New York to Dallas

20

He expected she’d go back to work after dinner, and she didn’t surprise him. But Mira was right. He understood her.

She needed the work, the forward motion again. She needed to connect with Peabody again, like a touchstone, no matter how brief the conversation.

“They’re still working on finding his New York hole. But we’ve sussed out his steps from the breakout to Dallas.”

She went to her board, started another time line. “He picked up a package at the mail drop he’d arranged with his partner. The IDs, some clothes, the jammers, the ’link. From there, he goes to his old apartment. Secures Schuster and Kopeski, does his particular brand of torture. Has some breakfast, cleans up, takes what he wants. When he’s finished there, he takes a stroll. He checked into the Warfield Hotel, reservation, early check-in secured, under Milo, picks up a package they’re holding for him—which I’d say is the suit. Peabody tracked down the cab that dropped him off, and that’s damn good work. He’d walked five blocks from his old place, hailed one. We’ve got the security disc from check-in.”

She ordered it on screen. “See, working man—traveling. A duffel, a ball cap, sunshades—Tray Schuster’s—skids, Schuster’s again. He makes contact with me from the hotel room, using the filtered ’link and jammer. He calls for the valet to press his suit, the one she sent him. He orders a hearty meal from room service. Gets suited up.”

She shifted the screen image, showed him coming out of the elevator, blond hair, sharp suit, briefcase he probably bought in New York. “He used the in-room checkout. He’d arranged for private car service, which picked him up, took him a block from Central, where he ordered it to wait. Breezed by to see me, slipped back into the car, which dropped him off at the shuttle. He had a light snack and two glasses of Cabernet in flight. Stibble spilled he’d helped McQueen purchase a vehicle that was waiting at the transpo station here.”

She snorted. “Claims, according to Peabody, McQueen told him it was a gift for an old friend.”

“He’s a poor judge of people for a grifter,” Roarke commented.

“He wasn’t. Prison’s taken some of the shine off him, and he had a fairly murky pool to fish from. Stibble served his purpose well enough,” Eve added. “McQueen didn’t think we’d fish Stibble out of the pool so fast.”

“One of a number of miscalculations this time around.”

“Even miscalculating, he’s killed two people, tortured two more, abducted Melinda, abducted and raped Darlie.”

“So don’t underestimate him,” Roarke concluded.

“Never. We lose him once he picks up the car at the transpo center here, but I’ll fill that in. What he did was go to the fancy wine store, run more errands before going to the apartment.”

She tucked her hands in her pockets as she tried to put herself in McQueen’s head. “I think he didn’t give Sylvia his ETA. Didn’t want her there to greet him. Had things to set up. He’d want to enjoy his alone time, check the cams, hide whatever he didn’t want her poking into. Plus, she’d want a romantic reunion, wouldn’t she? No time for that. He wants to get Melinda in before the champagne and caviar.”

She walked around the board. “And maybe, most probably, one of the errands he ran was a stop-off at his second location. Check it out, set up whatever he wanted in the place, assure himself it was adequate when and if, if and when.”

She glanced over, saw the cat had found the sleep chair, and was putting it to his usual good work. Then she turned, saw Roarke drinking coffee, watching her.

“No comments?”

“Just watching my cop work. I like the look of her when she’s on her game.”

“I feel on game—or close. Better.”

“I can see it.”

“Aired out the brain, and the belly. Then filled the belly part with spaghetti and meatballs. McQueen’s toasted.”

He smiled at her. “And what does all this tell you, his errands and caviar?”

“It’s pattern, it’s movement. The more you know, the more you know. He’s had to take time to change his hair, subtle changes to the face, eye color. That means supplies. Wigs and rinses, enhancers. We didn’t find anything at the apartment, so he took those with him. Which tells me he means to use them again.”

She stepped back to study the various photos, the IDs he’d used.

“You’re always buying me jewelry.”

“Are you angling for a gift?”

