“You’re never cranky.”

“Why do people think I need to be told who I’m married to?”

“Because they’re afraid you might forget?”

“That’s always a possibility, I suppose.”

The banter helped to keep their minds off the dreadful task that awaited them inside. He pulled into a visitor parking space and cut the engine but made no move to get out of the car.

“I hate this,” he said.

“I do too, but sitting here another five minutes isn’t going to make it any easier. Let’s get it over with and get back to figuring out what happened.”

Another Keystone cop met them in a lobby that was all marble and greenery and opulence. The security guy wore a well-tailored black suit and an earpiece. As Sam wondered if the earpiece made him feel more important, she noticed two other men and a woman, all in suits, all with earpieces and handheld radios. An awful lot of obvious security for a richy-rich condo building, she thought, wondering who else lived in the building.

“Right this way,” the security guy assigned to escort them said. “We figured it was only a matter of time before the angry fans found out where Mr. Vasquez lives, so we’ve ramped up security today.”

Sam appreciated that he didn’t dick around and try to stonewall them the way private security usually did. “Probably not a bad idea.”

“Is everything all right with Mr. Vasquez?” he asked with genuine concern.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.” He’d find out soon enough that everything was not all right with Mr. Vasquez.

“I understand.” He led them past a reception desk to a bank of elevators and used a key inside to access the top floor. The elevator didn’t make a sound as it whooshed them to the penthouse that made up the seventh and eighth floors.

“Please wait here,” he said when the elevator opened into a hallway with two doors. He proceeded to the door on the left, knocking softly. He spoke in low tones to the domestic who answered the door and then gestured for Sam and Freddie to come. They were ushered into what could only be called a palace with a breathtaking view of Washington Harbor, Georgetown, the Key Bridge and Arlington National Cemetery across the river. The maid showed them to a sitting room and said she would get Mrs. Vasquez.

“Wow,” Freddie whispered as he took in the plush digs. “Baseball has been very, very good to him.”

“Seriously.”

A pretty, petite young woman with dark hair and red, puffy eyes came running into the room. “Are you from the team?” She spoke with a heavy Hispanic accent and looked more like a teenager than a wife and mother. “Did they send you? Were they able to find my Willie?”

“Carmen Vasquez?” Sam asked.