New York to Dallas

17

Eve didn’t wait for the bag and tag. What was the point? Instead, she walked into the bedroom where Laurence headed up what looked to her like a thorough and meticulous search.

“Anything?”

“High-dollar sheets, towels, nice fluffy duvet. We can trace them. Some he took with him. He’s obsessively organized, everything in its place, so we can see some sheets and towels are missing. Some clothes, some shoes.”

He gestured toward the closet. “He’s got a dozen ties in there, and from the way he had them stored, took another dozen with him. Who needs two dozen ties?”

Eve crossed over to look for herself. “He likes clothes, likes to collect. But . . . some of these ties are exactly the same. Or is that just my crappy eye for fashion.”

“If it is, it’s mine, too. Same pattern, same designer.”

“That’s not like him. And there’s too much here, not just to leave behind but too much in the first place. This isn’t so much collecting as it is—”

“Hoarding,” Laurence finished. “That was my take. Could be he needed to hoard to compensate for a dozen years in prisonwear.”

“Could be. But it’s another break in pattern. That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it. So. We’ll take the laundry in for anal. The only toiletries left are the partner’s. Had to be a D-and-C there on that desk, so he took that. Had a monitor in the bathroom there so he could watch his holding room when he jerked fucking off. Sorry,” he said immediately. “The kid, she got to me.”

“Understood.”

“He left a supply of syringes in the bathroom, again some missing.”

“He doesn’t use, so he wouldn’t need as many of them. He’s not going to hook up with a partner yet.”

“Partner had a couple drawers, and it looked like he took a quick pass through, making sure she didn’t have anything that linked back to him. He didn’t check behind or under the drawers.” He gestured to the bags, sealed and tagged for evidence. “She kept stashes—a freaking pharmacy.”

She’d done the same long ago, Eve thought, as quick, blurry flickers of memories ran through her head. “She’d need to know it was there, in case he ran low or tried to cut her off.”

“And she liked variety. What we’re finding, so far, is more of her than him. And we can judge where something was and isn’t now, and what it likely would’ve been. Forensic-wise, we’ll have enough to put the bastard away for twice as long as we already did, but nothing right yet to tell us where he’s running.”

“Maybe he said something to one of the vics,” Eve speculated. “Maybe he didn’t figure on them getting out, not alive, and he likes to show his intellect. I’m going in to talk with them, maybe I’ll get something.”

She walked out and up to Roarke who’d found a corner to work on his PPC.

“The feds should be getting the data about now,” he told her. “Feeney and I have a long jump on them, though I’ll do better when I’m back at the hotel office, using that equipment.”

“We’re done here, for now. You can go back, dig into it.”

He tracked his gaze to hers, held it. “I’m with you, Lieutenant. I’ve already made that clear. You need to stop at the hospital, talk with Melinda and Darlie.”

“Yeah, but I want to do something first.” She shook her head to hold off questions. “On the way.”

Outside, she took a scan of the street. The lookie-loos and bystanders had dispersed—by boredom, she expected. Cop work was long and tedious, and most civilians lost interest pretty fast.

But not her civilian.

“Did you pay off the kid, the airboard kid?”

“I did, yes, and someone named Ben for the loan of his truck.”

“Put in a chit for expenses. I’ll make it good.”

“One way or the other,” he said casually as they got in the car. “Where are we going?”

“I need to go back to her place. They’ll have done a search by now, taken the electronics, whatever other evidence they turned up. But people miss things, especially when they’re not sure what they’re looking for.”

“And you do?”

“No, but I think I’ll know it when I see it. I need to go there, for the job. And I need to go there for me.”

“Then why would you suggest I go back to the hotel?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” She felt that hard bubble pushing up toward her throat. “I don’t know. Don’t make me think about it yet.”

He took her face in his hands. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I’ll be with you wherever that is. All right?”

“Yeah.” She fought for composure and won it when he pulled away from the curb. “I’m sorry about before. I don’t even really remember what I’m sorry about. But just to clear it.”

