. While the Met’s vehicles did get exemptions from parking regulations for “police purposes,” there still had to be curb space.
As Vail turned to face the reporters, her phone vibrated. It was Montero again. She hit “ignore” and dodged the journalists en route to the cordoned off entrance to the building when she heard her name called out from somewhere beyond the crowd.
She turned to see Hector DeSantos giving one of the heavy-set cameramen a hearty shove to the side.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as he approached.
“Talk about a loaded question.” Vail ushered him under the crime scene tape and over to the side, so they could talk out of earshot of the press. “What happened to your cool glasses?”
“Contacts. You like the new me?”
Vail appraised him. “I’m not sure it’s an improvement.”
He shrugged. “My wife likes it.”
“So what about you? What’re you doing here?”
“Now
there’s
a loaded question,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s just say I got myself into some hot water, so I was exiled to England for some stupid ‘secret’ diplomatic mission.”
“You?” Vail asked, making a show of looking him up and down. “A diplomat?”
“I know, right? The only other person more unfit for diplomacy would be, well, you.”
Vail opened her mouth in mock surprise. “I’d kick you in the bollocks for that comment if it weren’t true.”
“Bollocks?”
“Testicles.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you’re using it right. It means nonsense. Bullshit.”
“I’ll have to remember that. So what’s your
secret
diplomatic mission?”
DeSantos hesitated, looking past her at the nearby reporters. “Here’s the thing. If I told you—”
“You’d have to kill me?”
DeSantos squinted. “No, Karen. If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
Vail eyed him. “Boy, you really are taking the diplomat role seriously.”
“I want my job back, so I took the assignment—my first one in four months. So I’ve gotta play the good soldier. Not as much fun as being blunt. Saying what’s on my mind, doing whatever I need to do. Having full autonomy to accomplish my mission.”
“I guess it’s fitting we’re in England talking about having a license to kill.”
DeSantos frowned. “I’m serious, Karen. Walking on eggshells and dancing around issues isn’t my way. I suck at it. I need this thing to go smoothly so I can get back to doing what I’m good at.” He nodded at her. “You really here on business? Or you here with Robby?”
Vail sighed. “Business. Definitely not pleasure.”
“Didn’t realize the Behavioral Analysis Unit did stuff internationally.”
“Not to state the obvious, but violent crime isn’t limited to the US. We consult all over the world, teach seminars on criminal investigative analysis, train foreign police forces on how to recognize when they’re dealing with a serial offender—same thing we do in the US.”
“So you’re here teaching?”
“No, I was in Spain teaching. My boss sent me here to do a threat assessment on the bombing.”
DeSantos craned his neck upward to the bombed out windows of the second story. “The crime scene?”
“See, you’re smarter than you let on.”
DeSantos smirked. “Since you think I’m so smart, let me look around, give you some feedback. No charge.”
“Not up to me—this is Scotland Yard’s case, or MI5’s—not exactly clear on that.”
“So? I’m here. I doubt they’d mind.”
“Really? The Brits are—”
“Aw, c’mon,” he said. “Where’s the harm?”
Before she could object, he was two strides ahead of her and pushing through the entrance.
“I really should check, make sure—”
“Karen,” he said as he legged his way up the stairs, “you worry too much.”
Moments later, DeSantos was introducing himself to Carter and Reid. Turner and Paxton were standing in the doorway, pointing at a scorched item on the floor.
“Hector Cruz,” DeSantos said, extending a hand and greeting both men. “I’m a friend of Karen’s back in the States.”
Cruz? What the hell? Is that his diplomatic cover?
“I’ve had some experience investigating bombings, years ago, in a former life.” He laughed. Reid and Carter did not.
“I think we’ve got this covered,” Carter said. “Thanks anyway.”
DeSantos headed for the safe. “Looks like a very powerful explosive. Flash powder or—nope, definitely flash powder.” He straightened up. “Aluminum perchlorate?”
Reid, Carter, and Vail shared a look.
“How do you know that?” Carter asked.
DeSantos shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious. I don’t—I don’t mean to step on your investigation. But—wait a minute. Is that—?” He took a few steps forward, bent over, and peered through the open doorway to the area of the gallery that remained intact. “I think it is.” He turned and said, “May I?”
Reid tilted his head. “May you what?”
“Mind if I go into the other room?”
“Fine with me, but I don’t own the place.” All heads turned to Turner, who nodded. With three cops around, even if he didn’t know who DeSantos was, Turner had to be certain the guy wouldn’t attempt a theft.
Paxton joined DeSantos in front of a small oil painting. The gold leaf frame was nearly as large as the artwork, and a pin spot shone brightly at an angle, illuminating brilliant colors and confident, tiny brush strokes.
“Allow me to help you, sir,” Paxton said. “This is a—”
“Fregosi, isn’t it?”
Paxton’s brow rose. “Very good, sir. You are familiar with his work.”
“My wife is. She goes nuts for some of this stuff. I guess some of it’s rubbed off on me.”
