New York to Dallas

7

She updated the agents, and after a mild tussle won the argument.

She’d brief the Dallas police, after which they’d add whatever additional data and findings they’d generated.

The briefing room held several big, shiny tables. They weren’t surrounded by high-backed fancy chairs, but it still reminded her of a boardroom. Screens covered one wall, flanked by comp stations.

She had a podium, which she intended to ignore.

As the room filled with cops she signaled Roarke aside. “Check in with Peabody, will you? Anything she’s got, I want. Can you break down the bouncing and jamming? Because he’s going to make contact again.”

“Given enough time, and proper equipment.”

She took another, flat-eyed, scan of the room. “They’ve probably got the equipment here. They’ve got everything else.”

“I’d sooner my own. I’ll work with EDD here if I must, but I don’t know them. Neither do you. I can have what I need in our hotel suite, and link up with Feeney.”

She couldn’t argue when she agreed. “Do that. But we’ve got to play it straight with the locals. If you make headway, we bring them in. Financials and communications, they’re on you.”

“I’ll try to earn my exorbitant fee. Did Melinda Jones start to say a name?”

“That’s my take. Sara—Sara something. I gave it to the feds.” She glanced over to where they were huddled with their PPCs. “They’re all over it. I’m going to give the locals everything I’ve got, then I need to set up my own HQ. I need my board, my book, my space. I need to think.”

She looked at the screens. “How the hell do I work those?”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Good. The last thing I need is to flash up some cute little puppies instead of suspects.”

When she turned to the room, Ricchio walked to the podium. Shuffling and muttering silenced.

“Everyone here knows the situation. We’ve now formed a joint investigation with the NYPSD, represented here by Lieutenant Dallas, and Roarke as civilian consultant, and also with the FBI represented by Special Agents Nikos and Laurence. As you know, or should after the earlier briefing, Lieutenant Dallas apprehended Isaac McQueen twelve years ago and is responsible for the release of the twenty-two minor females he had abducted and held. Melinda Jones was one of the twenty-two.

“Everyone in this unit knows Melinda, has worked with her. I expect every officer in this room to afford Lieutenant Dallas, Roarke, Agents Nikos and Laurence every courtesy, and complete cooperation. Lieutenant.”

She stepped forward. “Isaac McQueen is a predatory and violent pedophile. He’s highly organized, intelligent, and goal oriented. He enjoys taking risks, feeds on them, but calculates them. He never intended to be caught, feels no remorse, but a sense of entitlement. His preferred target is female, between twelve and fifteen. Pretty girls. While he has targeted street kids, runaways, he prefers healthy, stylishly dressed targets—the middle-class kid.”

She looked toward the screen where Roarke displayed McQueen’s image and salient data.

“He’s an experienced grifter. He knows how to run a game. He enjoys them. Statements from the minor females after his apprehension told us he often forced them into role-playing. He adapts,” she continued. “He blends. He is congenial, even charming, well dressed, well groomed, well spoken. He will live quietly in an urban setting, most probably a mid-level apartment building. He enjoys having neighbors—another kind of role-playing for him.

“He will go out. He’ll be compelled to, especially after a twelve-year confinement. He will eat in restaurants, visit clubs, galleries. He’ll shop, extensively and well. Shopping is a particular pleasure for him—acquiring. Collecting again. He’ll know the city and his part of it very, very well.”

She glanced at Roarke, nodded. The next image came on screen.

“His mother, Alice McQueen, was a popper addict. She trained him in the grift, and she sexually abused him. It’s believed this sexual relationship lasted until he killed her when he was nineteen. She is the prototype for the partners he acquires, uses, and murders when done with them. Older, addicts, attractive, smart enough to be of use, vulnerable enough to be used.”

She paused a moment until Roarke put the next image up. “We believe this woman is his current partner. At this time, she is unidentified. Through a liaison she was introduced to McQueen while he was in prison. We’ve determined they continued to communicate after the physical visits stopped. Once McQueen selected his target and location, she would have done the legwork. At some point she connected with Melinda Jones, posing as a rape victim. She would have been convincing, and would have developed a relationship with the target. We believe it’s this woman who contacted the target and lured her to McQueen. According to pattern, she’ll have her own residence, but visit his often.”

