by J. D. Robb
“Then we’ll brief in thirty, if that suits you.”
“It does.”
“How is he financing this?” Ricchio asked her. “The travel, the apartment, the transportation?”
“We always knew he had money. We just couldn’t find it. He’ll have funneled some to his partner for expenses on the setup. That’ll give us a trail, once we find the crumbs on it. Our civilian consultant has a particular expertise on financials.”
She glanced at Roarke, nodded.
“He’ll have multiple accounts,” Roarke began. “Stibble and the guard he worked with both had secondary, buried accounts. Not particularly well buried. McQueen was able to transfer relatively small amounts out of an account—standard off-shore, registered to a dummy corporation—to theirs. He most usually used Stibble’s e-mail account to do the transfers. The off-shore account was easy to find once we looked, which tells me he has more. More and fatter. As he greatly depleted, we’ll say this payroll account, he’ll likely need to tap one or more of the others to cover his current expenses.”
“Why Melinda? Why here? I believe it’s relevant,” Bree added. “I’d ask even if she wasn’t my sister.”
“You were his last, and you were a particular coup. Twins. He’d never, to our knowledge, taken more than one at a time. He’d only had you for a short period.”
“He could have tried for me. He should have tried for me,” Bree insisted. “Taking a trained police officer has to be more of a rush than a crisis counselor.”
“I agree,” Eve said. “But you didn’t visit him in prison.”
“When?” Ricchio demanded. “You’re telling me Melinda had contact with McQueen before the abduction? Were you aware of this, Detective?”
“Yes. God.” A flicker of pain crossed her face as she pressed a hand to her temple. “I didn’t think of it, Lieutenant. I didn’t remember, it was years ago. She didn’t tell me until after she’d seen him. I was so angry. We had a terrible fight about it. I . . .”
“Sit down, Bree. Sit, for God’s sake.” Ricchio rubbed his hands over his face. “Why did she go to see him?”
“She said if she was going to help people who’d been abused, she had to deal with her own baggage. She had to see him, in prison, see him for herself, see him paying for what he’d done to us and the others. And she had to show him she’d survived it. Show him she was free and healthy and unscarred.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath. “She didn’t tell me before she did it because she knew I’d fight her on it. I’d have gone to our parents, done everything I could to stop her. But she was better after. She used to get headaches, debilitating ones. They eased off. So did the nightmares. She was better, calmer, happier.
“So I forgot it,” Bree said, bitterly now. “Just let it go and forgot it.”
“Did she tell you what they said to each other?” Eve asked her.
“She said he smiled almost the whole time, so pleased, so charming. He said it was wonderful to see her again, how she’d grown into a beauty, crap like that.” Again, the ring went round and round her finger. “He asked her questions she didn’t answer, like if she had a boyfriend, if she was in school. He asked about me, wondered why I hadn’t come to see him, too. She waited, just let him talk. Then she said it was wonderful to see him, too. In prison. It was wonderful to know thanks to Officer Dallas he’d be there for the rest of his life, that he’d never be able to hurt anyone ever again, to prey on children ever again. She loved knowing he was in a cage while she was free, living her life. And she left. He’d stopped smiling, and she left.
“She taunted him, rubbed his face in it,” Bree continued. “He wouldn’t forget that. He’ll hurt her. Like he did before.”
“Not yet,” Eve said quickly. “Right now she’s a tool, like Stibble, like the woman, like Lovett—the prison guard he bribed. She’s just a tool and he needs to keep his tools. I’m his focus now. You said she mentioned me, specifically, as the reason he was in prison.”
“Yes, she—we—were so grateful.”
“As long as I’m his focus, he’ll keep her alive.”
A female officer opened the door without knocking. “McQueen’s on Bree’s desk ’link, blocked video. We’re running it. He wants to talk to Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Show me,” Eve ordered. “You don’t.” Eve reached out, gripped Bree’s arm as the detective bolted for the door. “You don’t give him another. You don’t give him the satisfaction. Keep out of range, don’t say anything. He doesn’t see or hear you.”
