New York to Dallas edahr-41

by J. D. Robb

  “Recent, after she stopped counseling, before his escape. In Dallas, or close. She’s thinking about seeing him, him seeing her, being with him, she might’ve gone for the works at some salon, and in the last few days.”

  “Feels right.”

  “Look, I’ll take the inmate search. You and Jones know the city. Put together a list of most-likely salons, body work locations. Show both her ID shots. Let’s get lucky again.”

  “Are you going to update the feds with this angle?”

  “Shit. Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Too bad,” Annalyn said, and grinned. “Come on, Bree. Let’s track this bitch down.”

  Eve sat, started the search. Annalyn was right, she thought. It felt right. Felt good. While she worked she forgot the unfamiliar room, fell into a routine.

  McQueen had mucked with his, she thought, and now his foundation cracked under the weight of too much fuss, too many additions.

  It didn’t surprise her to find so many cons, deemed rehabilitated, with connections to illegals.

  “Prisons are full of bad guys,” she mumbled, ran each one.

  “I like you, Burt, street name Thor, Civet. I like you a whole bunch.” She ran probabilities, smiled slowly. “See there, the computer likes you, too. You’re a popular guy. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia, NYPSD,” she ordered the ’link.

  Peabody’s face, showing a little wear, came on screen. “Hey, Dallas. We’ve got Stibble and Lovett on hold. We think we’ve tapped them out, but we’ll give them another go tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a line. Burt Civet, aka Thor. Did time with McQueen until he made parole about four years ago. His current address is listed on Washington Street. No current employment, so I’m just taking a wild guess he’s dealing again. Find him, pick him up, squeeze him. Probability’s high McQueen tapped him to supply the partner when she was in New York, keep her happy.”

  “Got it.”

  “I want everything he knows about this woman, Peabody. Everything. I want to know how McQueen handled the payoff. Make whatever deal you’ve got to make, but convince him it’s in his best interest to roll over. He did five hard last time. Use it. He likes to sell to minors, tends to set up shop near playgrounds, schools, arcades.”

  “Makes him a good match for McQueen.”

  “I’m sure they bonded. I want McQueen’s bitch, Peabody. Squeeze hard.”

  “He’s the lemon, we’ll make lemonade. How’s it going down there?”

  “It’s weird. They’re too polite, they talk funny, and stuff has too much shine on it. But the coffee’s worse than Central’s, so that’s something. I’m going to send you everything I’ve got, then I’m going to pull Roarke in from whatever he’s doing at EDD. I want to work on my own at the hotel for a while. You can reach me on my pocket ’link.”

  “I’ll let you know when we’ve got him.”

  Eve clicked off, sat back. She wanted to be there. She wanted to track down Civet, squeeze his lemons into lemonade.

  She hadn’t been able to intimidate, squeeze, or snarl since she’d left New York. It just wasn’t right.

  She tagged Roarke. “I’ve got a couple lines,” she told him. “I want to take what I’ve got and work at the hotel. I need to get out of here as soon as you can shake loose.”

  “I’m right there with you. On my way.”

  She copied and saved data, gathered what she wanted. Rather than contact the feds directly, she wrote a quick, down-and-dirty summary and shot it to their ’links as text mail.

  When she walked out to inform Ricchio of her plans, Roarke intercepted her.

  “I let the Texas lieutenant know where you’ll be. Let’s get the bloody hell out of here.”

  “Problem?”

  He took her arm to hurry her along. “Let’s just say I’ve gotten used to your cop house. This one’s given me an itch between the shoulder blades.”

  “How’s the deal in EDD?”

  “Not as charming to my mind as our own, but efficient and with a similar wardrobe—though with a southwestern edge. The commanding officer doesn’t care for civilians in his space—something else I’m accustomed to. But I’ve dealt with that.”

  “You showed off,” Eve said as they got in the car.

  “It had to be done. I dislike being scowled at and insulted by cops. Present company excepted. And how was your day?”

  “Progress.”

  She filled him in as they drove.