“We’re not something that needs to be cleared. You wanted to get under my skin so you could be angry with me, find some release there. And so I’d be angry with you and leave you alone.”

“I guess that’s probably it.”

She stretched out her legs, rolled her shoulders, circled her neck. It felt as if her body and everything in it was coiled to the point of aching.

“I did okay with her, with the interview. I handled it okay. I’ve gone back over it, and over it, and maybe I could’ve done better. But you always look back when it doesn’t work out the way you wanted and think you could’ve done it better. It was after, when I was afraid something was going to break, I shored it up by taking a kick at you.”

“Well, I kicked back, didn’t I?”

“I knew you would. I didn’t even mean it, about the stupid money and dying anyway. It was stupid, and I knew it would hurt you. I didn’t even think about it. It was like a reflex.”

He turned his head, looked at her tense, tired face. “You’ve had a miserable fucking day.”

“Yeah, real red letter. I met my mother. I arrested her, put her in the hospital. I grilled her. I found her body, and started the murder book on her. Miserable fucking red-letter day.”

“I contacted Mira.”

She swiveled toward him. “What?”

“I don’t give a rat’s damn if that pisses you off. You need her. She’s on her way.”

“You don’t—”

“I need her, goddamn it.”

Her eyes widened, blinked once at the short, violent explosion. Stupid, she realized, not to have expected it, not to have seen it coming. Stupid not to understand she wasn’t the only one coiled like a spring.

“Okay.”

“I know what I want to say to you,” he said, calmer now. “Do for you, but I don’t know if it’s right. I also know this isn’t about me, but anything that hurts you pulls me in. And this . . . well, that’s for later. You need to handle this, finish it. I understand that. Mira can help you. She can help both of us.”

She didn’t speak for a minute, had to settle the storm inside her—a pretty close twin to his, she imagined.

“You’re right. It’s good she’s coming. It’s just . . . once I start talking about it, it’s real. There’s no more sliding in this block that says it’s a case to be worked. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She sat, studying the duplex, when he stopped.

“It’s a nice place. I was thinking when we were watching for her, how it was a nice neighborhood. Not McQueen’s kind of place. Too suburban, even though it’s one good spit from the action. Not her kind of place either, with kids on bikes and guys fooling with flowers. But he wanted her out of her element, a little off balance. She’d be grateful every time he let her come to him.”

Let her think of it as a case for as long as she could, Roarke thought. A reckoning was coming soon enough.

“Why did she do it? Devote herself to him?”

“It wouldn’t have lasted, even without the knife across the throat. She’d have gotten twitchy, moved on. But he made her feel important. He treated her good—she said. He bought her things, I imagine, and the illegals. I think we may find he set up her source here in Dallas, to keep her happy. Maybe paid for them, or a portion of them.

“Anyway.”

She got out of the car. She saw the door of the neighboring unit crack open, and held up her badge.

A woman Eve pegged as late twenties came out.

“There were other police here. They just left a little while ago. They said Sylvia was arrested.”

“That’s right.”

“I just don’t understand it. Bill up the street said there were cops all over, and little Kirk almost got run over. I was at work, and when I came home it was just crazy.”

“Have you lived here long?”

“Four years. My sister and I. What about Sandra?”

“Sorry?”

“Sylvia’s sister. Sandra Millford. Is she in trouble, too?”

“You could say that. Were you friendly?”

“We try to be, Candace and I. And I guess we thought, when they moved in, being sisters like us, we’d get together a lot. Hang.” She shrugged it off with a glance toward the neighboring unit. “But they were always too busy. We stopped asking them over. They didn’t spend a lot of time at home anyway, not really.”

“Ever have any visitors?”

“I can’t say I ever saw anybody come by and pay a call. But Sylvia was involved with someone.”

“Oh?”

“A woman doesn’t dress like that unless it’s for a lover. And I overheard her talking on the ’link just yesterday, now that I think about it. Sitting outside, and I was, too, having some coffee. The way she laughed, the tone of her voice. There was somebody. What did she do?”