“Jesus, no, I can’t keep up as it is. She had jewelry at her place. A couple of nice pieces. She was wearing jewelry when I crashed her van. Wouldn’t she have had some at his place? She had clothes, shoes, the face and hair gunk. Wouldn’t she have left some baubles there?”

He considered. “Yes. She wanted to be with him, hoped to live with him. When a woman’s maneuvering to move in with a man she tends to leave pieces of herself behind. Get him used to it.”

“Really?”

Her tone made him grin. “Something you were careful not to do initially. I had to make do with a stray button.”

“Living with you wasn’t in the plans. Plans change. So saying she left some baubles, he took them. Which means he thinks he can use them, or sell them, pawn them. The locals could look at that.”

“Sounds like busywork, as you don’t know what or when he might sell or pawn.”

“Investigations are loaded with busywork. The locals need to find the people he told her to contact for the soundproofing, the security. He wanted them, specifically for the main apartment. Wouldn’t he have used them for the secondary location? No,” she said before Roarke could comment.

“No,” he agreed. “Because they might have mentioned the other job to his partner, even if he instructed them not to. She was a player, knew the games. Sex, money, or just asking the right question at the right time, and she could have found him out. Better to keep it all separate.”

“So, the locals dig up the first round, and we dig for the second. I need you to search for a second location. The higher level. Classier, more central. He had to arrange it from prison, and without an outside partner. I’ll get Feeney on it, piecing through what he’s getting on McQueen’s coms, but everything coming through is patchy and fractured.”

“It takes time to piece jammed, wiped, and filtered coms back together.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. We work it here; they work it there. The locals and feds do what they do.”

“You want him now,” Roarke decided. “Before, you wanted him, but it didn’t matter who took him down. Now, you want it.”

She didn’t answer at first, but walked to the AutoChef for coffee. “It’s not because he killed her,” she began, and turned back to Roarke. “Not because of the connection.”

“All right.”

“It’s because he killed. Because she killed a cop. It’s because Darlie’s father gave me ice cream while he was fighting back tears. And I guess it’s because I remember when I was the kid in the hospital bed with a cop standing over me.”

“I don’t care why unless you do. I’m just glad of it, because it’s been personal, Eve, all along. And don’t tell me it can’t be, that you have to stay objective. It’s both. It’s always both for you. That’s why you’re so good at it.”

“I want to take him down, but I won’t bitch if someone else gets it done.”

“Fair enough. I’ll look for your centralized high-rise, high-end location.”

“With a good view of the city. No less than two bedrooms, two baths, attached garage. What time is it in New York?”

He shook his head. “An hour later than it is here. The earth simply has to revolve, Eve, however annoying it is for you.”

“It can revolve all it wants. I just don’t see why people can’t settle on the same time.”

“I’ll think about that when I’m running your search, and talking to Hong Kong.”

“What time is it there?”

“Morning.”

“See? Crazy.” She walked to her desk, settled down. And contacted Feeney.

It felt good, good and solid, just to see his face, hear his voice.

He said, “Yo,” and took her right back to New York.

“I got an angle I want you to work. What’s that noise?”

“Ball game. No score, bottom of the second. Two outs, runner on first. Mets don’t screw up they can clinch the division tonight.”

“Shit, I wanted to see that game.”

“They got a ban on baseball down there?”

“No. Or probably not. Maybe I’ll catch it on replay.”

He shook his head sadly. “Not the same.”

“Better than nothing. Anyway, I’m working on the theory that McQueen’s got a second hole down here.”

“Peabody’s kept me in the loop. She’s doing good. I know McQueen sliced the partner, slithered out. You got the woman and the kid back.”

“She killed a cop, walked right out of the hospital, stole a car out of the lot. She had an hour on us.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too.”

He shifted, paused the game. She realized he was home, not at Central. Which considering the time she should have expected.

Home, she thought. Beer and the ball game.

“I know you’ve been on this, hard.”

