New York to Dallas

23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good evening, sir. Checking in?”

“Just meeting a friend at the bar.”

“Enjoy your visit, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blushed.

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

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

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

“Um.”

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

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

“And wearing amazing new shoes.”

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

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

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

“Oh, Nowhere, Oklahoma.”

“Seriously?”

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

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

“Oh, um—”

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

“Eloise. Eloise Pruitt.”

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

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

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

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

“I really should—”

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

“Please.”

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

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

“Ow.”

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

“I feel . . .”

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

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

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

“I need to lie down.”

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

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

“I don’t feel right.”

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

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

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

“That’s for later.”

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

“Need your key, baby doll.”

“Key?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I . . . that’s what I said.”

“May I come in?”

“I . . . please.”

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

She did as she was told.

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

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

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

Waste not, want not, he thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The light went green.

He shoved inside, flicked the jammer off even as he shut the door.

He took a moment to catch his breath, realized there were tears in his eyes. Tears! Of joy, of course. He blinked them away and scanned the area.

How she’d come up in the world, he thought, just by opening her legs for money. Plush rugs over an exquisite tile floor, the dull gleam of silver chandeliers sparkling over the deep cushions of chairs, sofas in rich jeweled colors.

He wandered a bit, struck with a burning envy, noted the fully stocked bar in the same silver as the lights, a long dining table of genuine ebony, a small kitchen that made the one he’d designed pale.

Yet more exquisite tile in a powder room.

This was what he wanted, this luxury. This was what he deserved. His heart galloped as he walked up the graceful curve of stairs to the second level. He wandered the master bedroom, felt the rage vomit up from his belly to his throat.

She’d lived like this, like this, while he rotted in prison. Killing her hardly seemed payment enough. She’d taken everything, denied him everything. Even now she denied him the pleasure of torturing her, of taking the time he wanted to watch her suffer, to humiliate her.

Making her watch him carve up her meal ticket had to be enough.

He moved to the closet, felt that envy rise again. The man had taste, McQueen thought. The suits, the shirts, the shoes—even if he had none in his choice of wife.

Since the killing would be messy—as messy as he could make it—he’d need a change of clothes. A snug fit, he thought, fingering the material of a jacket. Jacket open, shirt out, it would do well enough. Or perhaps something more casual—snug again—but . . .

He lost time, swimming in indecision, then whirled when something hissed behind him.

He stared at the cat who stared back at him with bicolored eyes.

“Hello, kitty.” He smiled, reached for the knife.

The idea of carving up her cat filled him with delight. When it bolted, he pursued, charging up the stairs to the third level.

“Here, kitty, kitty!”

Laughing now, he walked into Eve’s office.

And forgot about the cat.

The case board fascinated him, brought him a quick, warm rush of pride.

His girls, all his bad girls. And him, so much of him. Just look at how he’d become the center of her world. It was delicious. She’d spent hours—hours and hours and hours—thinking of him, trying so hard to outwit him.

But who was standing right here, right now, just waiting for her? Who had outwitted whom, again and again? She’d had her way for twelve long years. But now, he would have his.

“I was wrong,” he murmured, eyes sparkling on the board, “and I so rarely am. Killing you is enough. Is exactly enough. And right here, right in front of all your hard work. Right in front of all the bad girls. It’s perfect.”

“Heading out now,” Eve told Roarke via ’link. “I’ve done all I can do here. I want to sift through it all, then have Mira take another pass.”

“I’ll be close behind you. We’ve made some progress on the electronics, but it’s slow going. I may do better on my own, with my own. How are you getting back to the hotel?”

Worry, worry, she thought. “I’m about to get into an official vehicle with two strapping uniforms. We found the car he stole, and ditched, damn near halfway to Fort Worth. They’re running any reports of stolen vehicles as he likely boosted another. Might’ve jacked one though, and kept heading west. They’re covering the highways and byways and cow paths.”

She nodded to the uniforms, slid into the backseat. “They’re pumping out the media alerts. They’re already flooded with reports of sightings, and they’ll follow up on all of them. But the downside of that angle is it brings out the crazies and the easily spooked.”

“Why don’t you have your escort bring you here? We’ll go back together.”

“Roarke, I’ll be in the hotel and in the room in ten, drinking a decent cup of coffee and putting my notes together. You know what we found in his dresser? A photo album. Pictures of his mother, then of the partners we knew about—and more we didn’t. Numbered, just like the girls. Mira’s going to love that.”

“He’d started to research shopping centers, vid complexes, arcades, youth clubs, in central London.”

“Well, he won’t be having—what is it—bangers and mash for breakfast anytime soon. I don’t know why anybody’d want to, but I like knowing he won’t. I need to go over the timing again, but I don’t think he had a big enough window to get gone—and I don’t think he’s in the frame of mind to get gone if he had. He’s pissed and panicked.

