New York to Dallas

15

She thought of herself as Sylvia. It was the name she used when she and Isaac were alone, the name she’d like to use when the game was done and they were living the high life. Sylvia was classy, elegant, and Isaac liked class.

The cop bitch called her Stella, but Stella was long ago. Another game, but that one had left her more dry than high. Richard Troy. Now that was a name from the past. How had that bitch of a cop known about Stella and Rich?

Rich’s flapping mouth, that’s how. It was the only way she could angle it. He must be doing time somewhere, the fucking asshole, and worked some sort of deal for flipping on her.

But how had he known to flip?

Didn’t matter. Not as long as Rich was jerking off in a cage somewhere.

She’d given the son of a bitch her best, too. More than her best. For Christ’s sake, she’d carried that sniveling brat of a kid in her belly for nine months. For Rich.

Train it, he’d said. Train it and sell it. Plenty of men like young meat, and plenty of them paid top dollar.

But he hadn’t been the one carting that weight around. He hadn’t been the one strung out for months, because drugs were off the menu.

He hadn’t wanted the kid coming out fucked up—damaged goods didn’t rate top dollar—so who’d paid that price?

Maybe it had been useful for a while, even though it cried half the goddamn day and night. Still, marks went even softer when you added a baby to the mix.

They’d made a good living running baby scams the first couple years. But then what had she gotten out of it? A whiny brat, that’s what.

Then a bloody lip when she’d found out Rich had been skimming the take and called him on it. But she’d played it right, hadn’t she? Going along, playing the game with the bastard and the brat until she’d pocketed a cool fifty large and walked.

Run maybe, because Rich would’ve beat the shit out of her if he’d caught her. Instead, he’d been stuck with the kid, and she had the take. Lived pretty damn well off it until it had run out.

She’d loved the cocksucker once.

Not like Isaac. Everything was different with Isaac. He treated her good—like Rich had in the beginning, and a couple others along the way. He appreciated her. He’d even sent her flowers. Imagine thinking of that when he was in prison.

And he told her she was beautiful, and sexy, and smart. He made plans with her.

Maybe they didn’t tear up the sheets as often as she wanted, but he had a lot on his mind right now. And what did she care if he banged the kid she’d found for him? The kid deserved it for being stupid.

And it put him in a really good mood. After he’d finished with the brat, they’d drink his fancy wine, she’d take a couple pops, and they’d talk and talk.

Big plans, big money, and they’d pay the cop back for screwing with him in the first place. Bitch would never have gotten the drop on her if she hadn’t been lucky.

Her luck was about to run out.

It burned her ass the way the cop had talked about Isaac, how that cunt had tried to turn her against him. They had a future, and they were going to build it using the cop’s blood for glue.

Isaac would make that bitch pay double now.

She slit her eyes open. The watchdog cop sat at the door, a big, burly lump of shit, in her eyes.

Whatever they’d done with her ribs helped her head. And so did the little dose of juice they’d finally given her. Better yet, when they’d taken her down to work on her, they’d had to loosen the restraints.

She hadn’t lost her touch, she thought, running her thumb over the laser scalpel she’d palmed while faking a seizure. Smooth as the Samaritan gambit she’d worked as a kid—and the scalpel was worth a hell of a lot more than some do-gooder’s wallet.

Time to make the move, she told herself. She didn’t believe that crap the Dallas bitch had spewed about closing in on Isaac. But she had to warn him, had to get to him. And he’d take care of her.

Maybe he’d buy her flowers again. Then they’d deal with Eve Dallas.

She moaned, tossed from side to side.

“Help.” She made her voice weak, putting herself into the part.

“Settle down,” the cop suggested.

“Something’s wrong. Please, can you get the nurse? Please, I think I’m going to be sick.”

He took his time, but he stepped over, pushed the call button. A few seconds later, the nurse’s face came on screen.

“Problem?”

“She says she needs a nurse. Says she feels sick.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Thank you.” Sylvia closed her eyes, just left the slit under her lashes. “It’s hot. I’m so hot. I think I’m dying.”

“If you are, it’ll be hotter where you end up, end of the day.”