“We’re running it round-the-clock, digging out bytes, cleaning them up, piecing them together. The guy’s a fucker, but he’s no amateur.”

“I’m looking for different bytes. If he’s got this place . . . and I know he does, Feeney. I know it.”

“I wondered if he had one here back in the day. A grifter has to grift. He couldn’t take marks into the place on Murray. But we had him, so digging hard for that got pushed down the line.”

“Everything points to a second location here. So he had to find it, rent, or buy it. To do that he had to communicate with some sort of real estate or rental company, right? Even if he used a go-between, he’d have to communicate. He’d have to wire funds.”

Feeney popped a couple candied almonds, washed them down with beer. “He wouldn’t be running games yet. No time to set them up. So how’d he know he’d need the other digs?”

Yeah, it felt good, Eve thought as she ran it through for him. If she tried hard enough she could imagine herself in his office at Central, bouncing the info, the theories back and forth.

“Makes sense to have an alternate, a safe zone if things go south. He’s not going to want to leave Dallas, what with wanting to kill you so bad.” Feeney pursed his lips, tipped the beer back again. “Yeah, he likes having all his frogs in a line. Always meant to slice the partner. You just made that sooner than later. From what he packed up he’d likely have more wherever he was going. The thing is, he’s smart. It’s smarter to lay low, take the hike, let you come back home. Wait you out some, then come at you when your guard’s down.”

“He needs it. Needs to clinch the division. He can’t move on and up until he’s taken me. He took the kid because he needed to get off, and because he wanted to rub it in my face. Added to it, it gave him two lures or bargaining chips. Now he’s got none.”

“You think he’ll go after another kid?”

The possibility had been one more thing eating at her gut all day. “I think we’ve got some time. A day, maybe two. He’s got to regroup, and he doesn’t have a partner running interference. He’s pissed, Feeney, and smart enough to know to take time to cool off. Plus, he’s got the recording. It won’t be the same for him—like watching the game on time delay—but it’ll take the edge off.”

“Sick fuck. I’m going to program some key words—rent, lease, real estate, closing, down payment—that kind of thing. If we dig up anything that matches, it’ll pop, and we’ll focus on cleaning that com. Can’t promise you we’ll have anything in a day, but we’ll be on it.”

“Roarke’s searching for applicable units down here. I’m going to start on the security and soundproofing he’d need done. We got lots of pieces—exclusive champagne, his vehicle, make, model, tag, nailed down multiple IDs. The feds are going to freeze his accounts, Feeney. They’re leaning that way.”

“Piss him off good.”

“Yeah, and maybe enough for him to screw up. Or maybe shake him enough for him to take the route you talked about before. Go under and wait.”

She hesitated. They’d covered it so she should let him deal with the work, then get back to his game. But she didn’t want to let him go.

“So, how’s your wife?”

“Same as always. She’s out taking one of those pottery classes. Why?”

“No reason.” Jesus, she was actually making small talk. She needed to get the hell back to New York. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Get some sleep, Dallas. A pair of B-and-E men could hide in the shadows under your eyes.”

“I’ll get there.”

Since even the idea of sleep made her twitchy, she rose, walked over to Roarke’s office. “He has to have another account.”

“For paying the rent or the mortgage, the expenses of the unidentified second location,” Roarke finished. “I’m looking.” He sat back, studied her. “I need to deal with Hong Kong. That should give you time to start your search on the security and soundproofing.”

“That’s next.” She left him to it, started her own work.

High-end location, high-end services. Everything aboveboard on this one, she mused. Everything clean and shiny.

New?

She thought of the cranes all over the city, the new buildings popping up like glossy weeds. Custom-build maybe. He could have the amenities installed as it was constructed, designed with his needs in mind rather than rehabbing, tearing out, patching up.

She started to get up again, give Roarke that angle. And remembered Hong Kong. Maybe he was faster, but she could handle the task.