  “Your two-pronged approach seems to be working quite well,” Roarke commented. “As does your focus on the woman. She’s a chink in his wall. I agree with you, he won’t keep her long. He has to know she’s a liability, if not at this point, soon.”

  “She could stretch it out if she plays him right—but I think she’s probably emotionally attached, so she’ll fuck up. And he has Melinda for company and conversation.”

  “You think he’ll use her after all?”

  “I think that’s low probability, which is why I’m worried he’ll move on a kid, and soon. But she’ll talk to him, at least I think she will. It’s what she does now. She’s trained. I want to believe she’ll get through this, use that training, keep him from hurting her.”

  He pulled up in front of the hotel, one of those slick, shiny spears in the city’s arsenal. He said, simply, “Roarke,” and handed the key code and what Eve assumed was a hefty tip to the doorman as the man all but bolted to the doors to open them.

  “This isn’t where we stayed last time. But it’s obviously one of yours.”

  “It is, yes, and I thought we’d both want the change.”

  When they walked to an elevator, the security man at the desk came to attention, snapped out, “Sir.”

  Roarke gave him a nod, then swiped a card. When they stepped into the small, muted gold elevator, he said, “Triplex West, top level.”

  “Triplex, as in three floors?”

  “I thought we’d use the third floor as HQ. That way we can lock it off, even from housekeeping if you want. Use a droid there. First level’s living space, second’s bedroom areas. I ordered the top as I thought you’d want to see the setup, leave your file bag. Then I want a bloody drink.”

  “I could use a bloody drink myself, and a bloody shower, and a bloody suspect I can hammer into the ground.”

  He smiled. “Missing New York. How about a bloody meal to go with it?”

  “I had a burger.”

  “Fuck me, it’s more than I’ve had.”

  The door opened. She blinked.

  A murder board sat center of the room, just as she liked it. It wasn’t precisely arranged as she would do, nor updated, but images, data, a partial time line—it was all there.

  As was a desk, a sleep chair, three screens, two D-and-C units—in addition to what looked like a fully equipped kitchen, bath, and she noted after a quick circle, a second office.

  “How did you do this?”

  “I have a man here, one I could trust with your board. He has top security clearance. Saves you time.”

  “It really does. Yours?” she asked with a gesture to the second office.

  “It is. Not quite like home, but, well, adjustments.”

  He’d made it as easy for her as he could, given her all the tools to work the way she liked best.

  She stepped to him, laid her hands on his face and her lips on his.

  “That’s just like home,” she murmured. Then because it felt so damn good, hugged him hard. “Let’s have a bloody drink.”

  9

  She sat on the terrace, drinking some wine, ignoring the view. Roarke was prettier to look at anyway. And looking at him, she saw the signs she’d missed in her hurry to get to the hotel.

  “You’re pissed off.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Not at you, at the moment.”

  “At who? Or what?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had enough of cops—but again, not you. At the moment.”

  She tracked back ou
t of her own work to his end of it. EDD.

  “If EDD’s that annoying, don’t go back. You don’t need to go in when you’ve got your setup here. You can coordinate with Feeney if and when you want.”

  “As you’ll be going in there’s every reason. I’m with you as long as we’re in this place,” he reminded her. “And a bit of annoyance isn’t much in the larger scheme, is it?”

  “Depends. What’s the annoyance, specifically? It’s not just being around cops.”

  “Believe me, it’s no champagne picnic for someone with my . . . predilections.”

  He could read her, often too well for comfort. Tit for tat, she thought, reached over, took his hand. “Roarke.”

  “Ah, bugger it. It’s nothing, really. Ricchio’s father—another cop—had a part in the investigation on mine. He made a point of telling me, with the Texas version of the beady eye you’re so fond of.”

  Her hackles rose. “Out of line.”

  “Was it? Wouldn’t you have done the same in his place?”

  “Maybe. Probably. I’d have been out of line. You’re here to help, a consultant duly designated by the NYPSD. And Patrick Roarke has dick-all to do with it. One of Ricchio’s consultants is being held by a violent predator. That’s his fucking focus, and he’s got no business messing with your head when lives are on the line.”

