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
