New York to Dallas (33 page)

“Such as?”

“She thought she loved him. What do you have in your pocket?”

He smiled, drew out the gray button that had fallen off her very ugly suit the first day they’d met.

“See?” She couldn’t say why that stupid button moved her so damn much. “People in love keep things. Sentimental things.”

“What do you have?”

She pulled the chain, and the tear-shaped diamond from under her shirt. “I wouldn’t wear this for anybody but you. It’s embarrassing. And—”

“Ah, something else.”

“Shit. I’m tired. It makes me gabby. I have one of your shirts.”

His brow creased in absolute bafflement. “My shirts?”

“In my drawer, under a bunch of stuff. You lent it to me the morning after our first night together. It still sort of smells like you.”

For a moment, the worry on his face simply dissolved. “I believe that’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me in all our time together.”

“Well, I owed you. Besides, you have enough shirts to outfit a Broadway troupe. So, help me toss the room?”

“Absolutely.”

Eve took the dresser first. The cheap, flimsy fake wood reaffirmed this had been no more than a stopping point, less personal than a motel flop. Not really a piece of furniture, she thought, but a big suitcase with drawers.

She opened one, saw her mother had spent more on underwear than she had on the container used to store it.

She reached in, immediately pulled her hands back. God, she didn’t want to touch any of it, didn’t want to put her hands on those hard, bright colors.

Stop thinking of who, she told herself. Who doesn’t matter. Think of what, of doing the job.

She pushed through, examined contents, pulled out drawers to check the sides, bottoms, backs.

If she let herself, she could have put together a picture, one of a woman who shopped—or shoplifted—at boutiques, upscale stores and markets. And who still managed to select the trashy.

She found one drawer dedicated to the more subtle wardrobe of the alternate ID, found the simple shirt worn as Sandra on the night Darlie had been taken.

She switched to the tables beside the bed, and as she’d expected she found the toys and tools of a woman who didn’t stint on items for self-pleasuring.

They’d been through this, she thought, the cops, the sweepers. She imagined the careless comments, the lame jokes—then shut them out.

“Got something here,” Roarke called out.

She went to the closet where he worked, studied the disordered display of clothes, shoes, bags. He’d cleared a space and was removing a section of the floor, lifting it with one of the little tools he carried.

He set it aside, pulled a box covered with ornate, fake jewels and small circular mirrors out of the hole. He glanced at Eve, read her face very well. She didn’t want to go in the closet, didn’t want to surround herself with the clothes, the scents clinging to them.

“Why don’t we take this downstairs?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

She opted for the kitchen and the counter space.

“It’s probably expensive, but it’s still cheap and gaudy. It’s not new.”

“No, it’s got some travel on it, so something she likely took with her from place to place.”

“I don’t remember it,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “She wouldn’t keep anything that long. What’s inside’s more important.”

She opened it.

“Variety of illegals, cash, some IDs with credit cards.” She pulled out a dried rose, carefully sealed in a small bag. “But this is sentiment. See, she’s drawn a heart on the bag, S and I in the middle. Isaac gave her this. And here, she took a picture of him when he was sleeping.”

She held it up, studied him, sprawled on his back under a tangled sheet. “I bet he doesn’t know she did this. That’s the bed from his place. He’s blond here, tanned—like the South African ID. So he got a flash or gave himself some fake sun. But he looks really tired, a little drawn, doesn’t he? What’s that on the nightstand? Champagne? A celebration. Maybe his first night in. Yeah, maybe.”

“That’s Vie Nouveau. One of mine, and very exclusive. I wonder what vintage.”

“So, he—or she—buys a pricey bottle of bubbles.”

“More than that. You can’t get it just anywhere. That’s how you keep it exclusive and desirable. Hmm.” He took out his case again, opened it for a small magnifier.

“Handy.”

“Sometimes you need a closer look at things. I can just make it out . . . Yes, that’s a limited premiere ’fifty-six. Not easy to come by. We had a bottle on our anniversary.”

“Yeah? It was good.”

“Good? Darling Eve, it’s exquisite. He had some very nice wines at his apartment, but nothing at this level.”

“Maybe he took the top drawer with him.”

“Maybe he did. He’d need a top-drawer outlet to purchase this.”

“In Dallas,” Eve said. “How many top drawers are there in Dallas?”