Eve walked into the bullpen, crossed toward the empty desk. Remembered herself, glanced at Ricchio. At his nod, she stepped over, sat, and angled herself in full view of the ’link screen.
“A little ahead of deadline, aren’t you?”
“You, too.” A smile radiated in his voice. “How does it feel to be back where you started?”
“I didn’t start here.”
“Didn’t you? It’s not easy accessing background on you, but I don’t mind the work. You were a bit young for my tastes when you had your initiation. You bad girl. Still, I bet you were delicious. Tell me about it,” he invited with that smile in his voice. “I’d love to hear the details.”
“Jerk off on your own time. Proof of life, McQueen, or I catch the next shuttle home.”
“Say please.”
“Fuck you. Proof of life or this conversation ends.”
He made a tsking sound. “You were so polite when we first met.”
“You mean when I politely stunned you unconscious? Yeah, good times. One more chance or I’m gone. Proof of life.”
“If you insist.”
Innocuous hold music flowed out of the speakers. Making a joke of it, Eve thought. Getting a good laugh out of inflicting the emotional pain.
A moment later, Melinda Jones’s face filled the screen. Glassy-eyed, Eve noted. Drugged. No sign of facial bruises.
“This is Melinda. It’s Melinda.” Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw the female officer stop Bree from rushing forward. “He hasn’t hurt me. I don’t know where I am. She said, Sara—”
She broke off, cringing when the knife tipped to her throat.
“Uh-uh-uh! That’s enough.”
“I want to see all of her,” Eve demanded. “I came here within the time frame. I want to make sure you kept your end.”
“You have your proof of life, and she has all her digits. Block video.” The screen went blank.
“What do you want, McQueen?”
“Your blood on my hands and a pretty little girl in my bed.”
“Got a second choice?”
“Oh no, I’m sticking with the first. That’s what I’ll have when we’re done. Meanwhile, I’ll have the pleasure of watching you try to find me and, once again, save the girl. You won’t, but I’ll find you, then you’ll end where you started.”
He gave a long, happy sigh. “It’s almost religious, isn’t it?”
“We’ve got Stibble and Lovett,” Eve told him.
“Keep them. I’m done with them. Until later.”
“Location?” Eve called out when the transmission ended.
“Nothing.” One of the men at a nearby desk shook his head in disgust. “He bounced the signal all over hell and back. Wherever it originated, our guys said it’s jammed and layered in. We can’t even verify he’s in Dallas.”
“He’s here.” She rose, turned her attention to Bree. “Melinda’s alive. He hasn’t hurt her. If he had he wouldn’t have her tranq’d. He’d want her to feel it.”
She saw the FBI come in. “If I can have ten minutes with the feds, Lieutenant Ricchio, I’ll be ready to brief your men.”
“Take my office.”
7
She updated the agents, and after a mild tussle won the argument.
She’d brief the Dallas police, after which they’d add whatever additional data and findings they’d generated.
The briefing room held several big, shiny tables. They weren�
��t surrounded by high-backed fancy chairs, but it still reminded her of a boardroom. Screens covered one wall, flanked by comp stations.
She had a podium, which she intended to ignore.
As the room filled with cops she signaled Roarke aside. “Check in with Peabody, will you? Anything she’s got, I want. Can you break down the bouncing and jamming? Because he’s going to make contact again.”
“Given enough time, and proper equipment.”
She took another, flat-eyed, scan of the room. “They’ve probably got the equipment here. They’ve got everything else.”
“I’d sooner my own. I’ll work with EDD here if I must, but I don’t know them. Neither do you. I can have what I need in our hotel suite, and link up with Feeney.”
She couldn’t argue when she agreed. “Do that. But we’ve got to play it straight with the locals. If you make headway, we bring them in. Financials and communications, they’re on you.”
“I’ll try to earn my exorbitant fee. Did Melinda Jones start to say a name?”
