New York to Dallas edahr-41

by J. D. Robb

  A safe neighborhood—according to Ricchio’s data and her own observations—where the people didn’t know they had a predator sipping nightly cocktails right next door.

  Mostly older vehicles sat in the drives and at the curbs, but with a sprinkling of shiny new ones so her ride didn’t stand out. In any case, she sat a full block away from the target and well out of sight.

  She studied the duplex on her dash screen, listened idly to the chatter in the EDD van and the other vehicles on surveillance.

  Nice little yard in the front, shared with the other half of the house. The slim two stories appeared all neat and tidy on the exterior. Sizzling red and purple flowers flourished in emerald-green pots on the stoop of the connecting house. Most of the houses sported gardens or flowerpots. Apparently the UNSUB wasn’t interested in posies as her entrance remained bare.

  A pint-sized bike in vivid blue rested on its kickstand in the front yard of the house one unit up from target. Boy’s bike, she figured, given the style, and with those training-wheel deals.

  Not a kid McQueen would be interested in, so his partner probably didn’t give him a thought.

  Did she get along with her neighbors? Probably. Didn’t know how long she’d have to stay, wouldn’t want trouble. Kept to herself, the neighbors would say when interviewed after the fact.

  Nice, quiet, pretty woman—women, she thought. She had to be able to come and go as either, didn’t she? They’d be college pals, living together, or sisters or something. Roommates. Never seen together, but who noticed? One worked days, say, the other nights. Different days off.

  Not hard to run a game like that if you stayed smart and careful.

  Top-line security, doors and windows. Well, a couple women, living alone. Who’d question that? Privacy screens drawn.

  Come on, come out. Take a walk, take a drive. Don’t you miss him? You’re obsessed with him. Addicted. You think about him all the time.

  Who are you? How do I know your face—your faces? Did you spend some time in New York before you hooked up with McQueen?

  Maybe she’d busted one of her aliases. But then, she’d have run her. Wouldn’t she have felt some buzz there the way she felt it now?

  Way back, maybe, Eve considered, gnawing on the sensation. Maybe busted her under her real name. Or interviewed her.

  Maybe she’d crossed paths with the woman when she’d been riding the system in foster homes or state institutions and schools. That was more likely, she decided. That would explain the dread. All those years, trapped in the system that, at its base, tried to help. But most of those years had just been another kind of torture.

  She hadn’t lived, hadn’t felt real, until she’d gotten out, gone to New York. The Academy.

  She shifted, sat straighter when the door on the far side of the next unit opened. A kid ran out. Yeah, a boy, she thought. Maybe too young for school. Didn’t matter, no school today anyhow, she remembered. She watched as he zipped to the bike as if it was his one true love, his face shining with joy.

  She eased back again, watching the boy pedal like a demon up and down the sidewalk. She saw him wave and shout, got a look at the guy in the shared yard. Older guy, ball cap, coming around to the front yard with gardening tools. The man set them down, planted his hands on his hips, and grinned at the boy.

  Friendly neighbors. Yeah, just another day in the neighborhood. Kid playing, yard work. And here comes woman walking dog. Some weird little dog, all hair, pulling at the leash, jumping a lot, running in circles and yapping.

  Why did anyone want something that yapped all the damn time?

  Now Yard Work Man and Yapping Dog Lady stop to chat. How’s it going? Hot, isn’t it? Blah blah.

  Thank God she didn’t live in a place where she’d have to make conversation with people about the weather, little hairy dogs, and how the garden grew.

  She’d want to stun every one of the neighbors inside a week.

  Now Yard Work Man has to show Yapping Dog Lady his flowers. Yeah, it’s a flower all right, growing right there on a bush.

  And the dog jumps and sniffs and pulls and chews at the stupid leash while the kid keeps riding as if life itself hangs in the balance.

  No, if she had to live here, she’d stun herself inside a week.

  She came to full alert when the duplex door opened.

  There you are, she thought. There you are. All dressed up for him. Sylvia this fine morning, hair all blond and shiny, pink sundress showing lots of skin, plenty of cleavage. Matching sunshades, high pink and white heels, big-ass pink purse.