“We’re pulling in to the hotel. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“I’m leaving now. You might have the cops go up with you.”

“I am a cop,” she reminded him. “Thanks,” she said to the uniforms as she hopped out. “And I’m now walking into the hotel. See you in a few.”

Wound up, she thought. McQueen, the almost-got-hims, her personal bullshit—it had them both too wound up. Time to unwind it, wrap it, and get the hell back to New York. Not that people wouldn’t try to kill her there, too, but at least that was normal.

Nothing about this felt normal.

She scanned the lobby, the lobby bar, the shops as she passed through, alert for signs, for tingles. He couldn’t know where she and Roarke were staying, but she supposed he could make an educated guess.

She walked to the elevator by the security post, nodded to the man on duty as she accessed it.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. I’ll clear you up.”

“Thanks.”

She stepped in, leaned back against the wall. Coffee, she thought, and a couple minutes to let it settle in, loosen up. She got off on the bedroom level. What she craved was a long, hot shower to wash away the hours spent at McQueen’s, the faint scent of chemicals clinging to her clothes from the sweepers’ tools. She settled on pulling off her jacket, and after removing her weapon harness, changed to a fresh shirt.

Better, she decided, and got the coffee from the bedroom AutoChef. She drank the first sip where she stood, then decided, since he hadn’t come to greet her, to hunt up the cat. Coffee and Galahad, her case board—almost like home.

She’d put her feet up on her desk, grab some thinking time before Roarke got in, then dive in. Since he wasn’t sprawled on the bed, she expected she’d find Galahad on the sleep chair in her office—and expected he’d act as if he’d been starved as they’d left him alone all day.

She turned into her office, surprised not to see the cat. Probably sulking. She shrugged, started toward her board. Nearly smiled when Galahad poked his head out from under the chair. Would’ve smiled, ragged on him, but he bared his teeth in a hiss.

For the second time in their acquaintance, Galahad saved her life.

She spun around, led with a stiffened forearm. The knife bit a shallow stream down her arm, but missed carving into her back. She followed the block with a punch, and as McQueen dodged, she reached for her weapon.

Remembered tossing it and her jacket on the bed.

He came at her again, the knife arcing through the air. She leaped back, managed to kick his knife arm, but without enough juice to dislodge the weapon.

Clutch piece, she thought as she dodged another swipe. She still had her clutch piece on her ankle. But didn’t have the room to get it.

Devolving, she thought. So push.

“You’re losing it, Isaac.” She crouched, fighting stance. “You’ll never get out of here.”

“I got in, didn’t I? Luck’s on my side this time around. It’s just too bad Roarke’s not with you. But I can wait. Maybe I won’t kill you—yet. I’ll let you watch me slice him, piece by piece, first.”

“He’ll take you apart. You have no idea.” She dodged the knife again, spun around, got a boot in his gut. The blade grazed her hip on the follow-through.

“I’m going to put so many holes in you.”

She shoved a chair at him, and the action, the reaction took her back to the room where they’d fought before. But she wasn’t a rookie now. She was smarter, stronger. She only had to hold him off, get to her weapon.

“You’re the one with holes where your control, your brains used to be. You should be gone, in the wind, living it rich on all that money you stashed by. But we’ve got it all now. You’re going back in a cage, and this time there won’t be any accounts to tap. You’re just fucking stupid.”

Fury stained his face dull red as he charged. She leaped over the sleep chair, and the knife sliced down, leaving a vicious gash down the back of the chair. Momentum carrying her, she reached down for her clutch piece, tried to gain her feet, her balance as she swung back.

Both weapons clattered to the floor when he hit her like a battering ram. His weight bore her down, with her arm twisted under her. Something popped, but she registered the sound, the screaming pain as a snap.

And she was back in a room washed in dirty red light.

Roarke used the time sitting in traffic to run through some logistics. They’d broken through most of McQueen’s filters—he hadn’t been quite as obsessive about blocks and fail-safes on what he’d installed in the second location.

Felt safe, Roarke thought. Untouchable.

He’d learned differently.

Still, nothing they’d recovered thus far proved particularly helpful in finding him now. But the extensive data files McQueen had amassed on Eve had given Roarke some very bad moments. That kind of obsession wouldn’t fade or be turned aside. That obsession was exactly why McQueen had changed pattern, pushed the boundaries of all sense, tumbled into a crazed sort of labyrinth of plot and plan.

He wouldn’t give up, very likely couldn’t give up.

The contacts he’d made with her, even the memo cube—so personal, so unnecessary. Somewhat like a spurned lover, Roarke concluded as bored, annoyed with the stall, he began to weave through traffic.