“That’s my take. Sara—Sara something. I gave it to the feds.” She glanced over to where they were huddled with their PPCs. “They’re all over it. I’m going to give the locals everything I’ve got, then I need to set up my own HQ. I need my board, my book, my space. I need to think.”
She looked at the screens. “How the hell do I work those?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“Good. The last thing I need is to flash up some cute little puppies instead of suspects.”
When she turned to the room, Ricchio walked to the podium. Shuffling and muttering silenced.
“Everyone here knows the situation. We’ve now formed a joint investigation with the NYPSD, represented here by Lieutenant Dallas, and Roarke as civilian consultant, and also with the FBI represented by Special Agents Nikos and Laurence. As you know, or should after the earlier briefing, Lieutenant Dallas apprehended Isaac McQueen twelve years ago and is responsible for the release of the twenty-two minor females he had abducted and held. Melinda Jones was one of the twenty-two.
“Everyone in this unit knows Melinda, has worked with her. I expect every officer in this room to afford Lieutenant Dallas, Roarke, Agents Nikos and Laurence every courtesy, and complete cooperation. Lieutenant.”
She stepped forward. “Isaac McQueen is a predatory and violent pedophile. He’s highly organized, intelligent, and goal oriented. He enjoys taking risks, feeds on them, but calculates them. He never intended to be caught, feels no remorse, but a sense of entitlement. His preferred target is female, between twelve and fifteen. Pretty girls. While he has targeted street kids, runaways, he prefers healthy, stylishly dressed targets—the middle-class kid.”
She looked toward the screen where Roarke displayed McQueen’s image and salient data.
“He’s an experienced grifter. He knows how to run a game. He enjoys them. Statements from the minor females after his apprehension told us he often forced them into role-playing. He adapts,” she continued. “He blends. He is congenial, even charming, well dressed, well groomed, well spoken. He will live quietly in an urban setting, most probably a mid-level apartment building. He enjoys having neighbors—another kind of role-playing for him.
“He will go out. He’ll be compelled to, especially after a twelve-year confinement. He will eat in restaurants, visit clubs, galleries. He’ll shop, extensively and well. Shopping is a particular pleasure for him—acquiring. Collecting again. He’ll know the city and his part of it very, very well.”
She glanced at Roarke, nodded. The next image came on screen.
“His mother, Alice McQueen, was a popper addict. She trained him in the grift, and she sexually abused him. It’s believed this sexual relationship lasted until he killed her when he was nineteen. She is the prototype for the partners he acquires, uses, and murders when done with them. Older, addicts, attractive, smart enough to be of use, vulnerable enough to be used.”
She paused a moment until Roarke put the next image up. “We believe this woman is his current partner. At this time, she is unidentified. Through a liaison she was introduced to McQueen while he was in prison. We’ve determined they continued to communicate after the physical visits stopped. Once McQueen selected his target and location, she would have done the legwork. At some point she connected with Melinda Jones, posing as a rape victim. She would have been convincing, and would have developed a relationship with the target. We believe it’s this woman who contacted the target and lured her to McQueen. According to pattern, she’ll have her own residence, but visit his often.”
She stopped again, scanned the room. Cops taking notes, studying her, wanting to get the hell on with it and find the woman they all knew.
“Look, I understand your priority is to find Melinda, to get her home safe. I agree with that priority. But be aware, he will be compelled to hunt.”
This single thought lived in her gut like a parasite. There would be another victim, and soon.
“A day or two,” she continued, pressing the point, “the juice of having Melinda, of screwing with me may be enough to satisfy him. But he’s out, he’s out eating, shopping—and he sees pretty young girls getting a pizza, window-shopping, running around with friends. He sees them, smells them, brushes up against them on the street. He wants—and he’ll take.
“He held over twenty girls at one time. He won’t have any problem holding one woman and a girl. She won’t see it coming, so we have to. They’ll work together. They’ll use a van—something common, nothing new, nothing flashy. He most usually hunts at night, but not exclusively. Crowded places. Places girls of that age like to haunt. He’ll use a pressure syringe, enough to disorient her. He’ll need an apartment building with its own garage. If it has security, he’ll jam it. He has excellent e-skills. For now Melinda’s useful to him, and doesn’t fit his victimology.”
