by J. D. Robb
“Agreed,” Laurence said before Nikos could speak. “He’ll have whatever he needs from us.”
“Good.” Eve waited a beat. “We’ll need to establish whether or not McQueen’s inside before we disable and lock down.”
“It sounds like you assume you’re heading this op, Dallas. The last one you headed ended up with a high-speed chase, a dead cop, and a dead suspect. Which brings up the matter of Detective Price.” Nikos glanced toward him. “And the decision to include him on this operation.”
“My detective’s actions saved a child from serious injury, possibly death. Don’t you begin to question his actions or my judgment, Agent.”
“You want to hang the failure of that operation on someone, you hang it on me,” Eve snapped out. “Or maybe you’d have just let that kid end up roadkill.”
“I do hang it on you, and also suggest Detective Price may not be mentally prepared to—”
“Oh give it a rest, Nikos. Seriously.” Laurence rubbed his forehead. “If you’ve got to blame somebody, blame the goddamn dog. But the fact is, we did everything right, and it went south. We need to catch up on this second location. Dallas has the data.”
Nikos set her jaw. “We have to analyze the data and confirm we’ve got McQueen’s location in the first damn place.”
“It is confirmed,” Eve tossed back. “You want chapter and verse?”
“I want facts. Verified.”
“McQueen’s paying for the unit, and has been paying for it since September of ’fifty-five—a month after Melinda went to see him at Rikers. Construction of the building and the apartment was completed in February of the following year. I’m not finished,” Eve said as Nikos started to interrupt.
Tired, Eve noted, edgy, with the stress and strain of the last few days clear on Nikos’s face. She’d just have to suck it up, Eve thought. Like the rest of them.
“The payments, money from the rentals from corporate tenants, the maintenance, and so on are handled and arranged by Ferrer, Arias and Garza, a law firm out of Costa Rica—Heredía, to be precise. That’s something you might want to look into. The unit’s owned by Executive Travel, which appears to conscientiously pay its taxes and fees—also through the law firm. He uses a local cleaning service, the same used by the partner at the duplex—both paid for through the law firm and billed to Executive Travel, which lists what turns out to be a mail drop as its address. Leases are arranged by building management, for a fee. They also report to the law firm.”
Well aware cops’ ears were tuned in to her recitation, she kept her focus on Nikos and pressed her point. “This is data my consultant accessed, a great deal of it in the travel time between our hotel and this room. If you want it, he can get you the name of every employee in the law firm and whether they wear boxers or fucking briefs. He’s just that good. And he looked for said data because I deduced McQueen had the second location. I’m just that good, too. With what we’re handing you, you can tack on all sorts of fun federal charges, potentially bust a criminal organization—i.e., the law firm, if you’re not keeping up—that’s certainly bent or broken a number of international laws, and confiscate a whole shit pile of money. Before that, there’s the little matter of busting McQueen’s ass.”
She turned to Ricchio who struggled to control a smile. “With your permission, Lieutenant, I’d like to start the briefing, then coordinate with you on assignments.”
“Then let’s roll it out.”
Nikos steamed her, but Eve didn’t mind. It pumped her up.
After Mira finished the profile, Eve laid on operational strategy and procedure. Then she pulled Roarke and Mira aside.
“You’re going to be working with e-men from DPSD and the FBI.”
“Quite the party,” Roarke commented, with no real pleasure.
“Ricchio is going to give you a space to coordinate. He’s also getting the warrants for you to link up with building security and tamper with McQueen’s. You’re Team One.”
“So you said. Well, I’ll go find my space. See you on the line, Lieutenant.”
“I’d like you to go out on this,” Eve said to Mira. “We know McQueen was mobile when he contacted me. It’s unlikely he’s taken another girl, but it’s not impossible. If so, we may need hostage negotiation, and it takes time to pull one in. Besides, you know him.”
“Yes. I’d like to go.”
“We’ll keep you out of the hot spot, but linked in so you know what’s going on.”
