by J. D. Robb
She had more, but the access there dipped into shadow territory.
“Stibble counsels chemi-heads and alcoholics. He brings his own personal experience. He’s been in and out of rehab since he was sixteen, did time as a juvie and an adult for illegals-related offenses. McQueen doesn’t do illegals, drinks—wine is his choice—in moderation, but he attended Stibble’s sessions regularly. He doesn’t waste his time or do anything without a purpose.”
“You suspect either or both of these men aided McQueen in his escape?” Lieutenant Tusso asked.
“I think one or both did more. McQueen works with a partner until she bores him, screws up, or fulfills her purpose. He’d want someone on the outside. He’d need to get and receive communication from her.”
“He needed a liaison,” Nikos said.
“And has likely worked with more than one over the past twelve years. We’re going to find his visitors list leans heavily toward females. We connect someone at the prison—and my money’s on either or both of these men—we have a lead on the partner. She’ll be an addict of some kind, likely have a sheet for grifting at the least. She’ll be between the ages of forty-five and sixty. Attractive.”
Now it got trickier.
“I have a short list of names of women who fit the partner profile, and have connections or associations with either Stibble or Lovett. We could get lucky and match one up with the visitors list.”
“That’s considerable, and in a short amount of time.”
Eve merely glanced at Nikos. “We don’t have any to waste. He’s already hunting.”
“We know McQueen prefers urban environments,” Tusso began. “He most usually hunts and abducts his victims in busy areas, likes the crowds. Times Square, Chelsea Piers, Coney Island—those were his primary hunting grounds during his last spree.”
Eve wanted to say it hadn’t been a spree. Sprees were fast, furious, often random. Just a thirst for violence and excitement. But she held her tongue.
“He’s already hit in New York,” Tusso continued, “and sent messages to Lieutenant Dallas through the victims. Our focus will be on his known hunting grounds.”
“We’ll coordinate with you,” Nikos told him. “Our probability scans and anals are heavily weighted toward McQueen moving out of New York and going under for a period of time,” she began. “We’re looking at public transportation, and doing facial recognition on toll scans.”
Eve held her tongue again as Nikos ran through the FBI’s strategy. If the feds wanted to believe McQueen was on the run, let them.
“We already have officers in place at the high-probability targets,” Tusso continued. “McQueen usually snatches his vics at night, but he’s been known to work in daylight. We’ll have those areas covered twenty-four/seven until his capture.”
After a brisk knock on the door, Whitney’s admin announced Oliver Greenleaf, the prison’s chief administrator. Eve immediately dubbed him a weasel. Striding in at his side in a sharp red suit, Amanda Spring, the prison’s chief counsel, carried a glossy leather briefcase the same shade of golden brown as her hair.
“Commander.” With a toothy smile, Greenleaf extended his hand as he crossed the room. “I do apologize for being a bit late. We were detained by—”
“You’re fully twenty minutes late,” Whitney said in a tone that, to Eve’s private satisfaction, wiped the smile off Greenleaf’s pale, pinched face. “And I’m not interested in your reasons or excuses. You’ve already kept this department and agents from the FBI waiting more than twenty-four hours for information vital to our joint investigation.”
“Commander.” Spring nudged her client aside, and spoke in a tone equally stern. “As legal counsel for—”
“I have not yet addressed you, nor do I intend to. Your facility is responsible for the escape of a violent pedophile, Greenleaf, and you’ve wasted the valuable time of the officers and agents working to apprehend him. I’m telling you, and the lawyer you felt it necessary to bring to this office, that if one girl is taken, is hurt in any way, you will have hell to pay. That’s a personal promise.”
“Commander Whitney, threats are hardly productive.”
Whitney skewered the lawyer with a look. “If you speak again, I will have you removed from this office. You were not invited here. Your client has no need for legal counsel as he is in no danger, unfortunately, of being placed under arrest. Now, I want all the data and reports, lists and files this department demanded after being, belatedly, informed of Isaac McQueen’s escape.”