He turned as the nurse bustled in.

“Says she’s sick, says she’s hot, says she’s dying.”

“Nausea’s not unusual after the procedure she had, and the meds.” Laying the back of her hand on Sylvia’s brow, the nurse raised the bed.

On a moan, Sylvia tried to turn, straining against the cuff on her right hand. “Pain. There’s a pain.” When she began to gag, the nurse grabbed a bedpan.

“Can’t. Can’t. Cramp. Need to—I can’t.”

“Just breathe. I need to take off the right restraint, ease her over. She’ll boot all over both of us otherwise.”

Muttering, the cop unlocked the restraint. In one vicious swipe, Sylvia slashed the laser across his throat. Even as he stumbled back, spurting blood, she pressed it to the nurse’s cheek.

“One peep, one sound, and I carve your face off.”

“Let me help him.”

“You’d better help yourself and unlock the other cuff. This thing will slice you open at five feet. You’d know that, being a nurse. Get the cuff off. Hurry.”

To get her moving, Sylvia gave her a shallow nick. Freed, she flexed her fingers. “Got some blood on you,” she commented. “But that happens in hospitals. Strip.”

She thought about killing the nurse, but it might involve more blood. Too much on the scrubs might cause too much attention. Instead she used the restraints, gagged her with medical tape.

“You got big feet,” she commented when she put on the nurse’s shoes. She pulled her hair back, fixed on the ID card, then grabbed a tray, tossed some supplies into it.

“Give Dallas a message for me. Tell her Isaac and me, we’ll be coming for her.”

She walked out, walked briskly with her tray—and remembered belatedly she should’ve taken the nurse’s ’link. But by the time she walked out the exit, she was smiling.

Cars had ’links. It’d been a while since she’d boosted a car.

Just like old times.

Melinda kept him engaged, considered every moment he focused on her rather than Darlie a gift. The nights she’d spent studying him as she might a disease that had infected her had paid off. She knew his profile, his pathology, all of his background that had been discovered and published.

She knew he was well-read, considered himself an erudite man with exceptional taste. She discussed classic literature, segued into music—classical, contemporary, trends, artists.

Her head throbbed like a rotted tooth, but Darlie stopped shivering and eventually went limp in sleep.

When she disagreed with him she walked a tightrope, carefully navigating the shaky line between opinion and argument, conceding, flattering, even forcing out a laugh now and then as if he’d scored a point.

“But I like a good, silly comedy now and then,” she insisted. And thought she’d have sold her soul for one cool sip of water. “Complete with pratfalls. Especially after a long, hard day.”

“Without wit it’s mindless.” He shrugged. “If it doesn’t make you think, it’s not art.”

“Of course you’re right, but sometimes mindless is just what I want.”

“After a long, hard day. Counseling all the bad girls.”

Her heart tripped, but she nodded slowly. “It’s good to tune out and laugh. But as I said, you’re right about—”

“And do you spend all day telling them it’s not their fault, like you told our little Darlie here?”

She deliberately looked up at the camera above the door. “We both understand I knew you were watching, listening. I wanted to keep her calm. To help her adjust.”

“So you lie and lie and lie some more. Because we both know, too, that they want what I give them. You did.”

“It’s difficult to understand at such a young age, the—”

“Women are born understanding.” Something dark passed over his face and had her stumbling heart slamming against her ribs. “They’re born liars and whores. Born weak, and devious.”

He set his palms on his knees, angled forward, his tone mild and lecturing. “The young ones, they need to be trained, educated, controlled. They need to learn they’re here for a man’s pleasure. Toys, really, he winds up at his whim. That he brands, like cattle.”

He smiled as he wagged his finger back and forth. “You erased my brand, Melinda.”

“Yes. But you put it back.”

“That’s right. That’s absolutely right.”

He leaned back, waved a hand in the air. “The older ones have their uses. You just might be useful with another couple decades of seasoning. They like to serve, or pretend to like it. They want to be flattered and petted, want pretty, shiny things. And promises.”

