New York to Dallas (23 page)

He held up a disc. “You were right.”

“Damn straight. Let’s see her.”

He passed her the disc. “Once I had her, I ran for ID. She’s going by Sylvia Prentiss, who’s clean as the proverbial whistle.”

“Why is a whistle clean? I’ve seen whistles that weren’t. Or is it the—” She curled two fingers between her lips, released a quick, high sound suitable for hailing a Rapid Cab on Fifth.

“If I’m using a whistle,” Roarke considered, “I insist on it being clean.”

“I don’t understand,” Bree said as Eve loaded the disc. “There’s a whistle?”

“Only in metaphor. And there’s Sylvia Prentiss, who’s been dead six years and was originally from Oregon where she worked as a travel agent before . . .”

“Eve?” She’d lost her color again, had a hand clutched at her belly. “What’s wrong?”

“What—nothing.” For a moment, both pain and panic had stabbed her. “Not enough sleep.” She rubbed her eyes, studied the ID shot again.

“You should sit down, Lieutenant,” Bree told her.

“I think better on my feet. Just went off for a minute. This is her, the real her. Or who she’s made herself into for him. This is what she looks like when she’s with him, when she’s in her own place, when she’s in her routine.”

“More attractive than the others.” Unable to help himself, Roarke rubbed her back as he studied the image. “Lists her age as forty-six.”

“Shaved that some, I bet. Probably had some work done, too, but this is the face she sees in the mirror now.”

“How do you know? How did you find her?”

“Mall security discs,” Roarke answered when Eve said nothing, only stared and stared at the image on screen. “The lieutenant believed, correctly, as she’d grazed that area with her more maternal aspect, she used it for herself as well. As herself, to shop for a proper wardrobe and the like.”

He waited again, this time running a hand gently over Eve’s hair. “Do you want to see her movements at the shopping center?”

“I can’t find it,” Eve muttered.

“What, darling?”

“I—I don’t know. Something. Doesn’t matter.” She tried to shrug it off, then bore down and shoved until she was clear of the feeling that dogged her. “Yeah, let’s see her—how she moves, where she goes.”

“There’s an address on her ID.” A tremor shook lightly in Bree’s voice.

“Yeah, I saw it. She might have listed her actual address here, might not. But we’ll check it out. Let’s get all we’ve got first.”

“I need to call it in. We need to get over there.”

“Detective, we don’t rush this. She’s smart. She’s worked games for years. If we go charging after her before we lay out some strategy, we could lose her.”

She checked the time. Early still. “And I’m waiting for my partner who’s working another source. Let’s look at the security.”

“Once I got the match,” Roarke said, “I isolated her a number of times, various shops, dates, times of day.”

“Going for enhancements—upscale types,” Eve noted. Blond now, hair worn long and loosely waved. Dress, brilliant blue, short and tight. Good manicure.

“Jesus, do they watch these things? She palmed that lip dye and the other thing, whatever it is, right under the clerk’s snooty nose.”

“Eye smudge,” Bree supplied. “Top-drawer brand. But she’s paying—cash—for the skin cream, and that costs more.”

“Maybe habit. Stealing for some’s like a hobby.” She shifted her gaze toward Roarke, watched him smile at her cheerfully.

“She’s good hands for it,” he commented. “Quick ones.”

“She’s using. Oh yeah, got a nice buzz on. Feeling good.”

Eve watched her walk, sort of breezily. Enjoying herself.

At a lingerie boutique she bought and lifted several sets—bras and matching panties, a couple of sex-me outfits, and a robe that would hide nothing.

“She’s peeling off the cash in the best stores,” Bree commented, “but if you ask me she’s not paying for class. Her taste leans toward tacky.”

“Shoes,” Eve muttered. “Had to be. Women always go for the shoes, especially if trying to walk in them makes your feet cry like a baby.”

“Actually I like that one pair, the green ones.”

“She’s loving it,” Eve said, “clerks fawning over her. Shoes, bags, clothes, sex-wear, face and hair gunk. Oh yeah, she’s stockpiling for McQueen. Her shopping safaris run from two weeks prior to his escape, to two days. I’m going to want stills of some of these.”

“I have something I think you’ll want more,” Roarke told her. “I have the van.”