“We have quite a bit of data for you. Unfortunately, our internal investigation is not yet complete. It’s, of course, imperative that this investigation be thorough and comprehensive. We expect to have those reports finalized and in your hand by the end of the day.”
Whitney’s stare could have melted iron. “If you stall thirty seconds more, this is what’s going to happen. I will hold a media conference, along with my lieutenants and these agents. I will announce not only that Isaac McQueen walked out of your facility after murdering a medical, but that you deemed it proper to delay informing the NYPSD of this escape for over eighteen hours. During which time, McQueen assaulted and raped a female victim, assaulted her male cohab. I will provide graphic details of these attacks.”
“Commander—”
“Shut up. I’m not done. I will further report that your facility has delayed another twenty-four hours in providing this department and the FBI with vital and pertinent data, and that charges of obstruction of justice are being considered. I will then have Lieutenant Dallas remind the public just what she found when she apprehended Isaac McQueen twelve years ago. You’ll be lucky if they don’t come for you with pitchforks.”
He waited a beat. “I want everything you’ve got, and now, including your preliminary reports and findings on your internal investigation. Thirty seconds,” Whitney repeated when Greenleaf looked at Spring for guidance. “Don’t test me again.”
Spring opened her briefcase. “Permission to speak,” she said, in bitter tones.
“No. Put the files on my desk, then get out. Both of you. If all the data required and requested is not within those files, Greenleaf, you’re going to need a lawyer, as is your superior. Feel free to pass that information along to him.”
Spring laid a disc bag on Whitney’s desk, then shook her head when Greenleaf started to speak again. She turned on her fancy heels, strode out with her client scurrying after her.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Throughout the ass-kicking, Laurence sat, silent and still. His face put Eve in mind of some African chieftain. Handsomely carved, fiercely stoic.
Now, a grin spread over those sculpted planes and angles. “It’s inappropriate,” he said, “but I really want to applaud. One question, Commander, would you have done it? Gone public?”
“Lieutenant Dallas?” Whitney glanced at her. “Would I?”
“You gave them more time than you wanted, than was necessary. They showed no genuine concern for endangering the public, or even for the murder of an employee in their facility. They decided they’d run the show—and illustrate it by being deliberately late to this meeting, and continuing to stall on the results of their internal. Had it been necessary, you would have gone to the media and roasted them. As it is, I believe you’ll use whatever influence and contacts you have to see that Greenleaf, his lawyer, and his superior have their contracts canceled.
“In my opinion, Commander.”
“Lieutenant Dallas has just given you a brief demonstration of why she’s one of the most valuable assets of the NYPSD. She observes, deduces, and reports with accuracy.”
Eve took her copies of the data files to her office with a quick signal for Peabody to follow when she swung through the bullpen.
“How’d it go?” Peabody asked. “It took longer than I figured, so I was starting to get jumpy.”
“The prison people kept us waiting, kept trying to stall. Whitney sliced and diced them lik
e one of those Samurai chefs. It was beautiful. I think we got lucky with the feds. I’m not reading complete asshole, though I believe they’re pursuing the wrong angles. And Tusso from FA’s got teams in place at McQueen’s known hunting grounds. Now sit down.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I have names, connections, and a plan of action already. I’m not going to tell you how I got the data.”
“Okay.”
“Officially, I gathered the data by standard means, maybe brushing the line a little. I’ve already passed what I could with those parameters to the other investigators. The feds will be talking to one of the guards. He’s dirty. We’ll take a lay addiction counselor. He’s involved. I know this because I was able to generate a list of probable partners, and he’s connected to several females who visited McQueen in prison. Four of them made my short list. One’s in New York. We’ll talk to her.”
Peabody puffed out her cheeks. “The meet may have taken longer than I thought, but we’re a lot further along than I figured.”