She stopped again, scanned the room. Cops taking notes, studying her, wanting to get the hell on with it and find the woman they all knew.

“Look, I understand your priority is to find Melinda, to get her home safe. I agree with that priority. But be aware, he will be compelled to hunt.”

This single thought lived in her gut like a parasite. There would be another victim, and soon.

“A day or two,” she continued, pressing the point, “the juice of having Melinda, of screwing with me may be enough to satisfy him. But he’s out, he’s out eating, shopping—and he sees pretty young girls getting a pizza, window-shopping, running around with friends. He sees them, smells them, brushes up against them on the street. He wants—and he’ll take.

“He held over twenty girls at one time. He won’t have any problem holding one woman and a girl. She won’t see it coming, so we have to. They’ll work together. They’ll use a van—something common, nothing new, nothing flashy. He most usually hunts at night, but not exclusively. Crowded places. Places girls of that age like to haunt. He’ll use a pressure syringe, enough to disorient her. He’ll need an apartment building with its own garage. If it has security, he’ll jam it. He has excellent e-skills. For now Melinda’s useful to him, and doesn’t fit his victimology.”

“He raped an adult female in New York,” one of the cops commented.

Eve heard the bitter temper in the voice, as she turned to the detective. Late twenties, she judged, fit, good-looking, brown and brown.

And at the moment with a belligerent set to his jaw.

“He did that for my benefit. He doesn’t need to prove anything with Melinda. He has her, so’s already proven it.”

“You were confrontational with him during the ’link up.”

Eve angled her head, gave him a deeper study. Shirt-sleeved detective, hip holster, messy hair—hands scooping through it—tense face, hard eyes.

“Was I?”

“You told him to get fucked.”

“Is that confrontational around here?”

She got a quiet roll of laughter before Bree spoke up.

“You kept his focus on you—on you and him. Kept him engaged on that level, and a little pissed off—but at you. You and him. You are the target, so Melinda’s the tool, the lure. So she’s secondary. If he hurts her, deal’s off and you go home. You made him hear that, you made him believe that.”

Okay, Eve thought, maybe Bree Jones would be an asset.

“And every time he contacts me—and he will do so again—I’ll do the same. He expects it. He wants it. He gets off on it because he’s convinced he’ll have this second shot and it’ll end differently. He didn’t just get taken down by a cop, but by a rookie. Believe me, that’s eaten at him, burned his ego. Believe me, too, he’s no pussy. He’ll gut you like a trout if he gets the edge. He’s strong, and he can fight like a bastard. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Get backup. Stun him to the ground if you have to. I didn’t do either, and the son of a bitch almost killed me.

“Agents.”

As Eve expected, Nikos took the lead and—to her amusement—stepped to the podium.

“Special Agent Laurence and I would like to thank the Dallas Police and Security Department and Lieutenant Ricchio for the cooperation and assistance. The Bureau is committed to reapprehending Isaac McQueen, and to the safe return of Melinda Jones. We agree with the bulk of the profile, the data, and the suppositions Lieutenant Dallas related here. One point.”

She held up a finger, paused briefly.

“We do agree the subject is highly goal oriented, and as such our anal and probability ratio skews extremely low on the likelihood the subject will attempt an abduction of a minor at this time. Our focus will be on apprehending the subject with the safe release of his hostage.”

That’s fine, Eve thought. You do that. And she noted Laurence continued to work as his partner addressed the room.

Nikos went on, repaving ground already covered, wasting time in Eve’s opinion. Roarke edged closer, spoke quietly.

“They’ve arrested the prison guard, and they’re working him and Stibble. EDD has all the electronics, looking for any communications to or from McQueen and the partner.”

“Good.”

“I’ve got better. Stibble let McQueen use his pocket ’link on several occasions. McQueen wiped it, but EDD’s on that, too.”

“That’s not better. That’s excellent. I’d interrupt to update, but Nikos is having so much fun boring the cops.”

The faintest smile touched Roarke’s mouth. “She’s a bureaucrat, and less boring than most. Laurence has something.”

Eve looked over, saw Laurence get to his feet. The movement shut Nikos up.

“Got her,” Laurence announced. “Sarajo Whitehead, allegedly assaulted and raped by persons unknown October of last year.”