He let out a sigh, a shake of his head, but his eyes sparkled with an ugly glee. “They’re so pitifully grateful for the attention. So calculating in their attempts to manipulate a man. They need to be used—all while flattered and petted, of course. A woman will do everything she’s asked if you dangle the bright and shiny, if you give her some poetry—and a good fuck now and then.”

He shifted in the chair again, wrapping his hands around his knee, smiling his smug smile until Melinda wanted to beat his face bloody with her fists.

“Then, they have to be ended because they’re so unspeakably boring. Which you’re not—yet. You will be, but for now you’ve been very entertaining. You working so hard to make this connection with me, Melinda, has given me a delightful time. So unnecessary, though, as we made a connection so long ago. Erasing the brand doesn’t sever that connection. Nothing can. You’ll never forget what I did to you. Never forget what I taught you.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Well now.” He slapped his hands on his thighs before he rose. “Time to move along to the younger generation. I have to thank you, honey. You really did stimulate me. I know I’m going to enjoy giving Darlie her next lesson.”

Melinda braced. It would be useless, end badly, but she wouldn’t let him take Darlie without a fight. She had her teeth, her nails. At the least she’d give him pain.

His ’link sounded. He paused to pull it out of his pocket. “The old bad girl checking in,” he said, then frowned at the unfamiliar display.

“Do you know a Sampson Kinnier? Neither do I,” he said before Melinda could answer. “Crossed transmission, I suppose, but we’ll let it go to v-mail, see what Sampson has to say.”

When Sylvia’s voice came on, McQueen’s eyes went flat as a snake’s.

“Isaac, baby, it’s me. Answer the ’link! There was trouble. That fucking bitch Dallas tracked me to the other place. I made the assholes, but she crashed the van. She hurt me, baby—but not like we’re going to hurt her. Come on, answer the goddamn ’link! I got patched up at the hospital. I got out—took a cop down doing it. I’m on my way to you. I need a boost, baby, need one bad. They wouldn’t give me any decent shit at the hospital—had me tied down like a crazy person. I fixed it. Mama needs some candy, baby. Fix me some candy, will ya? I’ll be there soon. And we’ll make her pay. We’ll make her bleed.”

Isaac studied the ’link, held his silence. Watching him, Melinda thought she saw confusion in his eyes, and felt another blossom of hope.

Then he sighed. The smile returned; the eyes stayed flat. “We seem to have a change of plans.”

He pocketed the ’link. And he unsnapped the sheath on his belt, drew out his knife.

Eve snatched at the EDD reports the instant they came in. Video was toast, Feeney reported, and audio was fragmented. But they got solid chunks of the transmissions and more would come.

Eve closed her eyes, played them out.

McQueen’s voice, smooth as cream, hinting of seduction. And Stella’s—no, Sylvia’s, she reminded herself—excited, flirtatious.

Don’t know what I’d . . . without you doll. Can’t wait . . . won’t . . . longer.

. . . come up to see you. Everything’s set . . . could come back with you when . . .

Be patient . . . need to check security at our place. Don’t want to . . . problems once we get started.

. . . just there yesterday. Soundproofing’s finished . . . can’t hear that baby crying half the damn night down the . . .

. . . security cams tested . . . count on you sweetheart.

You can . . . stalled last week. Tech tested all three . . .

Good girl. You’ve got your eyes on the prize?

Check her every day. Miss you, baby.

Miss you right back.

Can you send some money? Rent’s . . . on our place in a couple days.

. . . run through your spending money already? . . . buy yourself something pretty?

Gotta look pretty for you, baby.

I’ll take care of it. We don’t want Maxwell’s credit getting any black marks. My time’s up. Just a couple more weeks and . . . with you.

It’s killing me to wait . . . so close.

Soon doll.

She noted down the date and time of the transmission, and on the text copy highlighted key words and phrases.

“Copy and send file to Detectives Jones and Walker, to Agents Nikos and Laurence, marked urgent. Orders to narrow search using highlighted text.”

Acknowledged. Working . . . File copied and sent.

“Begin search for apartments within a twenty-mile radius of listed address. Search for rentals with payment due on the fifteenth of the month. Further narrow to leases under the name of Maxwell—first or last name. Unit will be two or three bedrooms. Building will have direct access to parking garage.”