“Just tell me where you want me.”
Moving on, Eve thought as she climbed into the van with her team, fit on her earpiece. Step by step.
Link with building security, establish eyes and ears in and out. Establish target is on-site. If so, locate and disable his vehicle. All teams move into secondary hold positions. Disrupt apartment security, disable elevator. Move into corridor, block stairwell, lock down building. Trap him like a rat.
Break in the door, go in hot. Take him down.
If target wasn’t on-site, wait until he was and proceed.
Bree shifted over to her. “I wanted to thank you for requesting me as part of your team.”
“Maybe I just wanted to keep an eye on you so you don’t screw up.”
Bree offered a tight smile. “I won’t. My parents are with Melly, at our place. I didn’t update them. Just in case.”
“That’s best.”
“I want to be able to tell them we got him.”
“Then let’s make it happen.”
“I know Nikos got in your face, and Ricchio’s, about Price. Things get around.”
Cop shops, Eve thought. Some aspects had no geography. “Yeah, they do.”
“I know you stood up for him.”
“He didn’t screw up. It was bad luck, that’s all. Nikos knows that, too. She’s just pissed and frustrated.”
“Yeah, but still. It’s appreciated.”
“You can buy me a drink when this is done.”
“You got it.”
Here we go, she thought as the van pulled over. “Team Two in position,” she said into her mic. “Sound it off.”
She listened as team leaders reported, gestured to the e-man on her team. “Bring it up. Let’s have a look.”
She studied the building, all shimmering gold and glass in a wide curve. Railed balconies spread into longer, deeper terraces on the upper levels.
And McQueen’s, the top level, east corner. “Zoom it in on target.”
She edged forward. Unless he had a parachute or a personal jet lift, he couldn’t escape by way of the terrace. With the elevator and stairs blocked, he wouldn’t have access to the roof.
The only way out would be through a wall of cops. He wouldn’t make it.
“Do a sweep, ground level,” she ordered.
She spotted the softclothed cops in position or moving into. The couple having coffee at the sidewalk café nestled beside the building, a man sitting on a wall above a bunch of flowers working a PPC. Still another window-shopping.
She counted off the rest.
She’d given strict orders not to approach or pursue should McQueen be spotted outside. The last thing she wanted was another chase, and any opportunity for him to slip the net.
“We’re in,” Roarke said in her ear.
“Copy that. Show me.”
The monitor switched again, showing her the lobby area—glossy, elegant—droid at a long, low table to check in visitors, deliveries, cleaning crews. Lots of flowers in angled glass vases along one wall.
While he took her through maintenance areas, security stations, utility rooms, Team Four’s leader sounded in her ear.
“Sensors read empty, Lieutenant.”
She thought, Crap. “We hold. Team Five, move on the garage. Let’s see if he’s on the road or on foot. If you locate the vehicle, disable.”
She settled back. “Roarke, let’s see his floor.”
She studied the corridor, the placement of other apartments, the position of the st
airs, the elevators. And the security on McQueen’s door.
“Target’s vehicle in assigned slot. Now disabled.”
“Acknowledged. We hold.”
And, she thought, we wait.
A few blocks away McQueen browsed the selections of a gourmet market. He’d missed this—missed the time to do as he liked, missed enjoying a meal of his own choosing when he chose to enjoy it.
He intended to make himself a very special dinner, the last before he had some company.
The last before Eve joined him.
It would work very well, he thought as he considered the artichokes. He knew just where to find her now.
The hotel security on communication was, as you’d expect from a Roarke property, perfection. But the Dallas police weren’t quite so clever or well-funded. It hadn’t been difficult to triangulate her signal during their last contact. And tonight, he’d pay her a visit. He would, undoubtedly, have to kill Roarke, which was a shame considering all that lovely money that might have come into his hands.
But Eve was worth the cost.
Just a few more details to iron out, which he’d do after marketing.
He found himself staring, unable to make a decision on olives. So many different choices, all those little jars. How was he suppose to pick one, to know what he’d want in an hour? In two?