“Computer, run search on buildings constructed in Dallas within the last two years. Central location, residential accommodations.”

She closed her eyes, went through her list of requirements.

He was there, she thought. Right now, sitting in his new digs, stewing over the change of plans. But putting things in order, oh yeah, putting everything in place. And telling himself he liked it better this way. This added more challenge, more fun, would make the kill more meaningful.

But wishing, really wishing, he could start his latest collection.

Can’t let that happen, she told herself. Can’t have another pair of eyes in my head.

When she felt herself drifting, she straightened in her chair. And when the computer announced the results—what the hell was with this city that it couldn’t make it work with the buildings it already had?—she got up for more coffee.

Roarke found her hunched over the machine. He could all but see the fatigue sitting on her shoulders like stones.

“Finished with Hong Kong?”

“For the moment.”

“I’m working this angle that he bought or leased something recently constructed. He could have the work done during the build, customize the design. The problem is they build too damn much down here, but I’m filing it down.”

“Good thought.” He’d had the same thought himself, and was doing an ancillary search. But didn’t see the point in mentioning it. “Come with me.”

“You got something.”

“It’s running, and will continue to run—as yours will,” he said, leaning over and keying in a command, “without both of us sitting here until blood tears out of our eyes.”

“I need to cross-reference the—”

“Which the machine will do.” He simply lifted her to her feet.

“Look I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

“All right. There are other ways to rest, relax, and take a break.”

“Yeah.” She smirked. “You’d think that.”

“Sex, sex, and more sex. And you wonder why I married you.”

“You’ll just have to put that program on hold,” she said, but he pulled her through the bedroom, bypassing the bed, and into the bathroom.

He’d filled the enormous tub sunk into the floor. She could smell the fragrance of the water, something slightly floral and earthy. Soothing. He’d lit candles so the light shimmered soft, and again soothing.

“A warm bath,” he began. “Or as I know you, hot. Some quiet, and a VR program designed to relax and restore.”

As she’d taken off her jacket and weapon harness in the office, he simply lifted her shirt over her head. “Sit and we’ll deal with the boots.”

“I can undress myself.”

“There you are, denying me my small pleasures.”

So she sat on the padded stool, let him undress her. When she stepped down, then sank into the pale blue perfumed water, her sigh was long and deep.

“Okay, it’s good.”

“Jets on low,” he ordered, and now she moaned as the water pulsed against her aching muscles.

“Okay, even better.”

“Let’s shoot for best. Try the VR.”

She didn’t want virtual reality, and though it made her feel weak and stupid, she didn’t want to be alone. What she wanted was standing there watching her with far too much concern.

“You could stand to rest, relax, and take a break.”

“God, couldn’t I.”

“It’s a really big tub. You could practically do laps.”

“Then I’ll join you. One minute.”

When he left she eased back, looked up. The ceiling wasn’t mirrored—thank Jesus—but some sort of reflective material that caught the candlelight and sparked into little stars.

Nice touch.

He came back with two glasses of wine, which she eyed suspiciously.

“Only wine. My word on it.” He set the glasses on the lip to undress.

If he’d tranq’d it, he wouldn’t lie about it. So she picked one up, tried a small sip.

“Beer and a ball game.”

“What’s that?”

“Beer and a ball game,” she repeated. “That’s how cops wind down from the hard. Not with pool-sized jet tubs and wine.”

“It’s terrible how I make you indulge me.”

“Tell me,” she murmured, watching him.

God, his body was so beautiful. Long, lean, carved with muscle. Disciplined, athletic, primal under the exquisitely tailored business suits.

All hers now. Only hers.

The wince and muffled oath he gave when he stepped into the water got a laugh out of her.

“It’s not that hot.”

“If I had a lobster, we’d boil it and eat it.”

“You set the temp.”

“So I did, and now, with no lobster in sight, we’re boiling my balls.”