“I worked that.” Bree rose as well, looked at her partner. “We worked that.”

“I’ve got that, too.” Laurence nodded. “Subject was treated at Mercy Free Clinic, Dr. Hernandez attending, and reported to this precinct’s SVU. Melinda Jones as rape counselor.”

“Let’s see her,” Eve demanded, then backed up. “Sorry.”

“No need.” Laurence offered his PPC to Roarke. “You look to be running this end. Can you interface?”

“I can.”

“She walked into the clinic,” Bree reported. “It’s open round the clock. Her clothes were torn and she had minor bruising on her arms and legs. Exam confirmed recent rough or forced sex, additional bruising on her thighs.” She glanced at her partner for confirmation.

“That’s right.” Annalyn Walker nodded. “She claimed she was assaulted after closing the bar where she worked—ah, the Circle D. It’s about four blocks from the clinic. Said this guy grabbed her, smacked her around, had a knife. Made her take him back in the bar, raped her, took her purse and the jewelry she had on, left.”

“She gave us a description, but it was vague,” Bree continued. “She claimed it was dark. Our investigation confirmed her place of employment and sexual activity on the floor inside the door. We found her empty purse in a recycler two blocks away. Melinda counseled her for several weeks. We never found the alleged rapist.”

“We’ll need to see the case file,” Eve said. “Interview her former employer, coworkers—because she won’t be working there now—talk to regulars. We want to find the guy she had—consensual—sex with.”

“She had tearing,” Detective Walker pointed out. “Bruises.”

“I’m sure she did. But she wasn’t raped. She needed to look as if she was, report she was raped in order to hook up with Melinda.”

She gave Roarke the nod, angled herself for a good look at the screen.

“Minor changes in appearance from her Sister Suzan days. Went two-toned brown and blond, different eye color, a little fuller in the face, reshaped eyebrows.” Eve spoke half to herself as she studied the ID shot. “Something about her rings with me, but I can’t pin it.”

“Bogus ID again.” Roarke held up his own PPC. “The woman with that name and those prints died three years ago in a vehicular accident in Toledo, Ohio.”

“You’re quick,” Laurence commented.

“She’s sticking to pattern and plan. She’ll have a different ID now, a different appearance,” Eve added. “She’ll have used one other than this to set up McQueen’s place here, to acquire the transportation. She may have changed yet again.” Eve nodded, eyes narrowed on the screen image. “She’s good, too. He picked well.”

“We know where she worked,” Ricchio said. “Where she lived last fall. We start there. Annalyn, Bree, you’ve already talked to the people at the bar. Talk to them again, with this new information.”

“I’d like in on that, Lieutenant.”

Ricchio nodded at Eve. “You’ve got it.”

“Laurence and I will take the residence.”

“I’m going to put some officers on the van and the real estate,” Ricchio said. “Look for purchase and registration of previously owned vehicles of the type profiled, and for rentals—apartments and condos with attached parking. Also purchases and installation of residential soundproofing. I’ll see the file on Whitehead is copied to both you and the agents, Lieutenant.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Eve turned to Bree. “We’ll follow you to the bar.”

“Now,” Roarke said when he got behind the wheel, “tell me what you really think.”

“They knew Bree was on duty—had the night shift—when they faked the rape. They wanted her involved. Get a look at how she works, how she is. And they’d play the very good odds she’d tag her sister as counselor. The woman sucked some joker into staying after closing to bang her—make it rough.”

“One of the oldest cons there is,” Roarke agreed.

“Yeah. She makes him suit up. She doesn’t want his DNA, doesn’t want to point the finger at him. Better if it’s person unknown. Now she can connect with Melinda, play on Melinda’s sympathies, engage her, involve her. Plenty of time since last October to watch her, get a solid sense of her routine—hers and her sister’s. Drop away,” Eve added. “I think that’s what we’ll find. The woman dropped away, stopped the counseling. Then she can come back after a nice time lag. She’s had a relapse, or she saw her attacker. Hysterical, needs help. Please, can we talk? I know it’s late, but I need to talk to somebody. The framework’s a basic con. She’ll have done something similar before.”

“It went too smoothly for her to have been a novice.”

Eve agreed. “The sex is just a tool. I don’t think he’d have trusted anybody to fake a rape who hadn’t done it before, or used sex for blackmail and profit.”

