New York to Dallas

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 out 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 somewhere 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.”

“God, that feels good. I need everything you’ve got.”

“Already copied to your unit.”

She spun on her heel, went back to the desk. “We’ll get this out. It’s probably been painted, but that’s another avenue there. And she’ll have switched the tags, but it’s good. I’m going to nudge the feds to verify, have somebody interview God-fearing Jerimiah.”

“I’m still working on the money. McQueen’s covered himself well in that area.”

“He’s good,” she said as she sent out the new data. “You’re better.”

“Yes, of course, but thanks all the same.”

“We’re on a nice roll here. Let’s keep it going. Let’s go harass some apartment-dwelling Texans.”

Roarke toasted her with his coffee. “Yee-ha.”

The building showed some wear, squatting in the lowering light. The patch of parking on the side apparently doubled as a playground as a bunch of kids ran between and around cars, shouting the way kids always seemed to at play.

Security was just shy of adequate, but as several windows were wide open to the nonexistent breeze—just inviting a visit from thieves—she assumed nobody cared.

As she got out of the car one of the kids barreled straight into her.

“Tag! You’re It!”

“No, I’m not.”

He grinned, showing a wide gap where, hopefully, his two front teeth would grow in at some point. “We’re playing Tag. Who are you?”

“I’m the police.”

“We play Cops ’n’ Robbers, too. I like being a robber. You can arrest me.”

“Get back to me in about ten years.”

She eyed the entrance, eyed the kid. What the hell, you had to start somewhere. She pulled out the ID of Sarajo Whitehead. “Do you know her?”

“She don’t live here anymore.”

“But she did.”

“Yep. Uh-huh. I gotta go tag.”

“Wait a minute. Did she live by herself?”

“I guess. She slept a lot. She used to yell out the window for us to stop all that noise ’cause people are trying to sleep. But my ma said that was just too bad ’cause it’s the middle of the day and kids get to play loud as they want outside.”

“Who’s your ma?”

“She’s Becky Robbins and my pa’s Jake. I’m Chip. We live on the fourth floor, and I’ve got a turtle named Butch. You wanna see?”

“Is your mother home?”

“Course she’s home. Where else? Ma!”

He shouted, loud and high-pitched so Eve’s ears rang.

“Jesus, kid.”

“You shouldn’t oughta say ‘Jesus.’ You should say ‘Jeez it.’ ”

“You really think zzz makes a difference?”

“Ma says so. Ma!”

“Christ!”

“Nuh-uh.” Gap-toothed Chip shook his head. “ ‘Cripes’ is okay, though.”

“Chip Robbins, how many times have I told you not to yell out for me unless you’re being stabbed with a pitchfork?”

The woman who stuck her head out the window had her son’s curly dark hair and an aggrieved scowl.

“But Ma, the police want to talk to you. See?” He grabbed Eve’s hand, waved it with his.

Eve took hers back, resisted wiping off whatever sticky substance his had transferred. She held up her badge. “Can we come up, Mrs. Robbins?”

“What’s this about? My boy’s a pain in the behind, but he’s good as gold.”

“It’s about a former neighbor. If we could come up—”

“I’ll come down.”

“Ma doesn’t like to let people she don’t know in the house when my pa’s not home. He’s working late.”

“Okay.”

“He drives an airtram, and Ma works at my school. I’m in second grade.”

“Good for you.” Eve looked to Roarke for help, but he just smiled at her.

“Are you gonna arrest a robber?”

“Know any?”

“My friend Everet stoled a candy bar from the store, but his ma found out and made him go pay for it out of his ’lowance, and he couldn’t have candy or nothing for a whole month. You could arrest him. He’s over there.”

He pointed, cheerfully ratting out his pal.

“It sounds like he’s paid his debt to society.”

Jesus—jeez it—where was the kid’s mother?

“Talk to him,” Eve suggested, desperately sacrificing Roarke.

“Okay. Are you the police, too?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You talk different,” Chip commented. “Are you from French? The lady at the market is, and she don’t talk like us either. I know a word.”

“What word?”

“Bunjore. It means hello.”

“I know a word.”

Chip’s grin widened. “What word?”

“Dia dhuit. It’s hello where I was born.”

“Deea-gwit,” Chip repeated, mangling it a bit.

“Well done.”

“Chip, stop pestering the police and go play.”

Becky Robbins had taken time to tame back her hair. She hurried now, her flip-flops flapping as she reached out to tuck an arm around her son’s shoulders. After a quick hug, she made a shooing motion.

“Okay. Bye!” He raced off, and was immediately absorbed into the running and shouting.

“What’s going on?” Becky demanded. “A couple of the neighbors said the FBI was here before when we were out. Now the police.”

“Do you know a woman calling herself Sarajo Whitehead?”

“Yeah, the neighbors said the FBI asked about her. She used to live here. Second floor. She moved out a while back. Eight, ten months, maybe. Why? She did something, didn’t she?” Becky continued before Eve could speak. “The FBI people didn’t really say, but Earleen—my neighbor—she could tell. And now you’re here, too. I never liked that woman—Sarajo, I mean, not Earleen.”

