New York to Dallas

8

File in hand, Eve got back into the car.

“Back to the cop shop?” Roarke asked her.

“Have to. What I want to do is get to the hotel, set up my space, organize what I have, and think.” She scowled into space for a minute. “I’m a team player.”

Roarke said, “Hmmm.”

“I am,” she insisted.

“When necessary, yes.” He flicked her a glance. “Especially if you’re in charge of the team.”

“Okay, I’ll cop to that—and that it’s hard swallowing I’ve got to check with Ricchio—his house—the feds, figure out who to work with and how. Jones is sharp, but she can’t be objective on this. None of them can. Maybe I can’t either.”

“You have to adjust without having any time to adjust.”

“There isn’t any time.”

“Exactly.”

“And he knows that. He’s playing with that. Yeah. Yeah.” She tapped her fingers on her thigh as she chewed that over. “The longer I’m off my rhythm, the longer he has to screw with me.”

“There are times when in order to get what you need, you have to work on two levels and integrate them on another.”

So speaks the business god, she thought—and accurately. “Work with Ricchio and the feds here, with my people there. I guess the trick is the integration. We can all say it doesn’t matter who does what or gets what, and it’s mostly true. But cops are territorial. We have to be.

“God, I want coffee. And no, you’re not having a supply sent down to Ricchio’s department. It’s just . . .” She wiggled a hand in the air. “Adjust.” She nodded to herself. “Gotta adjust.”

Adjusting, she took the medical files straight to Ricchio.

“Hernandez was very cooperative. I have her statement here as well. The gist is, the female unknown subject’s injuries were fairly minor, but consistent with her story, as was her emotional state. She played the role well.”

“So she’s played it before.”

“My take, yeah. We’re looking for someone who’s run sex cons. I understand you have people who can work with the data we have. So do I. I’d like to have some of my men working this in conjunction with yours. Different eyes, different angles. Whoever gets there first, we all win.”

“Overlapping ground takes time and manpower away from other potential leads.”

She wanted to stand, but sat. “Look, I don’t want to step on toes, but this is a tough balance for me. Imagine yourself called up to New York to work with an established unit.”

He smiled a little. “I went to New York once, and I still can’t imagine it. Imagine yourself, in charge of an established unit, juggling in not only federal agents but a New York boss.”

“Tough balance all around,” Eve agreed. “But the goal’s the same for all of us. I’ll get more done toward that goal if I’m able to tap my own resources as well as work with you and yours.”

She paused a moment. “Straight out, I strongly believe the female UNSUB is the route to McQueen. She’s done the legwork, and very likely continues to. She’s the one who’ll run the errands, and she’s separated from him for periods of time. Her own apartment, potential other employment. She’s been here for more than a year. Somebody knows her, has done business with her, sold her food, clothes, goods. She’s an addict, and that’s another angle. Where does she get her junk? She’s attractive, and she’s got a man to please. Where does she get her hair stuff, her face stuff, all that other woman stuff?”

Lips pursed, Ricchio sat back, nodded slowly. “All right, you’ve got points. Focusing on McQueen sits easier with me, but you’ve got points.”

“If I may,” Roarke interjected. “If you consider it a two-pronged approach rather than an overlap. Improve the odds.”

“Frankly, if I were in your position, I’d do what I felt I needed to do, regardless of the politics of cooperation. It’s better if we all say we agree.”

“Works for me.” Her ’link signaled. “Excuse me.”

When she stepped away, Ricchio turned to Roarke. “As the word is your particular area is electronics, you should meet Lieutenant Stevenson. He runs EDD.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have someone take you up when you’re ready. We work with civilians, such as Melinda, in SVU routinely. That’s not the usual in EDD.”

“Then I’ll do my best to be unobtrusive.”

“My father recently retired as Deputy Chief,” Ricchio began in an easy, conversational tone. “He was part of a task force, years ago, working on taking down a major weapons organization. Part of the investigation included a Patrick Roarke. I remember because my father spent a couple weeks in Ireland during the investigation. Any relation?”

“That would have been my father,” Roarke said coolly, “which illustrates the world is a strangely intimate place. He had dealings with Max Ricker, as I’m sure you’re aware. As you’d be aware that my wife is responsible for Ricker’s current accommodations in an off-planet cage. A strangely intimate place indeed.”