  “Well then, we can agree in part. But there’s always going to be a smudge, isn’t there? It’s the way of things.”

  “Things suck.”

  “Often. But now that you’re annoyed along with me, I feel better. I want food.”

  Not in the least mollified, she shoved up, paced away. “This fucking place. I hate it. I don’t care if it’s unfair. Probably there’s good things about it, good people in it. I don’t care. They met up here, your father and mine.”

  “Eve, Ricchio has no reason, and no accessible data to make a connection between Patrick Roarke, Richard Troy, and Lieutenant Eve Dallas.”

  “But it’s there. It’s always going to be there, that smudge.” She swung back toward him, letting out what had been grinding inside her since they’d touched down.

  “We’re never going to get out from under it, not all the way. No matter what we do, who we are, what we make, they’re part of it. We can’t change that. It’s always there, and it’s more there here.”

  “It is, yes. It is.” He rose, went to her. “So, we’ll have to find Melinda Jones quickly, deal with McQueen, and go home.”

  She closed her eyes when he rested his brow against hers. “Sounds like a plan. Simple, straightforward.”

  “I have every faith.”

  “Then I’d better get back to it. Tell you what, to make up for cop bullshit, I’ll deal with your dinner before I write up my reports. How do you feel about Texas beef, burger style?”

  “I could feel very agreeable to that.” But he took her hands. “Think about this. Without the smudge we wouldn’t be just who we are, and wouldn’t be so damn determined to keep scrubbing at it. In our own ways.”

  “I guess not. Still . . .” She stopped when her ’link signaled. “Peabody,” she said with a glance at the readout.

  “Deal with it. I can handle getting my own dinner.”

  “Good. Sorry. Peabody. Did you get him?”

  He went in, kept an eye on her as he selected from the AutoChef. She paced, one hand jammed in her pocket. Talking fast, eyes narrowed, cop flat.

  Back to scrubbing at the smudge, he thought.

  When she came in, fresh energy came with her.

  “They picked Civet up, got him cold with his pockets lined with baggies of poppers, Zing, zoner, and what all. Collared him within a block of a youth center, which adds weight. Adding up how many times he’s been in, he’s looking at ten to fifteen without the PA breaking a sweat. He’ll deal. He’ll talk. She just has to play him right.”

  She started pacing again, around her case board. “She’s got to let Baxter go in hard and low while she takes the soft, let’s-work-this-out method.”

  “Do you trust her to get it done?”

  “Yeah, I do. But I’d trust her more if I was there.”

  “You just want to sweat a suspect.”

  “Oh God, yeah. Peabody gets Stibble, Lovett, now Civet. I get Really Fat Vik, the completely cooperative bartender with the super memory. How is that just?”

  She plopped down at the desk. “Still, I want to go roust the UNSUB’s neighbors at her old apartment. Maybe one of them will give me some game.”

  “You’re certainly due. I’m going to take my meal in the other office and play Find the Van without cops sneering over my shoulder.”

  While he did, she settled into writing her report, read the progress on others. They’d eliminated some of the real estate, some vehicle transactions. Still a long way to go.

  Big city, she mused, lots of apartments and condos, lots of vans. What else? What else did he need, did he want?

  She sat back, put her boots on the desk, shut her eyes.

  Likes good wine, she remembered. He’d had a nice selection—heavy on the Cabernet—in his New York hellhole.

  She put herself back there, using her mind, her memory rather than the crime scene photos.

  Wineglasses lined by type in the cabinet. She hadn’t known good crystal from crap back then, but she did now. Good glasses. Dishes—four-piece place settings, nice quality—simple, classic white with a raised pattern around the lips.

  Fresh fruit and vegetables in the market bags. Nothing processed. Some cheese, a—what was it?—baguette. Eggs in the friggie. Not egg substitute.

  Good food, good wine, and good dishes and stemware to enjoy it. He’d have missed that in prison.