“This is a truly impressive piece. It was done in his early years, a rare work that until a few years ago wasn’t even known to exist. As you may recall, he was primarily a sculptor in bronze and wood.”
“He did some marble sculptures, too, I believe.”
Paxton grinned. “He did! I’m impressed. But Fregosi also created a few dozen tempera paintings. We think he was underrated.”
“Is this the original varnish?” DeSantos asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Turner said. “Because of how it was stored, we had to do some restoration. But it turned out famously, I think you’ll agree.”
Vail, observing from the doorway, stepped into the room. “Hector, what are you d—”
“Trish has an affinity for Renaissance artists. Our fifteenth anniversary is coming up in a month, but I haven’t had time to shop for a gift.” He turned to Paxton and extended his hand. “Hector Cruz. You are?”
“Gavin Paxton. Curator.”
“Idris Turner. Proprietor.”
After shaking Turner’s hand, he said, “What are you asking for this piece?”
“Three hundred fifty thousand,” Paxton said. “Pounds, of course.”
DeSantos nodded slowly and looked again at the painting. He tilted his head, moved slightly to his right, and took a different perspective. “I like it. The price is a bit out of my range. But let me see what I can work out.”
“Of course,” Paxton said.
DeSantos turned to Vail. “Fregosi was a peasant, an understudy of the renowned Renaissance artist Pietro Lorenzetti—”
“Hector, you probably forgot I was an art history major. I know all about Arnolfo Fregosi.”
DeSantos laughed. “That was so long ago, I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
‘That was so long ago’? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? And what the hell is he doing?
“Anyway, sorry to interrupt your investigation. I saw the painting and—Just give me a few more minutes and I’ll come back out there and give you my thoughts on the explosive. I really do think I can help you out.”
Something in DeSantos’s look—which no one could see at the angle she had—told her to do as he suggested.
“Come find me when you’re done.”
“Will do,” DeSantos said, and then turned back to Paxton and Turner.
STANDING IN FRONT OF THE SAFE, Reid said, “How well do you know this geezer?”
Vail chuckled. “Let’s just say we’ve been through a lot together on a couple of very tough cases.”
“Did you know that he was in London?” Carter asked.
“He’s here…as a consultant.”
Add this up, Karen. He might be here as a diplomatic attaché, but I don’t think they use aliases.
“Nice guy,” Reid said. “He seems to know his stuff.”
Vail, lost in thought, refocused her attention; she didn’t want to appear distracted and draw attention to DeSantos if his mission was sensitive. “On bombs or art?”
“Both,” he said with a laugh.
“Speaking of bombs, how much time do we have left?”
Carter rotated a wrist to check his watch. “Forty-minutes.”
With that, both their cell phones began vibrating.
“Effing shite,” Reid said, moving toward the doorway.
“What’s that mean?” Vail asked.
“I think you Americans say, ‘Fucking shit.’”
Carter, reading his phone display, was now in step with Reid. “They set it off early. You coming, Karen?”
“Hector,” Vail yelled, backing out of the gallery.
DeSantos appeared through the doorway. He did not look pleased.
“There’s been another bombing. Wanna tag along?”
He cursed, excused himself from Paxton and Turner, and joined her on the staircase.
14
D
ebris lay scattered across the entrance to the Embankment Underground station. A dense fog of fine dust hung over the narrow street, and shattered glass from the front doors to the adjacent Costa café littered the pavement. Body limbs protruded from among piles of jagged concrete chunks. Two emergency medical personnel performed triage, as a number of Metropolitan police constables hurriedly secured the crime scene. First responder vehicles were parked at right angles, blocking off the street.
Carter checked in with the crime scene manager and donned protective overalls before wading into the wreckage. Reid had a quick chat with the nearest detective inspector, then met up with Vail and DeSantos.
“Three confirmed dead so far,” Reid said.
“Can we take a look around?” Vail asked.
“I’ll have to clear it. Don’t know how you do things across the pond, but we’re real strict with fresh crime scenes here. One path in and out. Everything’s very controlled.”
“Get anything useful?” DeSantos asked.
“If by useful you mean a description of the bomber, we’re not so lucky.”
“So that’s a ‘no’?”
“Not exactly. Looks like they may have used Semtex.”
“You sure?” Vail asked.
“When I say ‘looks like they may have,’ it means I’m not sure. It was a preliminary read based on a field kit swab.”
DeSantos looked around at the scurrying workers. “Those swabs are usually pretty accurate. And these flashing police lights are starting to give me a headache. In case you care.”
“Not particularly,” he said.
Vail appraised Reid. “You’re in a snippy mood.”
“What, I should be all chuffed to find three dead people and another bombing investigation on my plate? This just went from potentially deadly vandalism to a bona fide act of terrorism.”
“Chuffed?”
“Happy,” DeSantos said.
Can’t these people speak English? Real English?
Reid rubbed the back of his neck. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a lovely situation here. We’re totally knobbed. In case your expert profiling skills didn’t pick up on that.”