“Not far enough. He’s had almost two days. The guard’s a tossaway. Gambling addict, and though I wasn’t able to pass it on, the feds will shortly find out he’s got a not-very-well-hidden account where he’s been making regular deposits of two large a month, for years. McQueen knew we’d track that, pull the guard in. He won’t know anything much.”
“Which is why you gave him to the feds.”
“He has to be interviewed, sweated some. He may have more than I think. But it’s Stipple who rings for me. He won’t know McQueen’s plans, not the fine details anyway, but he may know or have a good guess as to who he’s hooked up with. The woman’s on the way, so we’ll take her first. I need you to run and analyze all the data the prison just handed over en route. Searches and anal fully on record now. Let’s go.”
“How are we handling the coordination with the other teams?”
“We work independently,” Eve told her as they headed out, jumped on a glide. “Share all results, hold a daily briefing. So far nobody’s playing games. But . . . you should do a standard on the feds,” she said, and gave Peabody the names. “Just to get a full sense of them.”
“How many men are you putting on the team?”
“I want to talk to these two possibles first, then I’ll get down to that.” In the garage she got behind the wheel of her vehicle. “I’ve gone around and around on it. I had some time and space to settle last night, think it through. The probability runs, given the current data, say McQueen’s in New York. He’ll hunt here, work to engage me. He wants me to be part of the investigation.”
“That makes the most sense.”
“I don’t think so, because staying in New York is stupid, and he’s not. He broke pattern, yeah, which means he’s likely to break it again. But I’ve had twelve years to make New York my ground. He wants to take me on, and yeah, that plays. But why would he do it on my home ground? He could go anywhere.”
“Leave New York,” Peabody pointed out, “lose you.”
“He’s already given me a good shot. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. It feels too simple, too straightforward. He likes elaborate. He had years to put his plans together, and this is the best he can do? Maybe I’m overthinking, second-guessing.” She rolled her shoulders to loosen them. “I need to consult with Mira. I’d trust her more than a probability run.”
“She was at the ceremony yesterday.”
“Yeah, I saw her.”
“It was nice, seeing so many friends. I owe you big for cutting me loose early yesterday.”
“Consider you won’t be again until McQueen’s back in a cage.”
“Even so. It meant a lot to my parents for me to spend real time with them. Dad took us out to dinner. A real restaurant, too. Not veggie, not vegan, not healthy choice for Free-Agers. We had actual meat. They were sorry you and Roarke couldn’t come. They understood, but they were sorry.”
“It was nice to see them anyway. Give me data, Peabody. We’re nearly there.”
“Special Agent Scott Laurence, twenty-seven-year vet. Recruited while he was in college. String of commendations. On the short list for bureau chief.”
“Interesting. He let her take the lead.”
“Well, she’s no slouch. He’s married—twenty-two years. Two kids. She’s single, got eight years in. Degrees in psych, criminology. First in her class at Quantico.”
She looked up when Eve rattled up to a second-level spot on the street. “Anyway, they look solid.”
“Felt that way. Bracken works nights. Tends bar at a strip joint where she used to peel it off.” Eve gestured. “She lives above her current place of employment.”
Peabody glanced over. “Handy.”
“Had her club LC license pulled when she tested positive on the regulation exam for illegals. She’s fifty-one, no marriages, no official cohabs, no offspring. Spotty employment, a couple of stints for illegals-related charges. Nothing major. Her juvie records show consistent truancy, runaway, petty theft.”
“Sounds like McQueen’s type.”
The neighborhood had probably seen better days, but to Eve’s eye it looked as though it had always been dirty, dreary, and dangerous. The strip joint, cleverly named Strip Joint, hunched against the sidewalk like a gaudy toad. Some street artist had drawn excellently executed and optimistically sized male genitalia onto the naked and also optimistically endowed naked woman on the sign.
As it didn’t look fresh, Eve assumed either the owners didn’t give a rat’s ass or thought it added interest.
She’d have used her master to gain access to the residential door, but the lock was broken. And that did look fresh.