“With interesting turns,” Ricchio agreed. “Patrick Roarke was stabbed to death in Dublin, wasn’t he?”

“If you’re asking if I killed him, I didn’t have that pleasure.”

He set aside irritation as Eve strode back. From the look in her eye, he knew she had something.

“Our female UNSUB traded sex with the guard we have in custody for contact with McQueen. He got her in three times in the last year under the radar, let them use one of the conjugal trailers. He swears the contact initiated with the woman, not McQueen. She angled for a fourth, two weeks ago. McQueen instructed Lovett to tell her to wait.”

“She’s in love with him,” Roarke commented.

“In whatever twisted way it works with her kind. She’s hooked— addictive personality, and he’s another drug. He won’t keep her much longer.”

“He never confessed. It could never be proven, but the prevailing theory is once he disposed of his partner, he’d shortly dispose of any captives and move on.”

Eve looked at Ricchio, understood his guts would be in knots. “Prior to New York, he was still evolving, finding his pattern, his rhythm. Added to it. He hasn’t finished with me, so he hasn’t finished with Melinda. Who do you want me to work with, Lieutenant? And do you have somewhere I can set up?”

“I’ve got a temporary office for you. It’s not much. I’d like you to use Bree and Annalyn. Bree needs to keep her mind engaged, and she trusts you.”

Eve started to point out that Bree Jones didn’t know her, but let it go. “I’m good with that. Saves having to update them on what we got from the bar.”

“If you don’t need Roarke at the moment, I’d like to have him acquaint himself with our EDD.”

“Best use,” she said to Roarke.

“Then I’ll get back to you later.”

They went their separate ways.

“Not much” turned out to be twice the size of her office at Central with a shiny desk outfitted with a data and communication center, a multiposition gel-chair, an AutoChef, a personal friggie, an auxiliary station, two cozy visitor’s chairs—and a large window she immediately shielded.

Too much space, she thought, too much comfort. Adjust, she reminded herself. Make it work.

She programmed what passed for coffee, made do with that while she began to set up a case board. She barely glanced over when Bree and Annalyn came in.

“I’m still setting up. I’ll need you to share the auxiliary. Run an anal on all the data we have, specifically on the female UNSUB. And I want a time line up here on the board, starting with first known contact with McQueen right up to his last communication with me.”

“I’ll start on the data,” Annalyn said. “Bree, while the lieutenant’s setting up, why don’t you get us some eats? Use my code. My treat.”

“Sure. What would you like, Lieutenant?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You a veggie?” Annalyn asked her.

“Not unless I can’t identify the meat.”

“Texas beef, one of the perks. Hardly any filling. I’ll spring for burgers, Bree.”

“Could use a Pepsi,” Eve added. “Coffee’s absolute shit.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

When Bree left, Eve glanced at Annalyn again. “Something on your mind, Detective?”

“She’s a good cop, doesn’t miss much. A little more seasoning, she won’t miss anything. On a personal level, she can be a little intense, but she’s not an asshole. Right now she’s holding on by her fingernails. She’ll keep holding on as long as she believes we’ll find Melinda. She stops believing that, she’s done. Not just for now. Just done.”

“Then we won’t give her any reason not to believe it.”

“She needs to be part of bringing McQueen down.”

“I’ve got that, but that’s your lieutenant’s call, not mine.”

“You don’t get you’re her hero. Whether you want to be or not,” she continued, correctly reading Eve’s face. “You saved her life, and more important to her, you saved Melly. You know what he did to them, to all those kids, and you stopped him, you got them out.”

“I got lucky. If you read the files, you know I was lucky I didn’t get us all killed.”

Annalyn propped her ankle on her knee. “Not the way I read it—and besides, if it wasn’t for lucky, half the cases we close would still be open. It doesn’t matter how you did it, you did it. And you’re a big part of why she can believe we’ll do it again. Stop him, and get Melly out. If you’ve got doubts—and Christ knows I do—and you want Bree to keep hanging on, to be a useful part of the investigation, don’t let her see them.”

Eve didn’t hesitate, didn’t need to. “Let me make this clear. At this point in time, I don’t have any doubts. What I have is data, facts, pattern, theory, and instinct. I don’t believe we’re going to get Melinda Jones home, and put McQueen and his partner in prison. I know it.”