“She aided and abetted in the escape from prison of a dangerous felon. She aided and abetted in the abduction of two people, one a minor female for this dangerous felon who is a violent pedophile.”

Eyes wide, mouth open, the woman rubbed at her throat. “Well, oh my God.”

Eve took out her PPC, brought up McQueen’s photo. “I don’t think he’ll come around here, but if he does, stay inside and contact the police.”

“I saw him on the media reports! Oh my God. Sylvia’s involved with him?”

“She was. He killed her a couple hours ago.”

“Oh. Oh.” She backed up a pace, slapping both hands to her heart. “Sandra? Her sister?”

“There was no sister. Just one woman, two different identities. Tell your neighbors. If they see this man, contact the police immediately.”

“I will. I will.” She turned, bolted for her own door. “Candy! Candy!”

“You scared the hell out of her.”

“I meant to,” Eve said as the door slammed, as locks snicked into play. “Because he could come back here. He might start to wonder if she had anything that might point the way to where he’s dug in now. And that one’s just the type who’d come out, talk to him like she did with me. I flashed a badge, a New York badge from ten feet away, and she just accepted and came right out. I don’t want to find out she’s had her throat cut.”

She stepped to the door, used her master.

The sweepers had been through, she noted, leaving their fine layer of print dust.

“No need to seal up again,” she told Roarke.

“Small blessing.”

“Decent furniture, on the gaudy side,” she began as she walked through the living area. “Not a lot of it, and no fussy stuff sitting around. Not home, not for her.”

She studied the couch fabric, and the purple and pink roses growing over it in wild abandon. “Does that make your eyes sting, or is it just me?”

She needed to keep it light, then he’d keep it light. “I was about to dig out my sunshades.”

“She could watch some screen down here if she was bored enough, privacy shades down. Don’t want nosy neighbors peeking in. Had to be lonely, waiting for him to get out, but she doesn’t have any men over. She went to them, took care of that somewhere else. As someone else, I imagine.”

She moved through into a powder room. A single towel, she noted. “No guests. Just a place to pee if she was down here. If there’d been any trash, any paraphernalia, the sweepers would’ve bagged it. Nothing here.”

She moved on, dining alcove—empty—and the kitchen.

“Sits at the counter to eat.” She opened the fridge. “Or drink,” she said, when she saw only four bottles of brew, one bottle of wine, open.

She opened cupboards. “Glasses, a couple of plates, a stack of disposable ones.” She jerked her chin toward the pile of dirty dishes and unrecycled cartons in the sink, on the counter. “Not much on housekeeping.”

“And no house droid,” Roarke observed, “to tidy up after her.”

“Good appliances, nice counterwork, cabinetry, but she doesn’t care. It’s not hers. Not what she wants. She wants a lot more than this little playhouse with its fenced yard and the two bitches next door who ask too many questions. She wants the high life Isaac’s going to get her. Nothing here,” she said again, and walked back to take the stairs up.

She turned to the bedroom first. Too much perfume, she thought immediately. Too thick, too strong, too much. And the memory struck like a fist.

“Eve.” Roarke grabbed her arms when she swayed.

“Too much. Do you smell it? It’s too sweet—dying sweet, like flowers left out too long. God, it makes me sick.”

But she pushed back when he tried to draw her out of the room.

“No. I remember. I remember. The bedroom—their room. Always smelled like this. Too much. Perfume, too strong. And sex. Old sex and perfume. All those bottles and tubes. Lip dyes and sprays and powders. Can’t touch or she’ll hurt me. She’ll hurt me anyway because I’m ugly and stupid and always in the fucking way.”

“No. Baby, no.”

“I’m all right, I’m all right. Just need to breathe. God, open the window. Please, God, get some air in here.”