Roarke glanced over as he negotiated traffic. “Unlike Nikos, I don’t agree with the bulk of your briefing, but with the whole. They wouldn’t have acquired the van locally.”

“Again, same page. Gotta check, but she’d have found one out of Dallas, driven it in. Not until after they had the place. No point in it before that.”

Roarke shrugged as he swung around a pickup. “I’ll find it.”

“Will you?”

“She wouldn’t have driven for days. Most likely she bought it in Texas. A big state, yes, but still just a state. In-state keeps the registration and transfer less complicated. And unless she’s using up ID like candy, she may have used one we know about. Since she’s going to toss it anyway, why not? I’d vote for Sister Suzan. She seems the used, inexpensive van type, doesn’t she?”

Considering, Eve studied his profile. “That’s good. I hadn’t worked that around yet.”

“You would have. This Ricchio likely will, too. He seems capable.”

“Yeah, he does.” She glanced out the window, noted they’d moved into meaner streets. Streets like the ones she’d wandered in shock as a child.

She turned away, tuned them out. When Roarke touched her hand briefly, she realized he knew.

“I’m not thinking about it.”

Oh, but he knew she was. “No need to.”

“I dealt with it when we came back before. We both did.” She remembered he’d beaten his knuckles bloody on a speed bag when they’d come back from that room where it had happened. Where she’d remembered everything.

“Melinda Jones is what’s important now,” she added.

“Do you believe he won’t hurt her—or much—or was that for her sister’s benefit?”

“I don’t see why he would, unless he’s bored, or loses his temper. He’s got control, but he’s also got a switch. That’s what I saw when I stumbled on him in New York. How he is when the switch gets flipped. I’m going to try to keep him from being bored—and keep his temper on me. And if I can’t, it’s all the more likely he’ll snatch a kid. Nikos is wrong there. An adult woman, an older partner, that’s mommy sex, so it’s habit, it’s ingrained. But they can’t give him what he really needs, and what he feels entitled to.”

“And again, what his mother helped acquire for him.”

“Exactly. Forty-eight hours, by my take—no more, and probably less. If we don’t have him, he’ll feed the need.”

Roarke pulled into a lot peppered with potholes, slid in beside the Dallas police.

“Entrance is around front,” Annalyn told them. “She claimed he grabbed her out here, when she came out the back. Held the knife on her until she’d unlocked, then did her right on the floor.”

“There’s a security cam.”

Annalyn looked up as Eve did. “There wasn’t. The owner installed one after the fact. The place isn’t much, but he’s a decent guy. He was pretty upset about the whole deal, and steamed that it happened in his place.”

They walked around front where Eve agreed, the place wasn’t much. When they stepped in she judged it as a bar for serious, nofrills drinking. Long bar, swivel stools, a scatter of tables with hard plastic chairs, crap lighting. No food service, and no amusements other than the ancient, flickering, and palm-sized screen hanging from a hook at the end of the bar.

It didn’t lack for customers. She counted eleven, half of them in cowboy boots, and most of them solo drinkers.

The man running the stick had a gut like a whale and a bald streak straight down the center of his skull. He gave them a look, a nod, then came down the bar to meet them.

“Detectives. Don’t tell me you found that fucker—excuse my language—who raped Sarajo?”

Bree took the lead. In Eve’s estimation, her partner let her.

“The woman you knew as Sarajo Whitehead is wanted for questioning on another matter. It turns out she was using false identification when she worked for you, Mr. Vik. And we now believe, on strong evidence, she faked the rape.”

“Goddamn it, excuse my language.” He shifted his feet. The enormous gut rolled like a tsunami. “I gave her a week’s pay after that happened, to tide her over. Felt responsible ’cause she closed the place for me that night, and I didn’t have security on the back. Why the hell would she do something like that?”

“The thing is, Mr. Vik, we think she had relations with someone here that night. I know we asked you, and everyone who worked that night before, but with this new angle, can you think of anyone she might have let in after closing?”

“Wasn’t a regular, I’ll tell you that. I grilled every last one of them my own self.” He swiped a rag over the bar. “There was that guy, passing through. He didn’t look nothing like the guy she said. She said he was big, had some Mex in him, dark hair and eyes. This guy was white as an Irishman’s ass—excuse my language—and scrawny. Yellow hair.