  All dolled up for him.

  “We got her,” she said into her com. “Give her room. She’s going for the van.”

  It happened fast. From her screen angle she couldn’t see it all. But she saw enough.

  The dog snapped the leash, and off balance, Yapping Dog Lady landed on her ass. Yard Work Man reached down to her.

  And the dog raced straight for the kid. Even from her post, Eve could hear the wild, high-pitched barking.

  The suspect turned as she opened the driver’s side of the van.

  The boy, startled, let out a yelp and swerved the bike, bumping it off the sidewalk, veering straight out into the street. And into the path of an oncoming car, one moving too fast for a quiet, family neighborhood.

  “Shit, oh shit.”

  As the kid did a header off the bike, one of the surveillance team—Price—bolted out of his vehicle, sprinted like an Olympian toward the kid while the oncoming car hit the brakes. The cop scooped the boy up, never breaking stride until he hit the sidewalk.

  The car sent the bike flying as the cop and boy went down.

  Price’s jacket fell open. Eve clearly saw his badge, his weapon.

  And so did the suspect.

  “She made us!” Eve shouted. “Move in, move in!”

  Even as the woman leaped into the van, Eve was punching the accelerator.

  “Cut her off. Abort op and apprehend.”

  She swung around the stalled, damaged car and flattened bike with a harsh squeal of tires on hot pavement. Screams and shouts and the little boy’s wails followed her. And the van had her by half a block.

  She tuned into the chatter now—the directions, the street names, and kept her eye on the van.

  The woman would contact McQueen, Eve thought, as soon as she got a little distance. And that couldn’t happen.

  Take her now, right now.

  She hit vertical, pushed for more speed, and took back everything she’d said about Roarke and his fancy rides as the car soared. Sirens ripped through the morning air as she yanked the wheel, made the turn with the van, then edged over it.

  A little more, a little more, she thought, gaining, gaining.

  She nipped over the van, took the car down fast and hard, yanking the wheel again to block the road.

  She saw the woman’s face, just for an instant, saw the lips peel back in shock and rage. The van swerved, but there wasn’t time.

  It rammed into the rear of the car, sending Eve into a shrieking three-sixty while air bags exploded. She heard the crash as she shoved the seat back, pushed free.

  The van tilted half on the street, half on the sidewalk where it had jumped the curb after smashing into a parked car.

  Weapon drawn, Eve walked toward the van.

  “Hands! I want to see your hands.”

  She moved closer as other cops, other weapons joined her.

  “Put your fucking hands on the wheel, now.”

  “I’m hurt!”

  “You’re going to be more hurt if I don’t see both your hands on that wheel.”

  She saw them, and blood.

  Head wound, she noted as she wrenched open the door, saw blood running down the woman’s face. Without pity, Eve yanked her out of the van, spun her around to face it.

  “What are you doing? I’m hurt. You wrecked my van. I need an ambulance.”

  “Call for a bus,” Eve ordered.

  “My chest.�
� The woman wheezed breath in and out. “Oh God, my ribs. My head.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re under arrest.” Eve cuffed the woman’s hands behind her back, then was forced to hold her up as she swayed.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.” She added weeping to the wheezing. “You drove me off the road.”

  “What name should we start with? Sister Suzan? Sarajo Whitehead? Should we go with Sylvia Prentiss since you’re her today?”

  She turned the woman around. Broke her sunshades in the crash, she thought fleetingly. “Whatever name you’re using, we’ve got your ass. And we’ll get McQueen’s.”

  Eve pulled off the broken sunglasses, tossed them to another cop.

  The woman looked at her with such fierce, bright hate.

  “Fuck you. You’ve got nothing. You are nothing!”

  Eve’s knees went loose, nearly buckled as the edges of her vision grayed, wavered. The heat rolled up, a wave from her toes to the crown of her head that coated her skin in a thin layer of sweat.

  And she knew.

  “LT, Lieutenant Dallas.” Annalyn took Eve’s arm. “You should sit down. You took a pretty hard knock.”