He yanked up the privacy screen, the window. She leaned out the opening, gasping air like the drowning. “I’m okay. It just hit so hard. She wanted to get rid of me. I can hear them talking, arguing. I’m so scared. I want to hide so maybe they’ll forget about me. Maybe she won’t remember me. She wants to get rid of me, for Christ’s sake. I’m useless, always hungry, always in her things. They should sell me now, get something out of the fucking little bitch.

“But he says no. They’ll get more later, renting me out. Can’t get top dollar for a six-year-old. But rent out, starting at ten, maybe sooner—rake it in for five, six years easy, then sell what’s left.”

Undone, simply shattered, he laid his cheek on her back so they drew in the hot, fresh air together. “Let me take you away from this.”

She reached back for his hand. “I can’t get away if I can’t get through.”

“I know it.” He pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “I know.”

“I didn’t understand what they were talking about, not exactly. Not then. But I was so scared. And they fought. I could hear them beating on each other, then the sex. I think she left after that—or soon after. He’d already started to touch me, to do things to me, but soon after that night, he got so mad because she was gone, and she’d taken money and things—I don’t know. He got mad and drunk, and he raped me for the first time. I remember.”

She took one last deep breath, eased herself back into the room.

“Is this what you were looking for?”

“No.” She swept the heels of her hands up her cheeks, annoyed tears had gotten through. “No, I didn’t expect to remember anything, not from this place. It’s the smell. It’s eased off with the window open.”

“Eve, there was barely a trace of perfume in the air here before.”

“I don’t know, but it was the same.” She scrubbed her face dry. She’d come to work, she reminded herself, not to wallow.

“I want to toss this room, top to bottom. See if she had any hideyholes. I think she used to have one, wherever we were. Extra stashes, hiding them from him. If she thought there was a chance McQueen would come here, she’d expect him to use the bedroom. If she was keeping something, she’d want it where he wouldn’t see it. Illegals, running money, but more maybe. Maybe.”

“Such as?”

“She thought she loved him. What do you have in your pocket?”

He smiled, drew out the gray button that had fallen off her very ugly suit the first day they’d met.

“See?” She couldn’t say why that stupid button moved her so damn much. “People in love keep things. Sentimental things.”

“What do you have?”

She pulled the chain, and the tear-shaped diamond from under her shirt. “I wouldn’t wear this for anybody but you. It’s embarrassing. And—”

“Ah, something else.”

“Shit. I’m tired. It makes me gabby. I have one of your shirts.”

His brow creased in absolute bafflement. “My shirts?”

“In my drawer, under a bunch of stuff. You lent it to me the morning after our first night together. It still sort of smells like you.”

For a moment, the worry on his face simply dissolved. “I believe that’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me in all our time together.”

“Well, I owed you. Besides, you have enough shirts to outfit a Broadway troupe. So, help me toss the room?”

“Absolutely.”

Eve took the dresser first. The cheap, flimsy fake wood reaffirmed this had been no more than a stopping point, less personal than a motel flop. Not really a piece of furniture, she thought, but a big suitcase with drawers.

She opened one, saw her mother had spent more on underwear than she had on the container used to store it.

She reached in, immediately pulled her hands back. God, she didn’t want to touch any of it, didn’t want to put her hands on those hard, bright colors.

Stop thinking of who, she told herself. Who doesn’t matter. Think of what, of doing the job.

She pushed through, examined contents, pulled out drawers to check the sides, bottoms, backs.

If she let herself, she could have put together a picture, one of a woman who shopped—or shoplifted—at boutiques, upscale stores and markets. And who still managed to select the trashy.

She found one drawer dedicated to the more subtle wardrobe of the alternate ID, found the simple shirt worn as Sandra on the night Darlie had been taken.

She switched to the tables beside the bed, and as she’d expected she found the toys and tools of a woman who didn’t stint on items for self-pleasuring.

They’d been through this, she thought, the cops, the sweepers. She imagined the careless comments, the lame jokes—then shut them out.

“Got something here,” Roarke called out.