Annoyed with himself, he grabbed one at random, then another, then two more. Of course he knew what he wanted, what he would want. He just had so many things on his mind. Gaining entrance to the hotel, then to Eve’s rooms wasn’t a snap, after all. Not that it was beyond his reach, but it did take careful planning. Hardly a wonder he couldn’t decide on olives.
He took out his PPC, where he’d carefully noted down everything he’d need for his special meal. Calmer now, he continued to browse. Everything was so much better when it was noted down, organized.
He studied the little berry tomatoes for a long time.
“Something’s going on at the Gold Door.”
McQueen came out of what felt like a trance. “What did you say?”
“Cops.”
He jerked, fumbled, and nearly dropped his basket. With his head swiveling from side to side, he prepared to run.
Then he saw the stock boy talking to another one of the staff.
“Cops at that place?” the stock boy snickered. “What, did somebody trip over their money and fall out the window?”
“Maybe bigger. I had a delivery over there. When I came out I see this cop.”
“So. Cops are everywhere except when you want them.”
“You took your cynical pill this morning. Not just a cop, a detective, and he must’ve been undercover.”
“Then how do you know he’s a detective?”
“Because I know him. Detective Buck Anderson. He came in to talk to my criminology class a couple weeks ago. He’s pretty chill, man, made me think about being a cop.”
This time a snicker and a snort from the stock boy. “As if.”
“I’d be a mag cop. I spotted an undercover detective, right? He’s sitting on the wall over there, jeans and a T-shirt, sunshades, but I recognized him.”
“Maybe it’s his day off.”
“No way, ’cause when I said hi to him, he acted like he didn’t know me. I talked to him after class for like twenty minutes. He gave me his card and everything. Like I said, he was chill, but he said I had it wrong. ‘Do I look like a cop,’ he says to me, and tells me to get lost.”
“Big whoop, Radowski. It probably wasn’t even him. And so what if it was?”
“It was him. I bet he’s on a stakeout or something. I bet we’re going to hear something big goes down at the Gold Door.”
Very carefully, McQueen set the basket aside. He fixed on a smile, strolled up to the two young men. “Excuse me, did I hear you mention the Gold Door? The police? I have a friend who lives there. I hope there’s no trouble.”
“I don’t know, sir. I just thought I saw somebody I knew.” The smile didn’t go with the fury in the man’s eyes, so the delivery boy edged away. “I have to get back to work.”
The stock boy turned to McQueen. “Can I help you find anything, sir?”
“No. No, you can’t.” McQueen stormed out, shoving past a couple just coming in, then walked quickly in the opposite direction from the Gold Door and his perfect apartment.
Eve blocked out the bored chatter, stayed inside her own head, her own thoughts. An hour into the wait, Roarke spoke in her ear.
“McQueen’s made contact again. He wants to talk to you.”
Something up, something wrong, she thought. “Hold him. Keep that sweep going. I don’t want to hear a sound from anybody in here. Can you track him?” she asked Roarke
“Possibly. It’s more difficult on these mobile units.”
“Try to pin him. Link us up, block the video.”
“Use the com on your mobile. I’m crossing to give us two points. Try to give me some time with the track. Linking now.”
She changed positions, waited.
“Twice in one day. You must miss me, Isaac.”
“Not for long.”
Something wrong, she thought again. She heard it in his voice—not the usual controlled amusement, but temper, ripe as roses.
“So you keep saying.”
“But you just couldn’t be patient. It’s rude, very rude, Eve, to come to my home without an invitation.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Just dropped by. When are you coming back, Isaac? I have a housewarming present for you.”
His breath hissed in and out, in and out. “You think you’re smart.”
“Found your hole, didn’t I?”
“Luck. Blind luck. It won’t be luck when I come for you. I’m going to make you very, very sorry, so sorry you’ll be grateful when I finally cut your throat.”
