Vendetta by Nancy Holder

their own gloves; they wouldn’t have contaminated the evidence.
    “We bagged it a bit prematurely, perhaps,” Gonzales added.
    Cat wondered if his apology was genuine. Some FBI agents were remote and intimidating, like Robertson, but the FBI was in the business of intelligence gathering—extracting information, making connections, figuring things out. Her dad—her
real
dad, not her biological father—loved to say that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. Ergo, it made sense for agents to cultivate trust in the individuals they dealt with, on all levels, from criminals to colleagues from other agencies. To be a “people person,” in other words… or to be able to act like one. All that “just the facts, ma’am” you saw on TV? More often, agents were friendly and encouraged chatter.
    Inside the bag was a handwritten note on a piece of plain copy paper. It said,
We have your son. He will receive insulin when we receive money. Be ready.
    “Insulin,” Cat said, and Special Agent Gonzales handed her another evidence bag from the bin, this one made of brown paper, like a lunch sack. Bags such as these were used for pieces of evidence that were moist, since being encased in plastic could promote molds or other bacterial growth that could compromise the item. Cat set down the bag and put on a pair of blue latex evidence gloves. Tess did the same. Then Cat reached in and carefully retrieved a small plastic box with a digital screen and a plastic tube attached to it.
    “Angelo DeMarco has juvenile diabetes. It’s been difficult to manage because he doesn’t deal with it very well. Mrs. DeMarco has corroborated that this is most likely Angelo’s insulin pump,” Robertson said. “We’ve taken DNA samples off it. We’ll have them analyzed.”
    “Is Angelo DeMarco’s DNA in the system?” Cat asked.
    Robertson shrugged. “We can use his medical records. He’s been to the doctor about a thousand times.” Medical records were protected information, but looking at them would be easily accomplished with a subpoena.
    “Here’s a good headshot of Angelo,” Gonzales said, handing each of them an eight-by-ten glossy of a young man who resembled Tony DeMarco, but whose features were less sharp. Big, dark eyes, heavy eyebrows, but a softer nose and plumper lips. He wasn’t smiling, and he looked as if something was weighing heavily on his mind. Haunted. “I’ll email it to your phones as well.”
    “When was this picture taken?” Tess asked.
    “About three months ago. It was for DeMarco Industries’ annual report,” DeMarco said. “Angelo is on the board.” He gave his head a shake. “Not that he ever makes the meetings. See, that’s the problem if you grow up rich.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” Tess murmured, so softly that Cat, who standing the closest to her, barely heard her. Good thing, too. They didn’t want to antagonize DeMarco.
    “We could help you question the security and housekeeping staff,” Cat said to Robertson.
    “On it,” he said. “Agents are taking statements in some of the guest rooms as we speak.”
    “Looks like you have everything well in hand,” Cat said with a trace of asperity.
    “We do,” he responded.
    It was evident that the two men resented her and Tess’s presence. It didn’t matter. A young man with a medical condition was missing. Finding him was their mandate.
    “Maybe it’s time to speak to Bailey,” Cat said.
    “I’ll arrange that,” Robertson said. He pulled out a radiophone and began speaking into it as he walked off.
    “Take them to Hallie while Bailey gets ready,” Mr. DeMarco told Gonzales. “I’m not sure how much help she’ll be. You know how women are.” He inclined his head. “Except for beautiful lady cops, of course.”
    Bleargh
, Cat thought.
    Gonzales gestured for them to follow him out. They left the office and followed the two agents back through the foyer to a cavernous space filled with suits of armor. A large shield