He’d set it for her, she thought, so she could soak in the heat and the scent, turn off her mind with some relaxation program. She thought of what she’d overheard him saying to Mira, how he’d looked.

He needed this as much as she did.

“You’ve probably got more than Hong Kong to deal with.”

Eyes closed, he sipped wine. “The advantage of holding the reins is you can choose when to put them down for a bit.”

“Maybe you should try the VR.”

He opened his eyes. “Actual reality suits me fine here and now.”

As they faced each other across the bubbling water, she rubbed her foot along his leg. “One way or another, we’ll be going home within a couple days.”

“Couldn’t be soon enough.”

“Oh, so right there with you. I guess we have to go find cowboy boots for Peabody. She’d get a charge, and Feeney said she was doing good.”

“I’m sorry, perhaps the wine’s going to my head. Are you saying I’m going shopping with my wife?”

“Don’t get used to it, pal.”

“How about a ten-gallon hat for Feeney?”

The image of Feeney in a cowboy hat released a laugh that nearly had her choking on her wine. “You did that on purpose.”

“Spurs and chaps for McNab. Glow-in-the-dark.”

She laughed again, sank to her chin. “And I don’t even know what chaps are.”

But the laugh, he noted with pleasure, put a sparkle in her eyes.

“We’ll take bolo ties back for the bullpen,” he continued.

“Oh, Jesus, the horror.”

“One of those little skirts with the fringe for Mavis.”

“She probably already has a dozen.”

Virtual reality, her ass, she decided as he tossed out more foolish suggestions—some of which he probably intended to follow up on. Soaking here in quietly churning water, candle stars sparking overhead, talking about nothing important, nothing tragic. That was restorative.

When she’d finished the wine, when the water began to cool, they stepped out. Before she could reach for a towel he wrapped one, warm and soft, around her.

“Why don’t we watch some screen for a while?”

She turned, opening the towel, wrapping him in with her. “We could do that. Is that the next step of spaghetti and meatballs?”

“That was the plan.”

She looked up at him; everything inside him yearned. “But apparently I missed a step,” he murmured, then laid his lips on hers.

“You never miss a step.”

So he deepened the kiss, let himself fall into the moment with her damp body pressed so eagerly to his, with the dreamy scent of the water clinging to her skin.

When he lifted her, the towel fell away.

No words now; they’d both had enough of them. Enough of storms and soothing. She stayed wrapped around him on the bed, holding on, holding on while her lips roamed his face. Already stirred, already lost, he took his hands over her.

Quick, quick, no time for thinking, he took her up, felt her body arch and shudder. Accept.

Strong mind, strong needs, he thought. He’d fill them, fill her and himself. For a little while the ugly stains of the day would be cleansed.

For a little while, pleasure and passion would smother pain.

His heart drummed against hers. It brought her a thrill, that hard, frantic beat. But more, it restored. His life, beating there against hers. Their lives.

Nothing could change that, no nightmare, no shame, no poison in the blood. She’d brought herself out of the dark, but she’d come to crave the light he’d flooded into her world.

That light shot through her like a thousand arrows when he pushed her to climax.

She cried out, and he heard the edge of triumph in the sound. And he understood. She could feel and want to reach and take, she could give, no matter what had been done to her. She could live and thrive. She could want him.

That she could, did, would, humbled him. Enraptured him.

She rolled, sliding over him, feeding and feasting until he was mad for her. When he dragged her up, she straddled him, took him deep. And rode, rode, rode him like a stallion under the whip.

He saw, before his vision blurred, the strong curve of her body, and the fierce joy on her face.

She collapsed on him, body limp, breath tearing.

“God,” she managed. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

“I think I rate at least an ‘I appreciate it.’ ”

“I appreciate it.” She kept her face buried against his throat. “I thought I might clutch. You know, it’s been . . . a day. But it was just the way it should be.”

“Darling Eve.” Smiling, he stroked her back. “I was afraid I might clutch.”