She went to the closet where he worked, studied the disordered display of clothes, shoes, bags. He’d cleared a space and was removing a section of the floor, lifting it with one of the little tools he carried.

He set it aside, pulled a box covered with ornate, fake jewels and small circular mirrors out of the hole. He glanced at Eve, read her face very well. She didn’t want to go in the closet, didn’t want to surround herself with the clothes, the scents clinging to them.

“Why don’t we take this downstairs?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

She opted for the kitchen and the counter space.

“It’s probably expensive, but it’s still cheap and gaudy. It’s not new.”

“No, it’s got some travel on it, so something she likely took with her from place to place.”

“I don’t remember it,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “She wouldn’t keep anything that long. What’s inside’s more important.”

She opened it.

“Variety of illegals, cash, some IDs with credit cards.” She pulled out a dried rose, carefully sealed in a small bag. “But this is sentiment. See, she’s drawn a heart on the bag, S and I in the middle. Isaac gave her this. And here, she took a picture of him when he was sleeping.”

She held it up, studied him, sprawled on his back under a tangled sheet. “I bet he doesn’t know she did this. That’s the bed from his place. He’s blond here, tanned—like the South African ID. So he got a flash or gave himself some fake sun. But he looks really tired, a little drawn, doesn’t he? What’s that on the nightstand? Champagne? A celebration. Maybe his first night in. Yeah, maybe.”

“That’s Vie Nouveau. One of mine, and very exclusive. I wonder what vintage.”

“So, he—or she—buys a pricey bottle of bubbles.”

“More than that. You can’t get it just anywhere. That’s how you keep it exclusive and desirable. Hmm.” He took out his case again, opened it for a small magnifier.

“Handy.”

“Sometimes you need a closer look at things. I can just make it out . . . Yes, that’s a limited premiere ’fifty-six. Not easy to come by. We had a bottle on our anniversary.”

“Yeah? It was good.”

“Good? Darling Eve, it’s exquisite. He had some very nice wines at his apartment, but nothing at this level.”

“Maybe he took the top drawer with him.”

“Maybe he did. He’d need a top-drawer outlet to purchase this.”

“In Dallas,” Eve said. “How many top drawers are there in Dallas?”

“I’ll be checking on that.”

“He could go back for more. We can sit on the outlets once we have them. Jesus.” She lifted out a short stack of notes, postcards. “Mother lode. Here, a postcard from Dallas, but it’s stamped New York. Mail drop–box addy. Numbers. Code?”

He glanced at it. “Measurements. Inseam, sleeve, waist, so on from the looks of it. He’s ordering a suit.”

“The numbers and Baker and Hugh.”

“Men’s shop,” Roarke told her, “known for its excellent tailoring.” Roarke pulled out his PPC, did a quick run. “There’s only one in Dallas.”

“He wants clothes, good clothes. Doesn’t have time to fiddle with fittings and all that. So he has her take care of it. Has his suits waiting for him when he gets here. No.” She closed her eyes a moment, brought New York back. “He was wearing a suit, sharp-looking gray suit, flashy red tie, when I saw him in the crowd at the medals ceremony. He had her order the suits, and send at least one of them to New York. He wanted to look good when he let me catch a glimpse.”

“He went to a lot of trouble to impress you.”

“That’s his problem now, that’s his chink. He’s complicating things to take jabs at me. Engage, taunt, humiliate, instead of just moving in for the knockout.”

She opened the first note. “He’d kill her if he already hadn’t. She printed out some of their e-coms. ‘Miss you, too, baby doll,’ ” she read. “ ‘Countdown D-minus-30. Time to arrange my flight into your arms. Reserve private, Franklin J. Milo. I’ll need those docs, sweetheart, so you get that Cecil on the stick! I don’t want to get to the drop and find an empty box.

“ ‘The wait’s almost over. Milo needs his things waiting at the hotel so he can get cleaned up and changed before he flies to you. We’ll go back there one day, stay in the penthouse and drink a champagne toast to us.