Talked too damn much to suit me. Here for his daddy’s memorial, hated the old man anyway, and was heading back to Kentucky when it was over. I left about midnight. He was still here. But the flat fact is, he wasn’t carrying no knife, and Sarajo could’ve squashed him like a bug if he tried anything. I never gave him a thought.”

“Did he mention his name?”

“Maybe did. Let me think.” Vik closed his eyes. “Chester. Yeah, he said how he was named after the old man. Didn’t say the rest, not to me. But he ran a tab, and I held the plastic like I do at the register. If he paid that way, I can find him.”

“It would really help us out, Mr. Vik.”

“You hold on. Want a drink?”

“No, we’re good, but thanks.”

“Laroo! Take the bar.” Vik and his massive gut wobbled their way to a back room.

“How white is an Irishman’s ass?” Eve wondered aloud.

“You should know, darling.”

That got a snicker out of Annalyn. “I dated a guy named Colin Magee way back in the day. He was mostly Irish. His ass was pretty white.”

“You dated everybody back in the day,” Bree said, but her eyes stayed fixed on the door to the back room, as if she could will Vik to return with what they needed.

“I’ve always preferred the sampler menu. Take a few bites, then try something else. So how’s juggling cop and marriage?” she asked Eve.

“You’re never hungry. Tell me, is this Vik’s memory as good as he makes it sound?”

“Every bit,” Annalyn confirmed. “He rattled off the name of every regular when we first came in, and his opinion on same. Detailed the work schedules, gave us former employees in case one of them had come back and done it out of spite.”

He waddled through the door again with a printout. “Used the plastic. Chester H. Gibbons.”

He passed the printout to Bree.

“Thanks, Mr. Vik. This is a big help.”

“She did what you say, I hope you get her good. After she didn’t come back, I tried to get her on her ’link, even went over to her place. Worried about her—and felt guilty, too. She’d cleared out, and I figured she was too upset to stay.” He shook his head, eyed Roarke. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“I’m not, and thank you for noticing.”

“Irish, are you? Never knew a Mick—no offense—didn’t know how to drink. You come back any time, we’ll fix you up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ve got a couple questions,” Eve began.

“Now you look like a cop.”

“I am, thanks for noticing.”

Vik’s smiled flickered in appreciation. “But you ain’t from around here.”

“New York. You’ve got an impressive memory, Mr. Vik. When did Sarajo start working for you?”

“Would’ve been middle of August last year. She came in—Saturday night, it was, looking for work. Business was good, so I said she could work then and there. If she did good, I’d give her some hours. You could tell she’d worked bars before. She knew how to get the drinks out, when to talk, when to shut up. Good-looking. Even drunks like having a good-looking woman serve them drinks.”

“You didn’t ask her any questions?”

“Not then, but sure, before I hired her on official. She said her man left her in Laredo, and she wanted a fresh start. She did the job. Wasn’t especially friendly, but she did the job.”

“An observant sort such as yourself would’ve known she was a user.”

He lifted his shoulders; his gut flowed like the tide. “Maybe I figured she gave herself a boost here and there. I didn’t see it, and it didn’t screw with her work. So not my business.”

“How often did she lock up?”

“Once, maybe twice a week. After she’d worked here awhile, she asked if she could work that shift a couple times a week, or more if I wanted. Two of the other waitresses, they got kids. She didn’t. It worked out. What the hell you want her for? This isn’t for crying rape or using some boosters.”

“No, but they both play. She won’t come back here, Mr. Vik, but if you happen to see her anywhere in your travels, don’t approach her. Contact Detective Jones or Detective Walker. We could use witnesses like you in New York.”

“Couldn’t get me there with a bowie knife at my throat or a cattle prod up my ass—excuse my language. Full of thieves, murderers, and lunatics. No offense.”

“None taken.”

When they stepped outside, Eve turned to Bree. “I’d like to walk down to the clinic, talk to the doctor who examined the partner. I can take this one if you want to start working on finding Chester.”

Bree looked to Annalyn.

“Yeah, no point traveling in a pack. We’ll let you know what we find when we find it.”

“Same goes. Since you’re headed back, maybe you could update the feds.”