She ignored the smell of stale zoner in the skinny entryway, and the far skinnier elevator. Peabody clumped up the stairs after her. “Why do guys always urinate on the walls of places like this?”
“Expressing their disdain for the facilities.”
Peabody snorted. “Good one. Disdain by pee. I bet she lives all the way up on four.”
“Four-C.”
“Oh well, I ate all my dessert last night and part of McNab’s. I deserve to walk up four flights. I wasn’t going to have dessert, but it was right there, all gooey and sweet. It’s like sex. I mean, when it’s right there, what are you supposed to do? I wasn’t going to have that either—sex—with my parents bunking in the office, but, well, it was right there.”
“I’ll tolerate the gooey and sweet, Peabody, but I’m not thinking about you having sex with McNab, especially in the same sentence as ‘my parents.’ ”
“I think they had sex, too.”
Eve struggled not to wince or twitch. “Do you want me to kick you down four flights of steps and make you walk up again?”
“I’d probably bounce all the way down, too, with all this gooey and sweet in my butt. So I guess not.”
“Good choice.”
No palm plate, no security cam, Eve noted, on 4-C. Just two dead bolts and a manual peep.
She banged her fist on the door.
“McQueen’s partners always kept their own places,” she told Peabody. “Usually worked full- or part-time. We only have information from the vics on the last. She helped him lure, abduct, restrain. She helped him clean them up if he decided to use one he’d had for a while. Then she liked to watch.”
Peabody’s face went cold. “Which makes her as much of a monster as him.”
“Yeah, it does.” Eve banged again.
A door opened across the hall. “Shut the fuck up! People are trying to sleep.”
Eve studied the man glaring at her. He stood buck-naked but for a nipple ring and a tat of a coiled snake. She held up her badge. “I’d call that indecent exposure, but it barely qualifies. Deb Bracken.”
“Fuck. She’s in there. She sleeps like the dead.” He slammed the door.
Eve banged again, kept on banging until she heard somebody cursing from inside 4-C. A minute later she saw the bleary eye through the peep. “What the hell d
o you want?”
Once again, Eve held up her badge. “Open up.”
“Goddamn it.” The peep flipped closed, bolts and locks rattled open. “What the hell? I’m trying to sleep here.”
From the looks of her, she’d been doing a good job of it. Her hair, a short, sleep-crazed mess of brass and black, stuck up everywhere around a thin, slack face. She’d neglected to remove her enhancers so her eyes and lips were smeared with what was left of them.
She wore a short black robe, carelessly looped, that showed good legs and breasts too perky not to have been paid for.
“Isaac McQueen.”
“Who?”
“If you bullshit me, Deb, we’ll have this little talk downtown.”
“Christ sake, you beat on my door, wake me up, hassle me. What the hell is this?”
“Isaac McQueen,” Eve repeated.
“I heard you. Jesus.” She gave Eve a hard, smeary-eyed scowl. “I need a hit.” And turned, shuffled away.
Eyebrows cocked, Eve stepped in, watched Bracken continue to shuffle to the far corner of the messy living area where the kitchen consisted of a bucket-sized sink, a mini-friggie, and a shoe box–sized AutoChef. When she stabbed at the AutoChef it made a harsh, grinding hum, then a clunk.
She pulled out a mug, downed the contents like medicine. From the smell, Eve identified cheap coffee substitute. She waited while Bracken programmed a second mug, took a slug.
“Isaac’s in the joint.”
“Not anymore.”
“No shit.” The first glimmer of interest passed over her face. “How’d he get out?”
“Sliced up a medical and took his ID.”
“He killed somebody?” Bracken’s scowl deepened. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not the first time.”
“I don’t believe that.” She glugged down more coffee, shook her head. “He wasn’t in for murder, so he didn’t do murder. He’s maybe a prick, but he ain’t no killer.”
“Tell that to the medical’s widow and kid. Has he been by to see you, Deb?”
“Shit no. I’m old news to him.” She frowned into her coffee. “Prick.”