“ ‘Keep an eye on our Melinda, and take good care of my baby doll. I’ll write next week with the next steps. Almost there!

“ ‘SWAK times two.’ ”

She frowned. “SWAK?”

“Sealed with a kiss—times two.”

“Eeww. He wrote it out. He actually wrote this shit down. Didn’t trust her to remember. Quick PS reminding her to wipe, but he got sloppy because he didn’t think she was smart enough to remember the details. Maybe she’d dropped the ball a time or two.”

She opened another. “They’re little love notes with instructions sprinkled through the mush. Here he’s telling her how to outfit what he calls the guest room. Sick fuck. Tells her to see Greek in Waco for the bracelets. Shackles. And Bruster B in Fort Worth for soundproofing.”

“Does any of this help you now? You’ve found his place.”

She looked up as pieces began to link together in her head. “He’s got another one. He’s got another place in Dallas, and he’d want some of the same there. Would he use the same people? Maybe not. But . . . We find them, we find out more.”

She pulled out her ’link, tagged Peabody.

“Franklin J. Milo—that’s the ID McQueen used to book his transpo—private shuttle—and a hotel room. A hotel with a penthouse. Find them.”

“Okay, but—”

“It’s just tying the ends, Peabody. It may not lead anywhere, but let’s tie it up tight. And find Baker and Hugh, men’s clothing in New York. See if he picked up any clothes there. And what transportation he used to get to the shuttle. I’ll pick it up from here.”

“Okay, got it. Listen. Tray Schuster came back in. They didn’t notice—pretty understandable—on the day they were attacked, but they’re missing a duffel, an old ’link they hadn’t gotten around to recycling, a new pair of navy blue skids, a shirt Julie had boxed up for her brother’s birthday. A bunch of little things. I’m going to send you an inventory.”

“Things that would be useful for checking in a hotel. When you find the hotel, see if he left anything behind in his room. I’ve got to get on this from here.”

“You look beat,” Peabody commented.

“Not yet, I’m not.” She clicked off. “Let’s take this to Ricchio, let him and the feds start working on tracking down the names. We’d better go by the hospital first. We can probably pass the box to somebody there.”

Peabody was right, Roarke thought as she resealed the door. She looked beat. Pale and strained.

“You need a couple hours down. You know you do.”

“I’ll take it when I can. I can’t stop yet.” She got in the car. “I’ll down a booster if I need it.”

“A booster isn’t what you need. I’m not going to press you, yet. Especially not if you agree once you’ve talked to Melinda and Darlie you’ll go back to the hotel if there’s nothing immediate. You’d rather work there anyway.”

Since she’d already planned to do just that, it wasn’t hard to go along. “If you agree to try not to tranq me.”

“That’s a tough bargain, a hard line. Agreed.”

“That was easy. Too easy.”

“I’ll let Mira tranq you.”

She managed a weak laugh. “I can take Mira.”

“I imagine she’s wily.”

So was he, he thought, as he pulled her directly to Vending at the hospital. “Pick something.”

“I’m not really—”

“You may not think you’re hungry, but you need food. I’ll pick. Veggie-and-cheese pocket. Some protein,” he said as it slid out of the tray.

“I’d rather have the—”

“Candy bar, yes. And so you shall. When you eat that.” He ordered up the bar, wishing he could offer her some rich Belgian chocolate.

She stuffed half the pocket in her mouth. “Why do I have to eat and you don’t?”

“I’m considering my choices, which are all equally unappetizing. Ah, well.” He ordered up a second pocket. “We’ll suffer together.”

“It’s not that bad.”

He took a bite. “Yes, it certainly is.” Not wanting to risk the coffee, he ordered them each a tube of Pepsi.

“Food snob.”

“This barely qualifies as food. Give me some of that candy.”

“Get your own candy.” But she pulled credits out of her pocket, plugged them in. “There.” She ordered it, offered it, and gave him a genuine smile. “You look like a really well-dressed pirate carting around an ugly treasure chest. Thanks for lunch.”