“Yeah, what the hell. The clinic’s about four blocks, that way.” Annalyn gestured.

They separated.

“So,” Roarke began, “you’re looking for a woman of a certain age, an addict who knows how to run a con, doesn’t quibble about hooking herself to a pedophile, knows her way around a hard-line drinking establishment, and plays the game well enough to fool Vik. And he’s no pushover. She doesn’t mind sex with strangers, and making it rough enough to simulate rape, and is just fine with aiding in the abduction and imprisonment of a woman who helped her.”

“Yeah, she’s a princess.” Even the thought of her made Eve vaguely ill and bitterly angry. “She’s also organized enough to pull all this, and put things together on her own until McQueen got out.”

“In homage to our location, this isn’t her first rodeo.”

“No. She’s been riding for a long time.”

They stepped into the clinic, and she noted it did better business than the bar. The chairs lining the walls, more forming another backto-back line in the center of the room, were full.

Babies squalled, kids whined. Several women sported bellies testifying they’d soon bring more squallers and whiners into the world.

Eve walked to the counter where a woman in a floral scrub top worked feverishly on a computer.

“I’m sorry.” The woman didn’t pause. “The waiting time is two hours. There’s another clinic—”

“I need to talk to Dr. Hernandez.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman didn’t sound sorry. She sounded harassed and exhausted. “Dr. Hernandez is with a patient. I can—”

Eve palmed her badge, waved it in front of the woman’s face. “This is an urgent matter. I’ll be as quick as possible, but I need to speak with Dr. Hernandez.”

“Give me a minute. God, what a day.”

She popped up, scurried down a short hall, turned left, and vanished.

“Why is everybody sick or injured?” Eve wondered. “Thieves, murderers, and lunatics, sure. That’s why we love New York. But it looks like Dallas has a plague.”

The woman scurried back. “Listen.” She kept her voice low. “Every exam room and office is occupied. If these people who’ve been waiting so much as see a doctor, I could have a riot. Can you talk to her outside? Out the back?”

“No problem.”

“I’ve got to ask you to go out the front, walk around. If I take you back—”

“Riot. Got it. Thanks.”

“Not a plague,” Roarke said as they made the trip on foot. “More understaffed, likely underfunded, and the only free clinic for miles.”

“Okay, probably, but I’ve seen Louise’s clinic. Free, and sure crowded, but not like that.”

“Louise’s isn’t underfunded, thanks to you.”

She hunched her shoulders. “It was your money.”

“No, it was your money.”

“Only because you gave it to me.”

“Which, darling Eve, makes it yours.”

“Now it’s Louise’s, so it doesn’t really matter. I don’t like it here.” She rolled her shoulders when they reached the rear of the clinic. “It’s a run-down area, poor—and that’s not what I mean. It’s got a strong whiff of criminal underbelly. But you know, there’s just no sense of character, or atmosphere. You feel like if some asshole came up to mug you, he’d have that accent, or cowboy boots, maybe the hat. How is that intimidating?”

“I do so completely adore you, and your chauvinistic New York mind.”

A small, dark woman darted through the door. “Officer?”

“Lieutenant Dallas. I’m working with Detectives Walker and Jones. You had a patient, claiming she’d been raped last October—outside the Circle D. Sarajo Whitehead. Those detectives caught her case, and Melinda Jones came in as counselor.”

“Yes, I remember. Have you caught the rapist?”

“He doesn’t exist. She faked it.”

“I sincerely doubt—”

“Don’t. You can check with the detectives you know. This is a very dangerous woman who is working with a very dangerous man. You know Melinda Jones.”

“Yes, very well.”

“They have her.” As Hernandez stared, Eve pushed on. “The faked attack was staged to make contact with Melinda, to connect. This woman lured Melinda out last night, and abducted her. We need everything you can tell us.”

“God, oh my God. I’m going to contact Bree. I can’t just take your word.”

“Go ahead.”

Eve waited while Hernandez used her ’link, waited through the shocked words, the shakiness.

“I’m going to get you her files,” Hernandez said when she clicked off. “I’ll give you everything I have. I believed her. Her injuries weren’t that severe, but her emotional state . . . I believed her.”

“No reason you shouldn’t have,” Eve said. “She’s good at what she does.”