And the last communication, he mused as he finally turned to the hotel. That last furious com, with cops only blocks away, when McQueen should have been thinking of nothing but escape. That was completely dead stupid, over-the-edge. Survival always came first, and didn’t he know it. If you want to taunt—though he’d never seen the point of it himself—taunt from cover. But to risk the communication from only blocks away when McQueen had to know they were linked up, had to know they’d initiated a track and trace? That was . . .

It struck him, a hammer to the heart. Linked—then, linked when Eve had talked to him earlier from the hotel office.

Track and trace.

He jumped out of the car before he reached the hotel door. Dragged out his ’link. He tried her first, on the run, got her voice directing him to leave a message.

“Sir!” the doorman called after him as he bolted toward the doors. “Your vehicle—”

“Contact the police,” Roarke ordered when he’d reached the security station at the elevator. “Lieutenant Ricchio. Now! And send a team, armed, to my rooms. Now, goddamn it.” He flew into the elevator, drew the weapon from the holster at the small of his back.

He might’ve prayed, but only a single word sounded over and over in his head.

Eve.

She screamed. The pain was so huge, filled everything. He struck her, again and again, and pressed against her. Hard against where she knew he would push into her, tear her, hurt her. Again.

And this time he’d kill her. She saw it on his face.

Her father’s face.

“That’s right, scream. Nobody can hear you. You’re going to scream when I fuck you. That’s right, that’s right.” He tore at her clothes. “I’m going to fuck you, then I’m going to kill you. Who’s lucky now, bitch? Who’s lucky now?”

“Please, don’t! It hurts.”

“Beg some more.” He panted it out, thrilled. “Cry like a little girl. A bad girl.”

“I’ll be good! Don’t, please, don’t.”

When he struck her again, her vision doubled. She tried to claw at him, wild with pain and terror. He howled when she raked her nails down his face. Howled, reared back.

In her mind she felt him shove himself inside her. In reality his hands closed around her throat, shutting off her air.

Her free hand flailed out—helpless, hopeless—and closed over the knife.

She brought it down, felt the warm blood run. Coughing, choking, gagging, she brought it down again.

Then she was free, somehow free, kneeling beside him, her injured arm hanging uselessly, and the knife clutched in her hand. The knife poised over him.

“Eve!”

Roarke’s heart stopped. Later he would think that for an instant his heart simply stopped beating in the violent collision of relief—she was alive—and the horror of what he saw in that room.

“Eve!”

Her head whipped toward his, her face bruised, bloody, and the eyes he knew so well feral. Once again the cat, loyal to the last, stood beside her butting his head to her bloody hip. When Roarke stepped forward, she bared her teeth, made a sound like a snarl.

“I know who you are. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” He prayed now, prayed he wouldn’t have to stun her to save her. “Look at me. See me. He can’t hurt you now, Eve. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. That’s who you are. That’s who you made yourself. Eve. My Eve.”

“He comes back.”

“Not this time.”

“He hurts me.”

“I know. Not anymore. Eve. I’m what’s real. We’re what’s real.”

If she brought that knife down, put it in him, she’d never be able to live with it, never come back from it. They’d have beaten her—her father, her mother, the excuse for a man bleeding on the floor.

“He’s Isaac McQueen. He’s not your father. You’re not a child. You’re Lieutenant Eve Dallas, NYPSD. You need to take charge of your prisoner, Lieutenant. You need to do the job.”

“The job.” She sobbed in a breath. “It hurts. It hurts.”

“I’ll fix it.” Slowly, watching her eyes, he knelt on the other side of the unconscious McQueen. “I love you, Eve. Trust me now. Give me the knife.” Gently, he closed his hand over hers on the bloody hilt.

“Roarke.”

“Yes. Give me the knife now, Eve.”

“Take it. Please take it. I can’t let it go.”

He pried it out of her trembling fingers, tossed it aside.

As he reached out, lifted her into his arms, his security team rushed in. He started to snap out orders, and realized the ones that came first to mind were the wrong ones—restrain McQueen, an ambulance for his wife. The wrong ones for her.

“Doctor Charlotte Mira, room fifty-seven-oh-eight. One of you go, tell her Lieutenant Dallas needs her, and her medical bag. Now. The rest of you go down, wait for the police.”

He carried her to the sleep chair, where the cat immediately leaped to crawl into her lap.

“No,” she said when Roarke started to nudge him aside. “He saved me. He saved me. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself, but we had a part in it. Let me look at your arm.”

“Is it broken?”

“No, baby, not broken. It’s dislocated. I know it hurts.”

“Not broken.” She closed her eyes, shuddered out another breath. “Not this time.”

