New York to Dallas

by J. D. Robb

  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 ass 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?”

  “London was in the plans,” Roarke told her. “We’re getting through some of his blocks, and found where he’s started researching accommodations and real estate in London.”

  “He can’t get there now.”

  “He knows New York.”

  Eve nodded at Mira. “And expects I’ll go back there. He’ll need to ride the grift for a while, pump up his funds. He’ll need to hunt, and that’s soon. But he’s got nowhere to take her, keep her. A motel maybe, something he can pay cash for. He’d have to keep her under. No soundproofing this time. But he’ll need that release.”

  She paced. “Or break into a home, a private residence. Take what he needs, regroup.”

  “He’s angry. He’ll be rash,” Mira warned her. “And violent.”

  “The media should be useful. Blanket it with his face, his name, feed the media some of the data on the manhunt. If he catches it, he’ll get more pissed, more shaken. He’s alone now, and has to go back to living on his wits. It’s been a long time.”

  She had a pair of uniforms take Mira back to the hotel, watched EDD carry out the electronics.

  “They could use you on that,” Eve said to Roarke. “I know you’d rather not work at Ricchio’s house, but that’s where the equipment’s going.”

  “Yes. So we’ll go there.”

  “I’m going to stay here, keep looking. A dozen cops in here,” she said when he frowned. “Not counting me. When I’m ready to go back to the hotel and work, I’ll have a couple big bad cops take me to the door if you’re still at it. Good enough?”

  “Nowhere alone. Your word.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to give him a chance to get me alone.”

  “I’m going to nag you,” Roarke warned, “contact you every hour.”

  “Okay, fine, but I’m going to finish here, get an escort back, then close myself up and try to find a new angle on where he’d run, how, and how the hell he expects to get to me when the cops have Dallas—the city—sewed up like . . . whatever gets sewed up.”

  “Tag me when you leave for the hotel. If I’ve done all I think I can do at that point, I’ll meet you there. We can find the fresh angle together.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  23

  Reduced to shoplifting, McQueen thought, like a common street thief. One more thing Eve Dallas would pay for. Still, it didn’t hurt his feelings to know he hadn’t lost his touch. Three relatively quick stops, and he had what he needed.

  Maybe it had been tedious to have to ditch one car, boost another, but he had to admit, just a bit exciting, too. Nostalgic.

  He hadn’t boosted since he’d been a lad at his mother’s knee. Plus, the second car had netted him a briefcase—a nice stroke of luck. Props always added to the illusion.

  It was time, he thought, to get to the point. Time to finish it, finish her, and get the hell out of Dallas. The city was bad luck, nothing but stinking bad luck. Back to New York. That would be like rubbing her dead face in it, wouldn’t it?

  But no, no, he’d had bad luck in New York, too.

  Philly maybe, or back to Baltimore. Maybe Boston. No, no, winter was coming despite the vicious heat in this godforsaken bad-luck city. He should head south. Atlanta, no, Miami. All those fresh bad girls on the beaches. Easy pickings. Like a vacation.

  He’d take a vacation in Miami, he decided, and saw himself trolling South Beach in a white linen suit.

  In the pretty roadster, in a happier state of mind with the prospect of sun and surf in his future, he pulled up in front of the hotel. Fussed a bit with his safety belt, the briefcase, to give the doorman time to open the door for him.

  “Good evening, sir. Checking in?”

  “Just meeting a friend at the bar.”

  “Enjoy your visit, sir.”

  “Oh, I will.” He didn’t resent the tip. He intended to leave with more than he’d come in with, so he could afford to be generous.

  He strode in, took a moment to glance around as any man would, noting the layout just as advertised on the webpage. Noting, too, lobby security—the cams and the manpower.

  Swinging the briefcase, he strolled into the lobby bar, chose a table facing a bank of elevators.

  He had some time, he considered. They wouldn’t be back soon—they had work to do! Searching his apartment, going through his things. Coordinating their roadblocks and manhunt.

  They could arrange all the media bulletins they li
ked. He’d taken care of that, the snip, snip in the restroom of the pharmacy, the careful comb through of color, the use of his own shorn hair and some lifted spirit gum for a jaunty goatee, and he had a whole new look.