  “I know you,” Eve managed, her voice low and harsh with shock. “I know you.”

  “You don’t know shit.” Then the woman’s eyes rolled back. She’d have hit the street in a dead faint if Eve hadn’t yanked her up again.

  “I know you. I know you.”

  “Dallas, Dallas. Ease back. Take the bitch, Jay.” As he did, Annalyn pulled Eve back. “You’re in shock, Dallas. She’s out cold, and you’re in shock.”

  “What? What?” She pushed at Annalyn’s hand, stumbled to the curb and sat. Put her head between her knees.

  Couldn’t get sick. Wouldn’t.

  Had to be wrong.

  Everything kept spinning around, and rolling heat had turned to bitter, blowing cold. She couldn’t get her breath.

  Shocky, yes, Detective Walker was right. A little shocky from the crash.

  “The bus is on the way, Lieutenant.” Bree crouched in front of her. “Suspect is unconscious. She’s banged up pretty bad. No safety bags in that van, so she took a hard hit. You, too, even with them.”

  “I’m all right. Just got a little shaken up.”

  “The MTs will look you over, but you should go in to the hospital.”

  “Yeah, I’m going in. With her. I’ll ride with her.” Pull it together, Eve ordered herself. Remember who you are. She lifted her head, bore down when the air seemed to shimmer and sway around her. “Jesus, what a clusterfuck.”

  “She didn’t contact him. Didn’t have time. We’ve got her ’link. Price already checked it and the dash ’link, and she didn’t use either in the last half-hour. He doesn’t know we’ve got her.”

  “Silver lining.”

  “We’ll get McQueen’s location out of her. We will.”

  Tears in the corners of Bree’s eyes, Eve noted. She wasn’t the only one fighting to pull it together.

  “We will. And we’ve got her coms. Make sure EDD starts on them asap.”

  “We can take it from here.” Laurence stepped up to her. “We’ll work the van, the electronics, the duplex. You get checked out. That was some kick-ass driving, Dallas. Kick-ass.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your lip’s bleeding some.”

  She swiped at it, looked at the smear on the back of her hand. “Just smacked it on the air bag. I’m good.”

  Blood, she thought, studying the smear. Blood on her hand, blood in the van.

  Blood didn’t lie.

  She got to her feet, waved Bree aside. “I’m okay. Just need to walk it off.”

  She walked to the car as if to study the damage. Roarke knew her; she knew him. As she expected he’d had a field kit stowed in the trunk.

  Don’t think, she ordered herself, just do. Just do it.

  She took out swabs, used one on the cut on her lip, capped it. Hands steady, she marked it, pocketed it.

  She moved through the cops, around the MTs who’d just arrived to work on the suspect.

  She stared at the blood on the wheel. Head wound, she thought dully. Always plenty of blood with a head wound.

  She used the swab, capped and marked it.

  After a few calming breaths, she walked back to where the MTs worked. “What’s the damage?”

  “She’s got the head laceration, probably concussion,” the MT told her. “Contusions on her chest and arms, and a couple ribs either broken or cracked. Internal injuries likely. We’ve got to get her in.”

  “I’m riding with you. What hospital?”

  “Dallas City. If you’re coming, you’ve got to come now. We’re about to load her.”

  “I’m coming.”

  She stepped aside, took out her ’link.

  “That was fast,” Roarke began, then stopped, smile dropping away. “You’re hurt.”

  “Just a couple bumps from the air bags. I wrecked the car.”

  “Typical,” he said, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What happened?”

  “Later. We have her. It got fucked, but we have her.”

  The shakes wanted to start again, and the heat began its next roll over the ice.

  “She’s being transported to Dallas City Hospital. I need you there. I need you to . . . I need you to come there. I didn’t get the address.”

  “I’ll get it. Eve, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I can’t, not now. I’m not hurt. It’s not that. Roarke, I need you to come.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Now or never,” the MT called out.

  “I have to go.”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. I’m on my way.”

  Eve slid the ’link into her pocket, climbed into the back of the ambulance.