She took his hand with her good one. “I wanted to kill him. But I couldn’t. I need you to know.” She hissed between her teeth, struggling to think, to speak through the pain. “I need you to know.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He laid his fingertips over the purpling bruise on her cheek. “Let’s wait for Mira.”

“It matters. I couldn’t do it. There was something inside me—I was inside me, I guess. Just a child, and she was screaming. But I was there, too. Me. It was like being frozen between. I don’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t do it, but I couldn’t let go, not until you came. Until you touched me. I couldn’t do it, Roarke, but I couldn’t move, and finish it the way I need to finish it, until you came.”

“Can you finish it now?”

“I have to. I think, if I don’t . . . I have to.”

“Let me have your restraints. I’ll do that part.”

While she cradled her injured arm, he took the cuffs off her belt, and rising, shoved McQueen over, knelt, and snapped them on. Mira ran in as Roarke dragged McQueen faceup again.

“Oh, dear God.”

“She’ll keep.” Roarke got to his feet, moved to block Mira’s dash toward Eve. “Give him something to bring him around.”

“She needs—”

“She needs to read her prisoner his rights. She needs to know he sees her, hears her while she does.”

With one long look at Eve, Mira nodded. Roarke turned to the door as the room filled with cops, security, feds. “This is for her to do. This is Lieutenant Dallas’s job.”

He wanted to give her his hand, but she shook her head, got shakily to her feet as Mira brought McQueen around.

“Can you hear me?” she demanded.

“You’re bleeding.” He spoke through gritted teeth while Mira put pressure on the gash in his side.

“You, too. Isaac McQueen, you’re under arrest for the murder of Nathan Rigby, for the murder of the unidentified subject known as Sylvia Prentiss, for the kidnapping and forced imprisonment of Melinda Jones. For the kidnapping, rape, and forced imprisonment of Darlie Morgansten. For the assault with a deadly on a police officer. For the attempted murder of a police officer. And for other charges yet to be determined.”

“I’ll find you again.” Rage burned like acid in his voice. “I’ll get out and find you again.”

“Look how scared I am. Isaac McQueen, you have the right to remain silent.” The churning sickness in her belly ebbed as she read him his rights.

“Detective Jones, would you take charge of the prisoner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can tell your family we got him.”

“What the hell happened here?” Nikos demanded.

“I did my job.”

“How did—”

“Lieutenant Dallas needs medical attention.” Before Roarke could, Mira strode forward. “Questions have to wait. Roarke, help me take her upstairs. We’ll use the elevator.”

Cops parted for them. “I have to tell Darlie. I promised. We need to secure the scene,” Eve said just as the elevator doors shut. Then thought—Uh-oh.

“Shit. I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Go ahead. Nobody can see but us.” As she did, he lifted her into his arms. Then just pressed his face to her throat.

When she came to, she was on the bed, her arm in a stabilizer, with Mira working on the gash on her hip.

“Nothing hurts.”

“Not for the moment.”

“But I feel . . . Crap, you gave me something. I feel weird.”

“It’ll pass.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. You’ve been stabbed, beaten, choked, and had your arm nearly twisted off. But you’ll heal.”

“Don’t be mad.” Eve smiled at her. Drugs always made her stupid. “He was going to rape me. For a minute when it was crazy, I thought he was raping me. But he didn’t get the chance.”

“No.” Mira laid her hand on Eve’s cheek. “You stopped him.”

“You got blood on you. You always look so pretty, and you got blood on your dress, suit, skirt. Whatever. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m nearly done.”

“Okay. Am I naked?”

“Not quite.”

“Good, ’cause that’s just embarrassing. Roarke? Where’s Roarke?”

“I convinced him I could take care of you while he spoke with the police, gave a statement. He’s contacting Darlie for you. You can speak with her a little later if you like.”

“He loves me. Roarke, I mean. He loves me.”

“Oh, so very much.”

“Nobody did before. Before Mavis, she just wouldn’t give up and leave me alone. And Feeney. But he’d feel weird saying the whole love thing, so . . .” She mimed zipping fingers over her lips.

“But Roarke doesn’t feel weird about it. He’s full of it, the love, I mean. And when he loves me, things that never worked in me did—do. It was easier when they didn’t work, but it’s better when they do. You know?”

“I do. You should rest now.”

“Want to finish, give my report. Is my face messed up? I hate when that happens. Not like I’m pretty or anything, but—”

“You’re the most beautiful woman ever born,” Roarke said from the doorway, and Eve sent him a woozy, drugged smile.

“See, told ya he’s full of it. Gonna give my report, then let’s go home, ’kay? Let’s all go home.”

He walked over, sat on the side of the bed. “Let’s.”