Annalyn glanced toward the door. “How do you know it? No, wait. If you mean that, tell us both when Bree gets back.”

“I’ll do that. Get started on the anal.”

Having said her piece, Annalyn got to work without any more chatter. Eve continued with her board, had it nearly set to her satisfaction when Bree and the food arrived.

The smell of burgers and fries filled the room, and for a moment made the strange space comfortably familiar. Eve took her burger off the disposable plate, chomped in. “Good,” she decreed. “Okay, here’s how I work, and how we’ll be working as long as I’m here. I use visuals, like the board here, and if I’m sitting back with my eyes closed I’m not catching a nap. I’m thinking. If I kick you out it’s because I want to think without your thoughts getting in my way. Detective Jones, if I refer to your sister as the vic, I don’t want to see that look on your face I caught during the briefing. I know it’s personal, and to a point that could be an advantage. But if it gets in the way, you’re out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your partner understands you, and she’s got your back. I don’t want her distracted worrying that you’re going to lose it at any point—any point—in this investigation.”

“I—”

“Don’t interrupt. We’re going to find McQueen and put him back where he belongs. I believe the most direct route to that end is the partner. We identify, locate, apprehend her, and bring her in, grill her like this pretty damn good Texas beef.”

She took another bite, swilled down some Pepsi.

“He had a long run before he went down. He chose his spot and made it his sick, personal playground. He’s not going to have a long run this time for very specific, very definite reasons.”

On another bite of burger, she leaned back on the shiny desk. Adjusting, she thought, and finding her rhythm after all.

“First,” she continued, “I’m a hell of a lot smarter than I was twelve years ago. We have more resources and we know more about him than we did at that time. Second, because he’s obsessed with getting to me, he’s gone over the top pulling this off, involved too many people, left too many avenues—and we’re going to squeeze all those people dry, take every one of those avenues until we find him.

“And the third reason.” She took another long drink of Pepsi. “Melinda. She’s a trained therapist. She knows how to talk to people, to get in their heads. She had the guts to confront him in prison, to know herself well enough to do that so she could take her life back. She had the stones to go into a career that would remind her, every day, of what he did to her. That makes her tougher and smarter than he is.

“If you don’t believe that, all of that, then I can’t use you here. Find something else to do.”

“I believe it, Lieutenant. All of it.”

“What’s with the ring?” Eve demanded, and Bree stopped turning it.

“It’s Melly’s. I . . . I put it on this morning after this started. I wanted to have a piece of her, something I could touch, something to remind me I’m a piece of her.”

Eve nodded. “Good enough. Do the time line.”

Eve studied the board, made some adjustments, some additions. She paced back and forth in front of it, frowning at the time line Bree created, mixing it in.

She needed to go by the female’s former apartment, take a look at it, talk to the neighbors, the shopkeepers. Overlapping the feds, maybe, but she liked Roarke’s two-pronged approach.

Might be something there, she thought. Some little crumb—something said, something seen. An impression. An opinion.

She wished fleetingly for more salt as she ate her fries. A lot more salt. She should just carry some in her pocket for fry emergencies.

An addiction, she admitted, like the coffee. Just something she craved and Roarke provided. That made him sort of her pusher, didn’t it?

“Why does she fall in love with him?”

“Sorry?”

She shook her head at Bree. “He’s in prison. She goes for the money, the work—gotta live, gotta get what she needs. She’s experienced, she’s hard, she’s self-absorbed. All addicts are. But she falls for him.”

She paced again, studying the two shots of the female, the picture of McQueen.

“Sure he’s attractive. Maybe even her type. He’s hard, too. He’s been around, knows the score. But he likes little girls. Those small, supple bodies just budding. She’s too old for his needs, too experienced sexually. However well she’s kept her body, it’s never going to be in first bud again. She has to know that.”

“He’s charming,” Bree put in. “When he raped me the first time, he was charming. I don’t mean—”

“I know. You weren’t charmed, but he put it on for you.”

“He flattered me. How pretty I was, how soft my skin was. It didn’t matter that I was screaming. He kept saying things like that. He had candles lit, and music playing. Like it was romantic.”