Chip came by his talkative nature honestly, Eve decided. “Why is that?”

“She could barely be bothered to say a friendly hello. I know she worked nights, mostly, but I don’t appreciate anybody yelling at my kid—all the kids.”

Becky put her hands on her hips as she looked over the racing, shouting kids with the mother’s version of the beady eye.

“They got a right to play out here in good weather, and in broad daylight for heaven’s sake. Told her that myself, after she yelled and used swears at those kids one too many times. Told her she ought to get herself some earplugs or whatever.”

Becky looked back at Eve. “What did she do?”

“We’ll know more about that when we locate her. Did she have any visitors?”

“The only person I ever saw go in or out of there except her was another woman. Young, pretty.”

“This woman?” Eve showed her Melinda’s photo.

“Yeah, that’s the one. She’s not in trouble with the police, is she? She seemed so nice.”

“No, she’s not. You don’t remember seeing anyone else?”

“Well, yeah, a man came once. A really fat man. Said she worked for him, and he was looking for her. But she’d already gone by then. Just left one day. Left the furniture, too. Turned out it was rented. She paid it up-to-date though, rent, too. The landlady told me. Anyway, I wasn’t sorry to see her gone.”

Eve waited a moment. “There’s something else.”

Becky glanced around, shifted. “It’s just something I think. I can’t swear to it.”

“Anything you know, think, saw, heard. It’s all helpful.”

“I don’t like accusing anybody—even her—of something, but the FBI, for heaven’s sake. Now the police. Well . . . I think she was on something. At least sometimes.”

“Illegals.”

“Yeah. I think. I had a cousin who got sucked into that scene, so I know the signs. Her eyes, the jittery moves. I know I smelled zoner on her, more than once. When we got into it about the kids, I said she oughta take a little more of whatever she was popping or smoking so she’d pass out and wouldn’t hear them. I shouldn’t have said it, but I was riled up.

“She gave me such a look. I have to say, it scared me some. She shut the door in my face, and I went home. The next morning, I go out to my car to go to work. My husband’s rig’s parked next to me. Every one of his tires is slashed. I know she did it. I know I’m accusing her again, but I just know it. But how’re you going to prove that? Besides I’m the one had words with her, not Jake. He doesn’t get riled up like I do. If she’d slashed my tires maybe I could’ve gotten the cops on her.

“Jake, he needs that rig to get to work. He lost a whole day getting new tires.”

“Did you report it?”

“Sure. You’ve got to for the insurance, though it didn’t cover it all. Jake didn’t want me to say anything about her, so I didn’t. She’d have denied it anyway, and maybe done something worse. I stayed clear of her the best I could after that. So I wasn’t sorry when she took off.”

Eve talked to a few more neighbors, but she had everything she needed from Becky Robbins.

“The ball’s still rolling,” she said to Roarke as they headed back to the hotel. “She could pull off the hardworking, no-trouble-here woman at work. But at home, well, that’s home.”

“Where you want to relax,” he commented. “And be more yourself.”

“Yeah. You’re entitled to some of your illegals of choice in your own home, entitled to some quiet when you want it, entitled to have your bitch of a neighbor leave you the hell alone. And when she gets in your face, you’re entitled to payback. You know how to get it, too. The best way. Go after the primary breadwinner’s ride to work. Fuck with that, fuck with the whole family where it hurts. In the money bag.”

“She has a temper,” Roarke added, “and a mean streak. No fondness for children, I’d say, and saw no need to foster any sort of relationship with the other people in the building.”

“She didn’t need them. But she’s also smart enough not to skip out on the bills. No point in having anybody looking for Sarajo, even when she stops being Sarajo.”

“You’ve confirmed she didn’t, while here, have personal transpo. So she walked or took public. No one visited but Melinda. No one came looking for her but her former employer.”

He latched on, Eve thought. She never had to refine the lines for Roarke. “So, whoever her dealer is, he or she didn’t do business at the apartment. No men—and one of the neighbors would’ve seen or heard—so she’s being true to McQueen. At least at home. Some dealers will trade junk for sex. But that’s business,” Eve mused. “That wouldn’t be cheating. Sex is business.”

“Well then, I love doing business with you.”

She leaned back. “And still . . . I didn’t get to strong-arm or flex the muscles with anybody. They’re all so damn cooperative. They just talk, talk, talk—especially that kid. It’s like being in a foreign country.”

“Like going to French?”

That got a laugh. “Maybe there’s something in the water down here. Maybe we shouldn’t drink the water, or we could start talking to everybody, telling complete strangers more than they could possibly want to know.”

“There’s water in coffee.”

“Yeah, but it’s, like, boiled, right? That kills the microbes that trigger all this cooperation and chattiness. It has to. It’s getting dark. I know we’re making progress, but it’s getting dark. He’s had her for more than twenty hours now.”

She took a long breath. “Getting dark,” she murmured. “He likes to hunt at night.”