“What the fuck?”

“Apparently she didn’t see any reason to, or perhaps didn’t have the capability to jam security when she parked as Prentiss. I took a chance, did a few scans. She also decided to give herself a break, and parked with the valet.”

He toggled something on the keyboard.

“Oh thank you, Jesus.”

“It’s Roarke.” He tapped a finger on Eve’s head. “You really shouldn’t forget your own husband’s name.”

“There it is. Make, model, year. A dark, dull brown now. You got the fucking license plate.”

“A job not done well is just buggering around.”

“Nailed the bitch,” Eve said, and felt an uneasy mix of satisfaction and trepidation. “Jones, run that plate, contact your people. Briefing in thirty. Shit, contact the feds, too.”

She turned, grinned fiercely at Roarke. “You’ve earned more than a cookie.”

“I’ll remember that come payday. Your color’s back, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling more like myself. I want to run the address on her ID, see what we’ve got there.”

“I’ll do it. I would have sooner, but I wanted to get you her face, then there was the van.”

“The van’s the killer. If you find the address, I can tag Peabody. At this rate, I could’ve walked to New York, sweated Civet, and walked back.”

She yanked out her ’link.

“Plate’s registered to Davidson Millford, with the same address as her Prentiss ID. I’ll run Millford after I set up the briefing.”

“Good enough. Once I contact my—” The ’link beeped in her hand. “Peabody,” she snapped. “It’s about fucking time.”

“Sorry, Dallas, Civet was a cashew, or whatever nut’s really tough to crack. Apparently he did some studying during his last stretch and considers himself a jailhouse lawyer. Pain in the ass.”

“Did you go bad cop?”

“No.” On screen, Peabody sulked. “I wanted to, but Baxter pointed out he has more evil genius. We worked him until nearly midnight. Civet kept calling for breaks, tossing out crazy loco trades. At one point he wanted a walk on the illegals charges, free ice cream for life, and season tickets to the Yankees.”

“How the hell did you let him play you that way?”

“Dallas, I swear he wouldn’t be squeezed last night. Said we could toss him back in the cage, no problem. This time he’d come out a judge.

“I think he meant it. He could cite all these weird regulations and laws and bullshit.” As she spoke Peabody rolled her dark, tired eyes. “He was enjoying the whole deal. I figure he was trying out his bullshit lawyer chops.”

“Did you get anything?”

“We broke at midnight, then went back at him this morning, bright and early. He took the deal. He was going to take it all along, the little bastard. He knows of McQueen, swears he never had direct dealings with him. We don’t believe him.”

“No kidding?”

Peabody offered a wan smile. “We made like we bought it to get the rest. He admitted he’d had regular transactions with a Sandi Millford, who—”

“Did you say Millford?”

“Yeah. M-I-L-L—”

“I know how to spell it.”

“Okay, then. She claimed—this would be if and when he took payment in trade, and they partied together—that she was McQueen’s woman, and they had big plans. He was getting out, and they were going to fuck up who fucked with him, then they’d be swimming in money. He figured she was full of it. I believe him there. He’s a reptile, but once he got the deal—in writing, in trip—he talked for a freaking hour. We ran Millford and got a Sandra, showed him the pic with a handful of others. He picked her out first shot.”

“This is good. It’s good. Run Millford,” she said to Bree, “Davidson and Sandi and/or Sandra.”

“Who’s that? Is it Roarke? I miss you guys. Can I say hi before—”

“It’s not Roarke.”

“No Davidson Millford in Dallas or New York,” Bree told her. “But I’ve got Sandra at a New York address.”

“I guess you’re working with somebody else.” Peabody went back to sulking. “Is she pretty?”

“Oh, Jesus. I want you to dig on Sandra Millford, and a Davidson Millford. Get me some data, Peabody.”

“Sure. I’ll send you a copy of the interview with Civet now, and my report once I write it up. We were going to check out the New York address after I connected with you.”

“Do that. I’ll send you an update from here asap.”

“Can you just tell me what—”

“Not now. I’ve got a briefing—and then I’m going to bag me a bitch.”

“I want to bag a bitch with you, Dallas.”

“There are plenty more. Later.”

