“Rebecca,” Wilkerson said. “This is Ernesto Xili. Smartest cop in town.”
“Smart enough to know that’s a lie.” His English was almost unaccented, with a hint of formality, as if he’d gone to boarding school somewhere. “Rob explained the situation. Do you have reason to think she came to Opium? Or any club?”
“I don’t think they grabbed her right after they left The Mansion. She looked fine on the video. Either they stuffed her in a car while she was fighting or they hit her over the head in an alley or they softened her up somewhere else first. Told her they wanted to go to another bar or a club.”
“This is speculation.” His tone was even. Not accusatory.
“Yes. But I couldn’t find anything in the Gothic Quarter. Kira loves to dance. Bring her to a club, spike her drink while she’s dancing, she’d be easier to move.”
Even as she outlined the possibility Rebecca wondered if Kira would leave her drink unguarded. Something didn’t fit.
“Or she went in a car with them on her own.”
“She would have texted first.”
Though thanks to the possibility of a fake app, that logic no longer held. If Jacques had stolen Kira’s phone and then let her use his, maybe she would have sent Rebecca or Tony the text and gotten into a car without being forced.
But Rebecca just didn’t see it. Kira and Jacques and the unknown woman had left The Mansion before midnight. By Barcelona standards, the night had just been getting started. Kira would have wanted—expected, even—to stay out, not to go home with Jacques. Especially since nothing in their body language from the video at The Mansion suggested she was about to hook up with him. Which meant another club. And all these clubs were walking distance from The Mansion, especially on a nice summer night, the Mediterranean waves rippling against the beach. Kira would have wondered why Jacques insisted on driving. She was smart enough to know that getting into a car was inherently dangerous. Scream on the street, you could be almost sure someone would hear. Scream from a back seat, you could be almost sure no one would.
Under those circumstances, Kira wouldn’t have just sent a text before getting in a car, she would have waited for an answer. Of course, Jacques could have anticipated that possibility and loaded a fake response onto his phone.
But what if Kira recognized the return message was off, it didn’t sound like Becks or Tony? And the more she handled the phone, the more likely she would notice something was wrong with it. Jacques would want to keep her relaxed. Again, the best way to do that would be to take her to another bar or club.
Rebecca was prepared to explain all this to Xili, though she didn’t particularly want to. Some detectives liked cases without obvious answers, pulling a suspect from thin air, Sherlock Holmes–style. The butler. In the pantry. With an icicle that melted afterward. They liked speculation, to borrow Xili’s word.
Not Rebecca. She was methodical by nature. Give her a target, and no matter how hard finding evidence on him might be, she would. Cases like the Border Bandit’s, cases she might never solve no matter how hard she worked—those bugged her even more than they did most cops.
Xili looked at her like he wanted to press the point, but he didn’t.
“Let’s see what they have for us.”
* * *
But they had nothing.
Not at Opium. Or Carpe Diem. Or Pacha. All high-end clubs clustered within a few hundred feet.
In each, the managers respected Xili, or his badge, enough to act polite. They promised to put up Kira’s “Missing” poster in the back-of-the-house break rooms. They offered to let Rebecca check surveillance footage, a step—as they probably guessed—she didn’t have time to take without hard evidence that Kira had come through their doors.
Meanwhile, the bouncers and bartenders glanced at Kira’s picture long enough to seem interested before shaking their heads, nope, never seen her, good luck, adios. Rebecca believed them. But she also knew they’d wipe the question from their minds as soon as she left. They viewed this missing American girl as a chore, nothing else.
And after seeing the beachfront clubs, Rebecca couldn’t help thinking they were wrong for a kidnap scheme. Not just because they weren’t Kira’s scene, too fancy and expensive and Eurotrashy. After all, Kira didn’t know anything about Barcelona. She would have deferred to Jacques.