The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [71]
“She’s been through a lot of stuff the past few days, assaulted, arrested, thrown in jail—”
“I know the story, Hernandez.”
“And she didn’t sleep much last night. You really want her driving five hours alone? We’d be back tomorrow around noon. Not a big deal.”
“I’ll decide what’s a big deal and what’s not. Of course I don’t want Karen driving herself. Hell, I don’t want her going because I need her.” He dropped his eyes to the report. “But that’s just the way it is.”
“Well, then this is the way this is: I’m taking some personal time. You don’t like it, take it up with my sergeant.”
Bledsoe felt the blood rushing to his head as Robby turned and walked out. Tossed the file across the room, took a deep breath, then leaned on the table. “Beautiful.”
ROBBY JOINED VAIL outside by her car. “Well?”
“We’re good,” Robby said. “Let’s go.”
She hiked her brow. “Bledsoe is full of surprises.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow at noon. Not a big deal.”
They took Robby’s car and headed up I-95 before switching onto I-495 toward Baltimore. They drove in silence for the first couple hours, which was fine by Vail, since she needed the quiet, and Robby was determined to keep his promise of giving her space. Finally, she fell asleep with her head against the side window and slept until they neared the Queens Midtown Tunnel.
Vail sat up and rubbed her eyes, then looked around. “How long have I been out?” It was dark and the lights of nearby Manhattan twinkled in the early evening haze.
“Couple of hours. We’re making good time.”
“Sorry I abandoned you. The lull of the highway put me out.”
“Figured you needed it.”
She pulled down the visor and peered into the mirror. “I look awful.”
“You never did get back to your place, did you?”
“I’m looking forward to a long shower at my mom’s.”
The traffic slowed a bit as they approached the tunnel. Getting through the city wasn’t as bad as they had thought, and half an hour later they were driving down the street where Emma Vail lived. Vail thought of how long it’d been since she had last been here. Too long. Worst of all, her mother hadn’t visited her, either, meaning they hadn’t seen each other in over a year. Shame on me.
“There,” she said, pointing to a house sunken below street level. “My best friend lived there. Andrea. We used to play together all the time. Drove our parents crazy.”
Robby slowed the car. “Eight nineteen, you said?”
“Yeah, right here.”
He pulled the car into the driveway and killed the lights. “Looks pretty dark,” he said, craning his neck. “Did you give her an idea of what time we’d be here?”
Vail opened the door and took in a lungful of the fresh night air. “I never called.”
Robby got out of the car and looked at her across the roof. “Your mom doesn’t know we’re coming?”
She strained to see the house in the dark. Partially obscured by the tree-canopied setting she associated with Old Westbury, the two-story Craftsman style house fit in perfectly amongst the tall pines and cedars. Vail walked up the path, stepping on each flagstone square as she went, just like she did when she was a kid. One step, one stone. “You can’t put two feet on one square or it’s bad luck,” she told Robby. “At least, that’s what I thought when I was a kid.” Funny how old habits stick with you.
She stepped onto the last flagstone and found herself at the front door. The tarnished brass knocker was still there, along with the rusted black metal mailbox.
She knocked a couple times and waited. Brushed a few hairs into place and curled a wisp behind her right ear. Lifted the brass weight and struck the door again, waited, then consulted her watch.
“Should’ve called,” Robby said.
The porch light suddenly popped on and the curtain to their right parted. The door opened a crack and an older woman with gray hair and a rumpled face appeared. “Yes?”
“Mom, it’s me.” Still no response. “Kari.”
The door opened halfway and Emma squinted at her daughter. “Kari,” she said. “Did you forget something?”
Vail looked at Robby, who merely shrugged. I should’ve warned