  And not unattractive, he mused as he flirted with the waitress and ordered a club soda, extra lime. And she flirted right back. They always did, he thought. And what did she see? A man with short chestnut hair, a bit on the choppy side, with a trim and narrow goatee. The well-cut suit, the briefcase.

  She didn’t see a man the police chased their tails for. No indeed.

  His hand flexed and unflexed under the table. He wanted blood, and soon. Wanted the just-budding body of a bad, bad girl. Wanted to see the life drain out of a certain bitch of a cop. But he had to take some time. He had to choose carefully.

  His luck was up, he reminded himself. And gave the waitress a cheerful wink when she brought his drink, a dish of olives, and a pretty bowl of snack mix.

  Olives, he thought, losing his thread a moment. What was it about olives?

  The stock boy, the other, the cops. All those jars.

  He took a slow sip. Club soda now, champagne later, he promised himself. Everything would go according to plan. He only had to wait for the mark.

  He scanned the bar, the lobby, considering and rejecting as he sipped his club soda.

  It took twenty minutes, but he spotted her. Pretty and petite in a short black dress. Costume jewelry, a bit too carefully made up, and brown hair that could’ve used some highlights and a zippier style.

  But he gave her credit for the hot-pink heels.

  Early twenties, he judged as she made her way to the bar. Smalltown girl in the big city. When she sat at a table nearby, he considered it a sign.

  He didn’t even have to move to make it work.

  She ordered a champagne cocktail. Living it up, he thought, watching her look everywhere at once. He made sure she’d glanced his way when he checked his wrist unit, frowned. Then he caught her eye, smiled at her.

  She blushed.

  “I think I’ve been stood up.” He shrugged, smiled again. “I hope you don’t mind, but I just have to say, those shoes are amazing.”

  “Oh.” She bit her bottom lip, glanced around again. Plenty of people at the bar, excellent hotel. What was the harm? “Thanks. I just bought them today.”

  “Terrific choice.” He turned his wrist again as if checking the time. “Are you visiting Dallas?”

  “Um.”

  “Sorry.” He waved a hand. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

  “Oh . . . That’s okay. I’m here to see some friends. We’re having dinner, but they had to push back the reservation. So I thought, well, I’m all ready now—”

  “And wearing amazing new shoes.”

  She laughed, and he thought it was just too easy.

  “I thought I’d have a drink down here instead of sitting in my room.”

  “Can’t blame you a bit.” He waited until the waitress served her, ordered another club soda. “I’m supposed to meet a client, but as I said . . . So where are you from?”

  “Oh, Nowhere, Oklahoma.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It might as well be. Just a little town—Brady—south of Tulsa.”

  “You’re kidding me! Tulsa,” he said, tapping his chest. “That’s where I grew up—until I was sixteen anyway, and we moved here. Broke my heart. I had to leave the girl I was sure was the love of my life. I can’t believe it. Brady, Oklahoma, and she sits down with her amazing pink shoes right in the same hotel bar. I have to buy you a drink.”

  “Oh, um—”

  “Come on, Okies have to stick together.” Careful, he told himself, and simply shifted to face her more directly. “Matt Beaufont.”

  “Eloise. Eloise Pruitt.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Eloise. So, is this your first time in Dallas?”

  He engaged her, made her laugh, made her blush. He paid for his drinks and hers when the waitress made the next round.

  “Look, do you mind if I join you, just until you have to go?”

  Before she could answer, he grabbed his drink, rose. He moved fast, sliding his chair over next to hers, boxing her in.

  “I really should—”

  “Sit very still, and keep smiling at me. You feel that, Eloise? That’s a knife. If you make a sound, a move, I’m going to have to put it in you.” Her eyes were so wide, so shocked. Another thrill. “It’ll ruin the line of that dress, and get blood all over your amazing pink shoes. We don’t want that.”

  “Please.”

  “Now, I don’t want to hurt you, I really don’t. I want you to give me that giggle, like you did before. Give me a giggle, Eloise, or I’ll cut you.”

  She managed it—a little high, a little shrill. He got his hand on the prepared syringe in his pocket. Leaned in as if whispering in her ear.

  “Ow.”

  “Oh, that didn’t hurt. And it’s just a little taste, to help you relax. That and the drink will do it.”

  “I feel . . .”

  “Drunk, oh yes, you do. What room are you in, Eloise?”

