The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [151]
Bledsoe put the guy on hold, no doubt concerned he would lose his temper and say something that would delay the entire operation for hours. He told Vail what the problem was.
She shook her head, once again amazed at how law enforcement professionals could act so petty, losing sight of the primary goal: catching the bad guy. “Men are like dogs, Bledsoe. They like to piss all over to stake out their territory. That’s what this guy is doing. You’ve seen it a million times.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. All it does is waste my time.”
“I doubt the Loudoun chief gives a shit about turf wars. All he wants is to be able to say his people captured the Dead Eyes killer. He doesn’t care whether the police or sheriff brings him in, right?”
“Right.”
“Then tell your Middleburg buddy, Lieutenant Doberman, or whatever the hell his name is, to go ahead and call the chief.”
Bledsoe issued the challenge and waited while the lieutenant was supposedly making the call. Ten minutes later, the receptionist handed Bledsoe the phone. After listening a moment, Bledsoe thanked the caller, then hung up. “‘Lieutenant Doberman’ said that all his investigators are busy on cases, so it’d take a while to call them in, and he didn’t want to delay our op.” Bledsoe grunted. “Truth is, if they pulled any of their guys in, half their district would go unpatrolled. Middleburg would use the Loudoun SERT unit anyway.”
“Pissing matches and big egos,” Vail said. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you guys sit around bars comparing the size of your penises.”
“Give us some credit, Karen. We leave that talk in the locker room.”
Kilgore took the Virtual Earth images and topographical map with him in the Full Assault Vehicle and headed toward Middleburg’s Red Fox Inn. The task force followed in one of the SERT team member’s cars, which was equipped with two black tactical outfits, radios, helmets, shields, infrared goggles, and masks, since the officers often reported directly to an incident site in their own vehicles.
With Bledsoe driving and Del Monaco riding with Kilgore in the assault vehicle, Vail watched as the Red Fox Inn, a four-story field-stone Bed and Breakfast, came into view. “I’ve always wanted to stay here,” she said.
Robby craned his neck to get a look at the building. “It’s just a big old house.”
“That’s like saying the White House is ‘just a big old house.’ The Red Fox Inn has roots going back to the early 1700s. I think Washington slept here. It even played a role in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.”
“And how do you know this?” Manette asked.
“You’re always challenging me, you know that?”
“Somebody’s got to. You think you know everything about everything.”
“I was going to book a room here about six months ago. The Belmont Suite, very romantic. You have the Blue Ridge and Bull Run mountains surrounding you, lush greenery, and the rooms are furnished like they were two hundred years ago.” She gazed out the window at the passing undeveloped countryside. “Then I realized that no matter how romantic a place is, if you’ve got no one to share it with, it’s very lonely. I threw away the brochure.”
She could feel Robby’s gaze burning the back of her head. He would take her there, she had a feeling, during her self-proclaimed vacation. With Dead Eyes almost in the bag, her time off was suddenly within reach. She allowed herself a brief moment to daydream.
“In case you’re interested,” Manette said, “your romantic get-away was around when