Bree shook her head. “You know all this. I told you all this before, when you talked to me in the hospital.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be reminded. He charms her, flatters her. But that’s not enough. Somehow she’s convinced she’s different than the others, that she has something with him. How do you train someone to do what you want, to follow complex instructions over a long period of time? To form the sort of attachment to you that would have them do whatever you wanted, even when you aren’t there to make them. It’s a con, just like any other. He can’t control her with fear, so it has to be pleasure.”

“He gives her what she needs, promises more,” Annalyn said.

“The illegals. He provides.” Eve started to reach for her communicator. For Peabody. Two detectives in the room, she reminded herself. She needed to use what she’d been provided.

“I need names of inmates on his block. Look for an illegals connection and a release. Start with six months before his first contact with the female. Go back a year if you don’t get any hits.”

“I’m on it,” Annalyn told her.

“Not all those contacts with Stibble’s ’link were to her, I bet my ass and yours. Had to make arrangements to give his dog her bones. He’s got someone on the outside who’d take care of that. Someone who either owes him a big favor, or who he has on his payroll.

“Too many people.” She nodded, felt the buzz. “Just too many people. She’s got a source in Dallas, too. Find the source, find her. Find her, find McQueen.”

“Jayson—Detective Price’s brother—works in Illegals,” Bree began. “He’s the one who interrupted you during the briefing. He and Melinda just started seeing each other a couple months ago, so—”

“Don’t care. Have him tap his brother. Really Fat Vik said boosters, but it’s going to be more. She needs something to level out, keep it smooth. Can’t just bounce on the high with all this going on. She needs to tune out, relax.”

“She’d think she’s competing with girls, sexually, wouldn’t she?” Annalyn commented. “I’d add sex drugs. Erotica at a minimum to that.”

“Good point. Make it happen, Jones.” She considered Annalyn. “You look good.”

“Thanks. I work with what I’ve got.”

“And you’re single. You’re out in the mix. You do the salon thing? The hair and all that?”

“Tough on a cop’s salary, but once a month or so, yeah. I see where you’re going. She’s got to look good for him. I bet she’s had some body work since he hooked her. Lift the girls up some, laser off the lines, like that.”

“Recent, after she stopped counseling, before his escape. In Dallas, or close. She’s thinking about seeing him, him seeing her, being with him, she might’ve gone for the works at some salon, and in the last few days.”

“Feels right.”

“Look, I’ll take the inmate search. You and Jones know the city. Put together a list of most-likely salons, body work locations. Show both her ID shots. Let’s get lucky again.”

“Are you going to update the feds with this angle?”

“Shit. Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

“Too bad,” Annalyn said, and grinned. “Come on, Bree. Let’s track this bitch down.”

Eve sat, started the search. Annalyn was right, she thought. It felt right. Felt good. While she worked she forgot the unfamiliar room, fell into a routine.

McQueen had mucked with his, she thought, and now his foundation cracked under the weight of too much fuss, too many additions.

It didn’t surprise her to find so many cons, deemed rehabilitated, with connections to illegals.

“Prisons are full of bad guys,” she mumbled, ran each one.

“I like you, Burt, street name Thor, Civet. I like you a whole bunch.” She ran probabilities, smiled slowly. “See there, the computer likes you, too. You’re a popular guy. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia, NYPSD,” she ordered the ’link.

Peabody’s face, showing a little wear, came on screen. “Hey, Dallas. We’ve got Stibble and Lovett on hold. We think we’ve tapped them out, but we’ll give them another go tomorrow.”

“I’ve got a line. Burt Civet, aka Thor. Did time with McQueen until he made parole about four years ago. His current address is listed on Washington Street. No current employment, so I’m just taking a wild guess he’s dealing again. Find him, pick him up, squeeze him. Probability’s high McQueen tapped him to supply the partner when she was in New York, keep her happy.”

“Got it.”

“I want everything he knows about this woman, Peabody. Everything. I want to know how McQueen handled the payoff. Make whatever deal you’ve got to make, but convince him it’s in his best interest to roll over. He did five hard last time. Use it. He likes to sell to minors, tends to set up shop near playgrounds, schools, arcades.”

“Makes him a good match for McQueen.”

“I’m sure they bonded. I want McQueen’s bitch, Peabody. Squeeze hard.”