DeSantos cleared his throat. “He means we’re fucked.”
Vail nudged DeSantos aside. “You want to know what my expert profiling skills picked up on? This is not the work of the same bomber who hit the gallery.”
“How can you be so sure?” Reid asked. “We haven’t even processed the scene.”
“Which reason would you like first? He used a different explosive, which means his ritual—without going into a long explanation, let’s call it his subconscious way of doing things—is already very different from the first explosion. Since an offender’s ritual doesn’t change from bombing to bombing—nor does his signature—that tells me we’re dealing with a different perp.
“At the gallery, the bomber made sure he didn’t kill anyone—he detonated it in the middle of the night. Here, the offender set it off at a subway station, in broad daylight. We’re lucky there weren’t dozens killed. So everything tells me these are two different bombers and nothing tells me it’s the same person or group. Got it?”
Reid looked away. “Got it.” He rocked back on his heels, then turned slightly toward Vail. “It’s been a day.”
“I accept your apology.”
If that was an apology. Sometimes I don’t know what the hell they’re saying.
Carter joined them and Reid briefed him on Vail’s theory.
Carter seemed to read their faces, which clearly indicated the residual effects of a disagreement. “There are two more dead inside the station,” he said. “Device was placed on the side of one of the turnstiles. Could’ve been much worse.”
“I guess that’s something,” Reid said.
Vail elbowed DeSantos. “You want to take a look in there?”
“No, I’m good.”
“I thought you’d have some genius whiz-bang observations for us.”
DeSantos puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. “Nope. No genius whiz-bang observations. I’m not feeling it.”
Vail eyed him dubiously, then turned to Reid. “Are you guys hanging around?”
“For a bit. You need a ride?”
“Hector and I will take the tube.”
“We will?” DeSantos asked.
“Yes, we will.” She nodded good-bye to Reid and Carter. “Meet up with you later.”
THEY HIKED SEVERAL BLOCKS along Northumberland Avenue toward the Charing Cross station, located adjacent to the entrance of her hotel. They walked in silence for a block, and then Vail stopped in front of a storefront for Garfunkel’s restaurant, near Trafalgar Square.
“I’m hungry,” she said as she pushed through the door.
“I’m not.”
“Then you can watch me eat.”
They were seated at a booth in the storefront window. She took a quick look at the menu and ordered an American Hot pizza and an iced tea. DeSantos asked for “loaded jackets” and “chilli” poppers.
“What’s an American Hot pizza?” he asked.
Vail leaned back in her seat. “It said ‘American.’ Right now I find that comforting.”
He laughed. “Fair enough.”
“Okay, enough bullshit, Hector. I want to know why you’re really here.”
The smile faded from his face. “I knew that’s where this was headed.”
“Of course you did, because you’re a semi-intelligent person.”
“You didn’t really mean that.”
“You’re right,” Vail said an empathetic tilt of her head. “I didn’t. That’d be giving you too much credit.”
Hector turned away. “Fine. You’re angry because I haven’t been completely honest with you.” After a moment’s thought, he said, “I
am
on a mission. And I do have to be careful with what I disclose. That much is true.”
“You’re talking about me, Hector. We’ve trusted our lives to each other, more than once. Don’t you think it’s silly to keep things from me?”
“Not my decision. I also wasn’t lying when I told you I got myself into some real deep shit.”
“With Knox?”
DeSantos looked down at the table. “And others. Knox has my back, but…it’s complicated.” He met her eyes. “So you want to know why I showed up at the gallery.”
“Good place to start.”
DeSantos nodded slowly. “Gavin Paxton might be someone we’re looking for.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Can’t say.”
“Give me a break.” Vail stared him down but DeSantos did not yield. “Why are you looking for him?”
“Better if I answer that once I have confirmation that Paxton is the right guy.”
“You’re not giving me much information.”
The waitress set the iced tea on the table and moved off.
“No offense, Karen. But that’s the point.”
“Are you really on a diplomatic mission?”
DeSantos laughed. “You really don’t get this game, do you?”
“I didn’t realize what we do is a game.”
DeSantos grabbed the iced tea and took a drink.
“Hey, that’s mine.”
“I was thirsty. We’ll get you another. And no, I realize this isn’t a game. But you and me, we’re sparring because you can’t help yourself—you need to know. But I don’t think you need to know; I think you just
want
to know—and as you know, that means I can’t tell you.”
Vail rolled her eyes. “I love it when you talk in circles to me.”
“It
is
kind of like sex, isn’t it? I tease you, you want more—”
“And if you have any hopes of staying in the relationship, you
give
me more.”
DeSantos held up the tea in a toast. “Very good.” He set down the glass and thought a moment. “Let me do this. If things work out the way I think they will, I’ll read you in on what’s going on. But until I know more, stay away from Paxton.” He rose from the booth, pulled out a £20 note, and dropped it on the table. “Enjoy my jackets and poppers. And get yourself another tea. I’ll be in touch.”