Acknowledged. Working . . .

She e-mailed Roarke the names, the dates. Easier than actually speaking to him right now, she decided.

The minute she’d done so, her ’link signaled.

“Dallas.”

“She’s loose.”

“What?”

“She killed Malvie—Officer Malvie,” Bree said quickly. “Forced the nurse on duty to give her scrubs. Took the ID and walked out. They’ve locked down the hospital, have an alert out for her, but—”

“She’s headed straight to McQueen.” Fury and frustration would have to wait. “She won’t be on foot. She’ll boost a vehicle, hail a cab.”

“You don’t hail cabs here.”

“What do you—never mind. Have security check for a missing vehicle out of hospital parking, nearest her exit point. How long does she have?”

“An hour, maybe a little more.”

Too long, Eve thought. Too long.

“I’m on my way in.”

She broke transmission, shoved up to bang on Roarke’s office door.

“It’s not locked for Christ’s sake.”

She pushed it open. “She’s out. She killed the cop on duty, got nurses’ scrubs and walked. I need to go. Now.”

“Two minutes.” He hunkered over his comp. “Two bloody minutes. I’m nearly there. She’ll go to McQueen. Let me find the bastard.”

“Add Maxwell to the search. Don’t ask,” she snapped. “Just do it. Add Maxwell and look for a transfer of funds on the twelfth of the month.”

“Feeney sent me the same data. It’s in. Be quiet.”

She gritted her teeth, fisted her hands. But she knew that look—the cold, clear eyes, the scowl. If he said he was close, he was close.

He snapped out orders even as he worked the keyboard and the screen manually. From her angle she could see data—incomprehensible to her—flashing by.

She answered her signaling ’link with a snarl. “What?”

“A Sampson Kinnier just reported his all-terrain stolen out of the first-level visitors’ lot. A red ’fifty-nine Marathon,” Bree continued, “Texas plates, Charlie-Tango-Zulu-one-five-one. BOLO’s issued.”

“Roarke thinks he’s closing in on a location. I’m taking another couple minutes here. If he hits, I’ll relay on the way.”

“Don’t bloody hell think,” Roarke muttered. “Bloody hell know.”

She went with instinct. “It’s going to hit. Advise your lieutenant we’ll need SWAT, tactical, crisis negotiator—all the bells and whistles, Detective—on alert.”

“Yes, sir. Dallas, if he runs—Melinda.”

“The best thing we can do for her is the job. Now go.”

She shoved the ’link away. “Roarke—”

He shot up a hand, clearly telling her to be quiet again.

Do the job, do the job, she told herself, rolling to the balls of her feet and back. When doing the job meant waiting, it could tear pieces off the guts.

“Got him, buggering bastard. Copy location to vehicle navvy,” Roarke ordered. “And get the bloody vehicle out front now.”

As the computer acknowledged, he picked up a holstered weapon—one he’d had no business transporting over state lines—strapped it on as he moved.

“Where?” she demanded as she jumped into the elevator with him. “Where?”

He rattled off an address as he shrugged his jacket over the weapon. “It’s only minutes from here according to the computer.”

“She’s already there.” Eve relayed the address to Ricchio.

The adrenaline and whatever mild blocker they’d given her at the hospital burned off before she sped into the parking garage. The way pain radiated from her ribs she feared she’d snapped the fused bone. Her heart beat so hard she could barely get her breath as she headed toward the elevator in a limping run.

They’d said something about a hairline fracture in her ankle. Hairline, my ass, she thought. She could feel it puff out like a pus balloon over the nurse’s ugly shoes.

She just needed to get to Isaac, just needed to get some candy. Oh God, yes. Needed him to take care of her, like he promised, like nobody else ever had.

He’d give her what she needed—the drugs, the drugs—and buy her flowers.

Tears of pain, rage, withdrawal leaked from her eyes as she stumbled into the building. Sweat poured down her face.

A couple of days, she thought, just needed a couple of days to heal up. Then they’d go after Dallas. God, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on that bitch. She wouldn’t look so fucking tough when they got through with her.