  He’d want what he wanted now.

  She roamed the apartment in her head, eyes closed, boots up.

  Not much furniture, and no clutter. Clean, tidy, organized.

  Organic cleaning products, she remembered. Unscented.

  His bedroom had posts and rungs on the headboard. He’d needed those to secure the ropes, the cuffs, his restraints du jour.

  Good sheets—two spare sets—all white, organic cotton.

  He’d always used the beds, always raped his prey on good, clean sheets.

  Good sheets had to be laundered.

  Bathroom. Organic cotton with the towels, too, and white again. Always white. Soaps, shampoos, grooming products. All natural again, no additives, no chemicals.

  He’d need shops that carried his preferences. He’d have given his partner his requirements. Local shops, online? Maybe a mix of both.

  Security cameras, soundproofing, shackles and restraints. The locals and the feds already had those, were already running those elements.

  But they needed to work the other details.

  She swung her boots to the floor, rose to circle the board as she dictated the additional list to the computer.

  “Advise search for retail venues carrying these products in the Dallas area and online. Purchases of linens, kitchenware, cleaning products within the last six weeks. Grooming products, wine within four. Foodstuffs within the last two to three days.

  “Also check on laundry services—white organic cotton linens.”

  She circled again as Roarke came in. “Copy and send memo to all listed partners. Mark priority.”

  Acknowledged, working . . . Task complete.

  “I wasn’t thorough enough,” she said to Roarke. “And I’ve been so focused on the woman herself, I didn’t think about the little things, the everyday things. Dishes, towels. Fuck! It’s part of his pattern, part of his profile.”

  “Then it’s in the file, which every team member has.”

  “Yeah, but every team member wasn’t in that apartment, didn’t see the dishes, the bottles of expensive wine. The tub of Green Nature cleaner under the sink.”

  Fascinated, he lifted his eyebrows. “You remember the actual brand of cleaner?”

  “Yeah, I remember it, and while that’s buried some
where in the list of items found and logged in his place, who’s going to pay attention unless you put it all together? We’d have had men on this today if I’d just thought of it sooner.”

  “And how soon did you think of it once you had an actual opportunity to sit down, clear your mind, and think?”

  “Pretty quick, actually. It’s probably been trying to kick through all damn day.” Dissatisfied, restless, she rocked on her heels. “Still slow. Another problem is she probably got most of this, if not all, online. It’ll take longer to track down transactions.”

  “You believe she’s in love with him.”

  Eve stared at the ID shots, felt that little trip again. “I believe she believes it.”

  “I’ll wager she bought locally for some of it. The linens particularly. She’s setting up house, isn’t she? She’d want to touch them, examine them, fuss a bit.”

  “Really?”

  “Not everyone objects to shopping on almost religious grounds.” Like Eve, he studied the woman’s ID shots. “She’s hard, you say, tough, experienced. But he’s found a weak spot. And that part of her might enjoy taking the time, in person, to select—especially what she imagines touching his body, and hers.”

  “That’s good. Almost Mira good. Well, it’d be a break if she did, and if some clerk recognizes her. Meanwhile—”

  “Meanwhile, I have a line on the van, or what I think may be the van.”

  “Already?”

  “I started earlier, in EDD. But find I work much better without that itch between my shoulder blades. A ’fifty-two panel van, blue,” he continued as he walked over to program coffee for both of them. “Registered to the Heartfelt Christian League—which is bogus, by the way. I thought, if Sister Suzan made the purchase, she might use some church-type organization for the registration, so I started there.”

  “Good start.”

  “Well, you’d be surprised how many church-type organizations have vans, and have bought same in the last year or so. I tracked this one back to its previous owner, a Jerimiah Constance—who’s a devout Christian, by the way, in a little town called Mayville, just this side of the Louisiana border. As Sister Suzan had a Baton Rouge address on that ID, it’s a nice link. Cash transaction,” he added. “Sister Suzan Devon’s signature’s on the transfer papers.”