“He’s the lemon, we’ll make lemonade. How’s it going down there?”

“It’s weird. They’re too polite, they talk funny, and stuff has too much shine on it. But the coffee’s worse than Central’s, so that’s something. I’m going to send you everything I’ve got, then I’m going to pull Roarke in from whatever he’s doing at EDD. I want to work on my own at the hotel for a while. You can reach me on my pocket ’link.”

“I’ll let you know when we’ve got him.”

Eve clicked off, sat back. She wanted to be there. She wanted to track down Civet, squeeze his lemons into lemonade.

She hadn’t been able to intimidate, squeeze, or snarl since she’d left New York. It just wasn’t right.

She tagged Roarke. “I’ve got a couple lines,” she told him. “I want to take what I’ve got and work at the hotel. I need to get out of here as soon as you can shake loose.”

“I’m right there with you. On my way.”

She copied and saved data, gathered what she wanted. Rather than contact the feds directly, she wrote a quick, down-and-dirty summary and shot it to their ’links as text mail.

When she walked out to inform Ricchio of her plans, Roarke intercepted her.

“I let the Texas lieutenant know where you’ll be. Let’s get the bloody hell out of here.”

“Problem?”

He took her arm to hurry her along. “Let’s just say I’ve gotten used to your cop house. This one’s given me an itch between the shoulder blades.”

“How’s the deal in EDD?”

“Not as charming to my mind as our own, but efficient and with a similar wardrobe—though with a southwestern edge. The commanding officer doesn’t care for civilians in his space—something else I’m accustomed to. But I’ve dealt with that.”

“You showed off,” Eve said as they got in the car.

“It had to be done. I dislike being scowled at and insulted by cops. Present company excepted. And how was your day?”

“Progress.”

She filled him in as they drove.

“Your two-pronged approach seems to be working quite well,” Roarke commented. “As does your focus on the woman. She’s a chink in his wall. I agree with you, he won’t keep her long. He has to know she’s a liability, if not at this point, soon.”

“She could stretch it out if she plays him right—but I think she’s probably emotionally attached, so she’ll fuck up. And he has Melinda for company and conversation.”

“You think he’ll use her after all?”

“I think that’s low probability, which is why I’m worried he’ll move on a kid, and soon. But she’ll talk to him, at least I think she will. It’s what she does now. She’s trained. I want to believe she’ll get through this, use that training, keep him from hurting her.”

He pulled up in front of the hotel, one of those slick, shiny spears in the city’s arsenal. He said, simply, “Roarke,” and handed the key code and what Eve assumed was a hefty tip to the doorman as the man all but bolted to the doors to open them.

“This isn’t where we stayed last time. But it’s obviously one of yours.”

“It is, yes, and I thought we’d both want the change.”

When they walked to an elevator, the security man at the desk came to attention, snapped out, “Sir.”

Roarke gave him a nod, then swiped a card. When they stepped into the small, muted gold elevator, he said, “Triplex West, top level.”

“Triplex, as in three floors?”

“I thought we’d use the third floor as HQ. That way we can lock it off, even from housekeeping if you want. Use a droid there. First level’s living space, second’s bedroom areas. I ordered the top as I thought you’d want to see the setup, leave your file bag. Then I want a bloody drink.”

“I could use a bloody drink myself, and a bloody shower, and a bloody suspect I can hammer into the ground.”

He smiled. “Missing New York. How about a bloody meal to go with it?”

“I had a burger.”

“Fuck me, it’s more than I’ve had.”

The door opened. She blinked.

A murder board sat center of the room, just as she liked it. It wasn’t precisely arranged as she would do, nor updated, but images, data, a partial time line—it was all there.

As was a desk, a sleep chair, three screens, two D-and-C units—in addition to what looked like a fully equipped kitchen, bath, and she noted after a quick circle, a second office.

“How did you do this?”

“I have a man here, one I could trust with your board. He has top security clearance. Saves you time.”

“It really does. Yours?” she asked with a gesture to the second office.

“It is. Not quite like home, but, well, adjustments.”

He’d made it as easy for her as he could, given her all the tools to work the way she liked best.

She stepped to him, laid her hands on his face and her lips on his.

“That’s just like home,” she murmured. Then because it felt so damn good, hugged him hard. “Let’s have a bloody drink.”