“We didn’t. We’re just too damn good at it.” She shifted, tucked her head in the crook of his shoulder. “It was a really excellent step.”

“Quite possibly better than the spaghetti and meatballs.”

“It’s neck-and-neck.” She lay quiet for a moment. “I know you want me to sleep. I’m just not . . . we should watch some screen, finish all the steps.”

“All right, then. How about some porn?”

She laughed as he’d meant her to, then elbowed him. “Perv. Didn’t you just have porn?”

“It shows what you know about fine art and lowly pornography.”

“Then let’s leave that step on the high note. Feeney had the ball game on. The Mets could clinch the division tonight. They’ve got to have a replay, time delay, something.”

“Baseball it is.” He ordered the screen on, drew the throw at the foot of the bed over them.

She went under in the top of the fifth. He wondered how she’d held out that long.

He ordered the lights on low in case she woke, ordered the screen off. And holding her, let himself slip into sleep with her.

Closer than she knew, Isaac McQueen roamed his new spaces. It was, very precisely, what he’d wanted and arranged—the colors, fabrics, materials, layout.

And still he felt caged.

She’d put him in again, that bitch Dallas. Just another run of luck for her. And the total fucking stupidity of Sylvia.

At least she was dead. Her stupidity, her unending neediness wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She’d had her uses, but he’d find another when the time was right. One he could be more sure of, one he wouldn’t have to charm and train and instruct from prison.

That had been the problem. He hadn’t made a mistake with his choice. Because of Dallas he simply hadn’t had the opportunity to correctly train that choice.

Next time, he thought, circling his hand to keep his brandy moving in its snifter.

He was still in control of the situation. He’d planned for the unforeseen, hadn’t he? Of course, without Sylvia’s idiocy, he’d have bad little Darlie to entertain him right now. Nothing kept him more in tune than a bad little girl.

He walked to the window, looked down at the city, sipping his brandy, wondering how many bad little girls walked the streets. He only needed one for now. Just one.

He could find one, of course. He was so very much smarter, better, wilier than the cops. He could take one, just one, and christen his new home.

Better not. No, better not, he reminded himself. He felt too rushed, too upset. Too fucking angry to work properly tonight.

He’d have to make do with the pale, bloodless substitute of the recording.

He mulled it over. He’d watch it and imagine how he’d feel when he forced Dallas to watch it with him. That would perk things up.

He decided to make himself a little snack. For a time he simply wandered the kitchen, unable to choose. So many choices, he thought. Too many choices.

Ridiculous. He brushed off the uneasy sensation, the temporary lapse. He knew exactly what he wanted. He always knew.

He selected a few cheeses, some berries, carefully sliced rounds from a baguette, calming a little itch of panic at the base of his spine with the homey chore.

He did love this kitchen, he thought as he worked, the high sheens, the smooth surfaces. He’d enjoy using it for a week or two.

Really, this was a much better location, better plan. Things had worked out precisely the right way. Precisely.

Then soon enough, with Dallas floating in the river—a real pity he’d been denied that tradition with Sylvia—he’d move on. As much as he wanted New York, for spite if nothing else, he had to consider another venue altogether.

London perhaps, he thought as he carried his tray into the living area. He’d always planned to spend some time in London. He set his tray on the coffee table, unfolded a wide, white linen napkin. Ran his fingers over the spotless and smooth material.

Yes, London. Carnaby Street, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus.

And all those rosy-cheeked bad girls.

“Screen on,” he ordered, trying out a public school British accent. Pleased with the sound, he laughed, and continued in character. “Play Darlie.”

He swirled brandy, nibbled on cheese and berries. And discovered that the pale substitute worked quite well if he just had the right mind-set.

He decided then and there to make one titled “Eve Dallas.” He imagined the staging, the props, the lighting. He considered writing some dialogue, for both of them.

Wouldn’t it be fun to force her to speak his words?

He could barely wait to produce it, direct it. And view it, over and over after he’d killed her.