“Do you plan to use the knife you bought at Points and Blades? That’s a lot of money for a sticker. I can’t wait to see it.”
“You will. One day I’ll just be there.”
“You know, you sound a little miffed. Why don’t we—”
She swore under her breath when he cut her off.
“Working on it,” Roarke said before she could ask. “I can’t nail it, not from here. The best I can give you is somewhere on Davis Ave., between Corral and Kingston.”
Ricchio came on. “I’m alerting dispatch. We have an all-points out.”
“He’s not coming back here,” Eve said. “We’re going in. He’s running now, maybe we can find something that tells us where he’s most likely to run.”
She wanted to punch something, but kept it together as she got out of the van. She’d watched the sweeps, kept track of the cops they’d put on the street. Nothing should have tipped him off.
“How’d he make us?” she demanded when Roarke joined her. “How the hell did he make us?”
“Instincts perhaps.”
“Nobody’s are that good.” She shook her head at him. “He knew we were here. I was here. And he is seriously pissed.”
She let Ricchio clear the road with the check-in droid, building security. By the time they’d reached McQueen’s apartment and gained access, she found calm again.
“We think it was one of my men,” Ricchio told her. “Nothing he did, or we did. Someone recognized him, a college student. My detective had spoken to his class recently, spent some time answering the boy’s questions after. The kid came out of the building, spotted him. He got rid of him, but did a run on him anyway. He works at a gourmet market a few blocks away—just outside our perimeter.”
“Talk about luck.”
“He’s down there now, speaking to the boy. It’s possible McQueen was in there, the boy said something about the police.”
“Jesus.”
“No one could’ve predicted or foreseen—”
“No, no one could. It just swung McQueen’s way, and that’s all.” But she stiffened when Nikos strode up to her. “If you’re going to crawl up my a
ss on this, just save it.”
“Not this time. It was running like clockwork. But I want to know why you didn’t deny it when he made contact. Why you confirmed.”
“Because he knew, so I chose to grind him up a little. He’s off center. Doctor Mira calls it devolving. Swiping at him should help that along.”
“Doctor Mira also said he’s likely to become more violent and less controlled.”
“That’s right. Freeze the accounts, now’s the time.”
“Done,” Nikos told her. “Five minutes ago.”
“Good. He’s got no place to go, no way to get there, unless or until he steals a car. And he knows he can’t ride around in a stolen vehicle for long. We need roadblocks, we need to cover all public and private transpo. He doesn’t have any cash except what he’s got on him. He only has the ID he has on him. He uses credit, we nail him, and he knows it.”
She turned around, gestured. “Look at this place. He took a lot of time and care putting all this together, and from prison. Now he can’t use it. When he goes to access more funds, he’s frozen out.”
“He’s going to try to get out of Dallas.”
“Maybe, but we don’t have to make it easy for him.”
She crossed over to the locked door, glanced at Roarke. When he disengaged the locks, she stepped in.
He’d covered the walls with pictures of his victims. All the girls, all the eyes.
“These are case-file shots,” she stated. “It mattered enough for him to get them. He wanted me in here, locked in with them.”
She studied the shackles, remembered how they weighed on her wrists and ankles in her dream.
Then she turned away, walked out. “Let’s see what else he left behind.”
The high life, she thought as they turned the apartment inside out. Sheets of Irish linen, towels of Turkish cotton. French champagne, Russian caviar.
Tranqs and paralytics and syringes all meticulously organized in an embossed case.
“Fresh flowers in every room,” she said to Mira. “And enough food for months. A lot of it fresh, too. So it would spoil.”
“He needed to acquire—collect again—and purchase and have. And he’s likely having trouble deciding what it is he wants.”
“So he buys too much. Too many flowers, too much food, too many clothes. He knew how to live light once—well, but light. I bet we find his prints everywhere, overlapping each other. He’d want to touch everything, over and over. He’d stand out on the terrace, feel like the king of the world. Then he’d come in here, lock up like a fortress. Where’s he going now?”