  She sat, studied the face of the unconscious woman.

  Open your eyes, damn it. Open your eyes and look at me again.

  Because, she admitted, she hadn’t been wrong. It hadn’t been shock, not from the crash. She knew McQueen’s latest partner.

  And it was just another nightmare.

  But the woman didn’t wake up, not on the short ride to the ER. Eve kept pace with the medicals, one foot in front of the other, and saw her prisoner’s eyelids flutter, heard her moan as they rushed her down and through to a treatment room.

  “Outside, please.”

  Eve gave the doctor in charge, a young, harried black man in scrubs, one glance. “She’s in my custody. I stay.”

  “Keep out of the way.”

  She stepped back, but watched every move while the doctors, nurses, MTs rattled off in their strange language, transferred the woman to the table.

  She moaned again.

  “What’s her name?” the doctor called out to Eve.

  “Which one? She’s got a lot of them.” She nearly gave him the one flashing like neon in her mind, then thought better of it. “Try Sylvia. It’s current.”

  “Sylvia. We’ve got you now. Look right here. Can you tell me what day it is?”

  “It fucking hurts! Make it stop. Give me something.”

  “Just hang on now, we’re going to take care of you.”

  “Give me something for the goddamn pain, you fuck.”

  “Classy,” Eve said mildly. “She’s an addict.”

  “Keep that fucking cunt of a cop away from me. She tried to kill me.”

  “She’s lucid.” The doctor cut his eyes toward Eve. “Is she on anything now?”

  Eve kept her eyes on the bruised, bloodied face. “Can’t say, probability high.”

  “What did you take, Sylvia? How much did you take?”

  “Fuck you. I’m dying. She tried to kill me. Give me something.” She lashed out, tried to claw at the doctor’s face.

  “Strap her down,” he ordered.

  Dispassionately, Eve watched the struggle, listened to the screams, the curses. One of the nurses moved over to her.

  “
Would you step outside with me? Just outside. She’s secured, and believe me, Doctor Zimmerman can handle her. We’ve got to get her stabilized, access the injuries.”

  With a nod, Eve stepped outside the door, but faced the porthole window, continued to watch.

  “Do you know what she might have taken?”

  “Not at this time. They’ll bring in the contents of her purse, whatever she had at her residence, in her vehicle. You’ll have to run a tox yourself to determine. She’s dangerous,” Eve added. “She’s to be under guard at all times. She is not to be allowed any communications, and must be kept in restraints.”

  “What the hell did she do?”

  Eve glanced over, saw Annalyn and Bree coming at a fast clip. “These officers will tell you what you need to know.”

  “What’s her status?” Bree demanded. “Has she said anything?”

  “Nothing helpful. Ask the nurse re status.” Eve went back to watching.

  She’d live, Eve thought. She’d damn well live because there were questions to be answered.

  Machines and scanners on her now, Eve noted, taking pictures of what was inside her. She’d stopped screaming and turned on the tears.

  “Messed up, but not critical.”

  Eve nodded at Annalyn’s interpretation of the nurse’s rundown. “EDD’s scanning the duplex for alarms and trips. When they clear it, we’ll go in, take it apart.”

  “What about her coms?”

  “Last communication was a text.” She pulled out her notebook.

  U wore me out last night. Going to salon, some shopping. B there about 3. CU later.

  “Gives us some time. Any chance of a trace?”

  “If he contacts her, we’ll trap and trace. They’re working on the code she used to send. I don’t know yet.”

  “Did the van have navigation? I didn’t see.”

  “Disabled,” Annalyn reported. “All her ’links are disposable clones, juiced up with filters. But EDD will cut through.”

  “She knows where Melly is,” Bree murmured. “She knows.”

  “And we’ll get it out of her,” Annalyn assured her. “He won’t miss her until after three. We’ve got time to work her.”

  “Send another text,” Eve said. “After fourteen hundred, send another. It took longer at the salon, she booked a massage, or whatever the hell. Out shopping. Bought him a present. Something. Running late. Might be six. Buy us a few more hours.”