“He raped an adult female in New York,” one of the cops commented.
Eve heard the bitter temper in the voice, as she turned to the detective. Late twenties, she judged, fit, good-looking, brown and brown.
And at the moment with a belligerent set to his jaw.
“He did that for my benefit. He doesn’t need to prove anything with Melinda. He has her, so’s already proven it.”
“You were confrontational with him during the ’link up.”
Eve angled her head, gave him a deeper study. Shirt-sleeved detective, hip holster, messy hair—hands scooping through it—tense face, hard eyes.
“Was I?”
“You told him to get fucked.”
“Is that confrontational around here?”
She got a quiet roll of laughter before Bree spoke up.
“You kept his focus on you—on you and him. Kept him engaged on that level, and a little pissed off—but at you. You and him. You are the target, so Melinda’s the tool, the lure. So she’s secondary. If he hurts her, deal’s off and you go home. You made him hear that, you made him believe that.”
Okay, Eve thought, maybe Bree Jones would be an asset.
“And every time he contacts me—and he will do so again—I’ll do the same. He expects it. He wants it. He gets off on it because he’s convinced he’ll have this second shot and it’ll end differently. He didn’t just get taken down by a cop, but by a rookie. Believe me, that’s eaten at him, burned his ego. Believe me, too, he’s no pussy. He’ll gut you like a trout if he gets the edge. He’s strong, and he can fight like a bastard. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Get backup. Stun him to the ground if you have to. I didn’t do either, and the son of a bitch almost killed me.
“Agents.”
As Eve expected, Nikos took the lead and—to her amusement—stepped to the podium.
“Special Agent Laurence and I would like to thank the Dallas Police and Security Department and Lieutenant Ricchio for the cooperation and assistance. The Bureau is committed to reapprehending Isaac McQueen, and to the safe return of Melinda Jones. We agree with the bulk of the
profile, the data, and the suppositions Lieutenant Dallas related here. One point.”
She held up a finger, paused briefly.
“We do agree the subject is highly goal oriented, and as such our anal and probability ratio skews extremely low on the likelihood the subject will attempt an abduction of a minor at this time. Our focus will be on apprehending the subject with the safe release of his hostage.”
That’s fine, Eve thought. You do that. And she noted Laurence continued to work as his partner addressed the room.
Nikos went on, repaving ground already covered, wasting time in Eve’s opinion. Roarke edged closer, spoke quietly.
“They’ve arrested the prison guard, and they’re working him and Stibble. EDD has all the electronics, looking for any communications to or from McQueen and the partner.”
“Good.”
“I’ve got better. Stibble let McQueen use his pocket ’link on several occasions. McQueen wiped it, but EDD’s on that, too.”
“That’s not better. That’s excellent. I’d interrupt to update, but Nikos is having so much fun boring the cops.”
The faintest smile touched Roarke’s mouth. “She’s a bureaucrat, and less boring than most. Laurence has something.”
Eve looked over, saw Laurence get to his feet. The movement shut Nikos up.
“Got her,” Laurence announced. “Sarajo Whitehead, allegedly assaulted and raped by persons unknown October of last year.”
“I worked that.” Bree rose as well, looked at her partner. “We worked that.”
“I’ve got that, too.” Laurence nodded. “Subject was treated at Mercy Free Clinic, Dr. Hernandez attending, and reported to this precinct’s SVU. Melinda Jones as rape counselor.”
“Let’s see her,” Eve demanded, then backed up. “Sorry.”
“No need.” Laurence offered his PPC to Roarke. “You look to be running this end. Can you interface?”
“I can.”
“She walked into the clinic,” Bree reported. “It’s open round the clock. Her clothes were torn and she had minor bruising on her arms and legs. Exam confirmed recent rough or forced sex, additional bruising on her thighs.” She glanced at her partner for confirmation.