She clicked off, saw Roarke watching her from the doorway. “We should take her a souvenir. Maybe cowboy boots.”

“What? Who? Peabody? For God’s sake. What did you get?”

“It’s a duplex, with the lease in the name of Davidson Millford— signed in absentia—ten months ago. It’s about a ten-minute drive to the mall where the girl was taken, by my calculations.”

“It’s her place.” Fresh energy buzzed through Eve’s blood. “She’s there. McQueen won’t be far away. Let’s put it together, take it in.”

“Lieutenant—”

“I’m contacting your LT on the way,” Eve told Bree. “We need eyes on that location. He can work with the feds to decide whose eyes, but that’s it. Just eyes. We don’t want to move on her.”

“She could lead us right to Melinda and Darlie.”

“You bet your ass she could, and if we work it right, she will.”

 

 

Who was in charge?
That was the sticking point in Eve’s mind. The Dallas LT was good, was solid, but too damn polite. And the feds, well, they just assumed they were taking over. It was ingrained. But Nikos skewed a little too much by the manual and numbers for Eve’s taste.

So she was taking point. If the rest didn’t like it, they’d have to muscle her aside. And she wouldn’t move easy, not on this one.

She said as much to Roarke as he drove and she worked out her operation strategy on her PPC.

“Ricchio knows the area, and the men,” Roarke pointed out. “That’s where he’d best lead.”

“Agreed, and that’s what I plan to outline. I don’t know how he works an op, how he lays things out, puts it together. And I don’t have time to find out. The feds . . . Nikos knows her take on McQueen snatching a kid was off, and she’s dealing with that. She may be more cooperative because of it. Laurence, he’s got the best eye, nose, gut in my opinion. And he takes in the big picture fast. But I don’t want the federal group-think system crowding me on this.

“Do this right, we end it today. All I want when we do is a piece of McQueen and the woman, in whatever box they choose.”

“I’m closer to his accounts,” Roarke told her, “if that’s any help at this point. I’ve found his pattern, and there’s always a pattern. His is a very good one, with lots of tricky lures and dead ends. But I’m close now.”

“It all helps. If you can keep on that while we set up this op. We need to cut off his revenue stream once we have him. He’s not going to bankroll his way out of the cage again.”

She tagged Bree. “Eyes on?”

“The LT put four men on the duplex, orders to observe only. The van’s there, Dallas. She’s in there.”

“Eyes only. Make it clear, Detective. If she moves, we need an experienced tail. Don’t approach, don’t get twitchy.”

“The lieutenant ordered just that. I’m two minutes from the house. We’re setting up in the briefing room.”

“We’re right behind you.” She clicked off, tapped her fingers a moment, then tagged Peabody.

“We’re en route to the New York address,” Peabody told her. “Baxter and Trueheart say hey.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going into a briefing within minutes. At some point I’ll need to bring you in.”

Peabody pumped a fist in the air. “I’m going to Texas!”

“On com, Peabody, for Christ’s sake. I want you to organize your notes. You’re going to reel off data, names, facts, statements. Every fucking thing you’ve got, and I want clipped, cop precision. No amusing sidelines. Straight, hard. Tough cop.”

“I can be tough.”

“Right. You’ll address me as ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘sir.’ ”

“Got it. You want them to think you’re a hard-ass.”

“I am a hard-ass.” Eve scowled at the ’link screen. “You’ve got that flippy deal going with your hair. Pull it back and get rid of the lip dye.”

“But I look really good today. Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” she said quickly. “When will you pull me in?”

“I don’t know yet. But be ready.”

She broke transmission before Peabody went into chat mode.

“Very good,” Roarke commented as he turned into the station garage. “Giving them the somewhat clichéd version of the New York cop.”

“Who do you want heading an operation like this? You want the hard-ass, the one with all the data, the players, the contingencies at hand—the one who puts it together with no room for bullshit.”

“And that would be you.”

“You’re damn fucking skippy.”

He watched her move, through the building, the halls—laser sharp, eyes flat. When she strode into the briefing room, she projected a woman already in charge, one who wore her authority as she did her weapon.

She walked straight to Ricchio—smart. She’d do better in the business world than she thought. Assume command before the subject came up. And when you were off your own turf, hit the home team first.