And she wanted to go first, wanted to pay the bitch cop back for the pain, for the fear.

Her breath came in wheezes as she limped into the elevator.

“Hold the elevator!” someone sang out.

“Fuck off!” she snarled at the woman and her snot-nosed kid when the doors shut in their faces.

She only had to ride one floor, but every second was its own separate agony. Teeth clamped, she dragged herself down the hall.

“Isaac.” Voice hoarse, she punched at the security plate. She couldn’t remember the code; everything jumbled together in her head.

She needed a hit. God, God, she needed a hit.

Needed Isaac.

When he answered, she wept out his name, fell into his arms. “I’m hurt. She hurt me.”

“Aw, baby doll.”

He rubbed her back.

She stank, he thought, stank of sweat and hospital. Stank of stupidity and age. Even her hair stank, the tangled, matted mess of it.

Her face was pinched, white—old again.

“You didn’t answer. You didn’t answer.”

“I was . . . involved. I didn’t hear the signal, and I didn’t want to tag you back in case. How did you get here, sweetheart?”

“I stole a car, right out of the hospital lot. Right under the cops’ noses. They were waiting for me, Isaac, waiting for me outside the duplex. But I got away. Fix me up, Isaac. They wouldn’t give me anything.”

“Fix you right up.” He helped her to the sofa where he’d already prepared a pressure syringe. “Quick and good,” he told her. “Poor baby doll.”

Her hands shook as she snatched at it, and he watched her jab it in the crook of her elbow, as he’d watched his mother countless times.

Like his mother, she let out a harsh, guttural grunt—almost sexual—as the drug punched into her bloodstream.

“Gonna be better now.” Eyes glazed with pleasure, she smiled at him. “Gonna be better.”

“Absolutely. What did you tell her?”

“Tell who?”

“Dallas.”

“Didn’t tell her shit. She tried to turn me against you. Lying whore. I spit in her face, told her you were going to pay her back good. You pay her back, Isaac.”

“Of course.”

“I want to cut her.” Cruising now, Sylvia leaned back, face going slack. “I want to cut her first. She looked at me—you know how she looked at me? Like I made her sick. Tried to tell me she didn’t need me anyway ’cause they were close to finding you. Lying cunt.”

“Said that, did she?”

He rose, wandered.

All the work, he thought, the time, the money, the preparation. And worse, all the hours he’d spent with this dried up, stupid junkie.

He wanted to beat her face to pulp with his fists. Saw himself doing just that. Caught himself turning toward her with his fists bunched, his breath coming fast.

She sat, glassy-eyed, smiling, unaware.

Bringing himself under control made him shudder.

“How did they find you, sweetheart?”

“I dunno. They were just there. Want more candy.”

“In a minute.”

The van, he decided. They’d managed to track the van. He’d really thought he’d had at least another week there. He should have had another week.

Ah, well, on to Plan B.

“Suitcase,” she muttered.

“Hmm?”

“We going? We packing up, and going somewhere nice?”

He followed her stare. He hadn’t meant to leave the suitcase out in plain sight. He’d just been so rushed. Had so many things to think of, to decide on.

“Mmm,” he murmured, strolling behind the sofa.

“Get a nice new place, and when we get that Dallas bitch, you’ll let me have her first. Bleed her good. Make some money off her, right, Rich? Make a whole lot of money off her.”

He lifted his brows at the name she called him. That was women for you, he supposed, couldn’t keep their men straight.

“I’m going to have to disappoint you there.”

He yanked her head back, slit her throat with quick, almost surgical precision.

Good, he thought. Good. Now he felt much better.

When she gurgled, tried to clutch her throat, he shook his head, let her slide to the floor. “You’re useless to me. Absolutely useless.”

He pulled off his shirt, tossed it aside as he went to the kitchen to scrub his hands and arms.

He’d already carried most of what he needed to the car, though he intended to travel light. He changed his shirt, brushed a hand over his hair. Slipped on his sunshades.

Picking up the suitcase, he blew a kiss toward the door, toward Melinda and Darlie.

“Fun while it lasted,” he said, and strolled out without a backward glance toward the woman bleeding on the floor.