  “I’m . . . sixteen-oh-three. I’m dizzy. Don’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m just going to take you up to your room. I bet you want to lie down.”

  “I need to lie down.”

  “Put your arm around me, Eloise. Give me that giggle.”

  She swayed a bit when he got her to her feet. Smiled when he told her to smile, leaned on him as they crossed the lobby.

  “I don’t feel right.”

  “I’m going to make it all better. You just have to do what I tell you. Exactly what I tell you.”

  He got her in the elevator, told her to put her arms around his neck with him keeping his back to the camera. “Push sixteen, Eloise, and smile for me.”

  “I have to meet my friends.” She missed the button twice, then hit it.

  “That’s for later.”

  No one got on. His luck still ran true. In the corridor of sixteen, he danced her down the hall, her stumbling, him laughing.

  “Need your key, baby doll.”

  “Key?”

  “I’ll get it.” He braced her against the door, caging her in again as he took her purse, dug out the card. “Here we go!”

  The minute they were inside the room, he let her drop to a heap on the floor.

  “Well done, Eloise! Now, we have more work to do.”

  Carlotta Phelps got off on sixteen. She’d been with hotel security for three years, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d assisted a drunk guest. And since her shift ended in ten, unlocking a bathroom door and recoding a key wasn’t a tough way to end the day.

  She knocked briskly on 1603. “Ms. Pruitt, hotel security.”

  There was some fumbling at the door. Carlotta kept her face blank, but inside she smirked, and hoped Eloise from Oklahoma had some Sober-Up with her.

  The woman who finally got the door opened looked a little mussed, a lot drunk, but matched the ID on file. She said, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no problem. You reported a lost key and a locked bathroom door?”

  “I . . . that’s what I said.”

  “May I come in?”

  “I . . . please.”

  Eloise took an unsteady step back, and Carlotta moved through the door.

  As it shut behind her, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, had half a second to react before the syringe punched against her throat.

  “There now,” McQueen said cheerfully. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He gestured with the point of the knife. “Now get on the bed, Eloise, facedown.”

  “Please.”

  “You’re so polite. Please, please, please. Sit down or I’m going to open that pretty cheek of yours all the way to the bone.”

  She did as she was told.

  “Duct tape,” he said as he used it to secure her hands behind her back. “Low-tech, easily available, and so very versatile.”
He continued on to her ankles while she shuddered and wept.

  “I could smother you. No blood that way, but to be honest, Eloise, I’m just not that interested.” Tired of her blubbering and pleading, he slapped tape over her mouth. “There now, some peace and quiet.”

  Pleased, he turned to the woman on the floor. He rolled her over, took her master, her communicator, personal ’link, earbud, and as he’d done with Eloise, whatever cash and jewelry she had.

  Waste not, want not, he thought.

  He bound her, gagged her for good measure though he expected she’d be out for an hour, then replaced the tape roll in the briefcase. He’d have preferred to simply cut off her thumb, quick and easy. But so messy.

  Instead he took the time to press her thumb to a strip of foil, carefully fixed it to his own, sealed it.

  Pumped with success, he strolled over to the bed. “Maybe I’ll smother you anyway. Really with that hair, that pathetic use of enhancers you probably don’t deserve to live. Just kidding!” he said, laughing uproariously as she squirmed and struggled to scream. “Well, not about the hair and makeup. Bye-bye, Eloise—and you’re welcome. You’ll be dining out on this little adventure for years.”

  He stepped over the guard, considered a moment. Taking out his jammer, he eased the door open a crack for line of sight. Best not to be seen, if anyone bothered to glance at the right monitor at the right time. He counted off a three-second disruption as he rushed down the corridor to the stairwell.

  A long climb, he thought as he started up, but the prize at the end, so worth it.

  He broke a sweat, but considered it a byproduct of good, healthy exercise.

  He paused outside the stairwell door on fifty-eight. He’d need the jammer again. The master and print would get him in, but the use of it would trigger a record and alert.

  Anything over a ten-second disruption would trip another alert and result in a standard check. So he’d have to move fast.

  He hit the jammer and bolted. Swiped the card, pressed his sealed thumb. Nothing.

  They’d just had to send a woman! One with small hands, little digits.

  Cursing, sweat rolling now, he forced himself to steady, did the swipe a second time, and with more care, more delicacy, pressed the print to the pad.