The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [86]
She read to him for an hour, then took a break and dove into the task of making screening calls to the three assisted care facilities. Based on the attitude of the staff and level of service provided, she immediately eliminated one of them. The other two would work, subject to a records search for pending complaints and violations.
She gave Jonathan a kiss, told him she loved him, and headed out for lunch with Bledsoe. They met at a Subway restaurant a mile from the op center. His face was long, but when she walked in his expression brightened. He stood as she approached the table.
“Whatever you want, it’s on me,” he said.
“Tuna on wheat, everything on it.”
He nodded, turned to the counter person and put in the order. Bledsoe watched through the display case glass as the woman slapped on tomatoes and sprinkled oil. “How was your visit with your mother?”
“She’s got Alzheimer’s. It’s bad, I’ve got to move her to an assisted care facility.”
Bledsoe sighed. “Sorry.”
“Me, too. I wasn’t prepared.”
“Must’ve been tough.”
“Add it to the list.” She considered telling him about Nellie and Emma, then thought better of it. “I thought I needed some time by myself, but given everything that happened, I’m glad Robby was there. Thanks for letting him go.”
Bledsoe eyed her obliquely. “I didn’t.”
“You—”
“We didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on the matter. He told me he was taking some personal time and walked out.”
Vail chewed on that one. Robby had led her to believe Bledsoe gave his blessing.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “He and I had a chat. It won’t be a thing between us. We’ve got bigger issues to tackle.”
“Yeah, about that . . . sorry I didn’t show up this morning,” Vail said.
He turned his head to face hers. “You’re on leave.”
“From the Bureau, not from the task force.”
Bledsoe moved a few steps down, paid for the sandwiches, and loaded them on a tray. “Linwood and the police chief wanted you off the case.”
Vail slid into a booth and sat down. “Guess I’m bad publicity. Beating up your husband doesn’t play well in the papers. Too much fallout.”
Bledsoe unwrapped his sandwich and pulled off the pickles. “I told her no pickles. You heard me say that, right?” He shook his head.
“You have to close this case,” Vail said. “I make your job easier—and probably faster. And a faster resolution means fewer women die. You need me.” Vail bit into her sandwich and let her comment ride on the wind for a moment.
“They made it pretty clear they want you to stay away.”
“Do you want me to stay away?” She had stopped chewing and focused on his eyes.
“No.”
“I work for the victim, Bledsoe. Not the government, not you, not the police chief.”
“I know that.”
“Then to hell with ’em all. Let me work the case. I’ll do it at home. Get me a copy of the file, we’ll work it together.”
Bledsoe took a bite and looked at Vail as he chewed. She returned the gaze. Pleading without speaking. He finished off his sandwich a few bites later, then took a long pull from his Coke.
“Okay,” he said.
“You’ll get me a copy of the file?”
“I’ll bring it by your place myself.”
She nodded. “Keep me up on what the task force does.”
He wiped his mouth, then got up. “Thanks for meeting me for lunch.”
“Thanks for paying. And for sticking with me.”
Vail watched Bledsoe walk away, knowing she had done the right thing for the victims. But she couldn’t help wondering if it was the wrong thing for her career.
thirty-seven
There was a sunset for the first time in weeks, and Vail pulled over to the side of the road to watch the reds burn into oranges, then fade into an expansive horizon of pale pink, as if God had blown brilliantly colored chalk dust off the palette. She pulled down on the gear shift and yanked it into drive, then got on I-495 toward 193 and Great Falls,