“I’ll be checking on that.”

“He could go back for more. We can sit on the outlets once we have them. Jesus.” She lifted out a short stack of notes, postcards. “Mother lode. Here, a postcard from Dallas, but it’s stamped New York. Mail drop–box addy. Numbers. Code?”

He glanced at it. “Measurements. Inseam, sleeve, waist, so on from the looks of it. He’s ordering a suit.”

“The numbers and Baker and Hugh.”

“Men’s shop,” Roarke told her, “known for its excellent tailoring.” Roarke pulled out his PPC, did a quick run. “There’s only one in Dallas.”

“He wants clothes, good clothes. Doesn’t have time to fiddle with fittings and all that. So he has her take care of it. Has his suits waiting for him when he gets here. No.” She closed her eyes a moment, brought New York back. “He was wearing a suit, sharp-looking gray suit, flashy red tie, when I saw him in the crowd at the medals ceremony. He had her order the suits, and send at least one of them to New York. He wanted to look good when he let me catch a glimpse.”

“He went to a lot of trouble to impress you.”

“That’s his problem now, that’s his chink. He’s complicating things to take jabs at me. Engage, taunt, humiliate, instead of just moving in for the knockout.”

She opened the first note. “He’d kill her if he already hadn’t. She printed out some of their e-coms. ‘Miss you, too, baby doll,’ ” she read. “ ‘Countdown D-minus-30. Time to arrange my flight into your arms. Reserve private, Franklin J. Milo. I’ll need those docs, sweetheart, so you get that Cecil on the stick! I don’t want to get to the drop and find an empty box.

“ ‘The wait’s almost over. Milo needs his things waiting at the hotel so he can get cleaned up and changed before he flies to you. We’ll go back there one day, stay in the penthouse and drink a champagne toast to us.

“ ‘Keep an eye on our Melinda, and take good care of my baby doll. I’ll write next week with the next steps. Almost there!

“ ‘SWAK times two.’ ”

She frowned. “SWAK?”

“Sealed with a kiss—times two.”

“Eeww. He wrote it out. He actually wrote this shit down. Didn’t trust her to remember. Quick PS reminding her to wipe, but he got sloppy because he didn’t think she was smart enough to remember the details. Maybe she’d dropped the ball a time or two.”

She opened another. “They’re little love notes with instructions sprinkled through the mush. Here he’s telling her how to outfit what he calls the guest room. Sick fuck. Tells her to see Greek in Waco for the bracelets. Shackles. And Bruster B in Fort Worth for soundproofing.”

“Does any of this help you now? You’ve found his place.”

She looked up as pieces began to link together in her head. “He’s got another one. He’s got another place in Dallas, and he’d want some of the same there. Would he use the same people? Maybe not. But . . . We find them, we find out more.”

She pulled out her ’link, tagged Peabody.

“Franklin J. Milo—that’s the ID McQueen used to book his transpo—private shuttle—and a hotel room. A hotel with a penthouse. Find them.”

“Okay, but—”

“It’s just tying the ends, Peabody. It may not lead anywhere, but let’s tie it up tight. And find Baker and Hugh, men’s clothing in New York. See if he picked up any clothes there. And what transportation he used to get to the shuttle. I’ll pick it up from here.”

“Okay, got it. Listen. Tray Schuster came back in. They didn’t notice—pretty understandable—on the day they were attacked, but they’re missing a duffel, an old ’link they hadn’t gotten around to recycling, a new pair of navy blue skids, a shirt Julie had boxed up for her brother’s birthday. A bunch of little things. I’m going to send you an inventory.”

“Things that would be useful for checking in a hotel. When you find the hotel, see if he left anything behind in his room. I’ve got to get on this from here.”

“You look beat,” Peabody commented.

“Not yet, I’m not.” She clicked off. “Let’s take this to Ricchio, let him and the feds start working on tracking down the names. We’d better go by the hospital first. We can probably pass the box to somebody there.”

Peabody was right, Roarke thought as she resealed the door. She looked beat. Pale and strained.

“You need a couple hours down. You know you do.”

“I’ll take it when I can. I can’t stop yet.” She got in the car. “I’ll down a booster if I need it.”

“A booster isn’t what you need. I’m not going to press you, yet. Especially not if you agree once you’ve talked to Melinda and Darlie you’ll go back to the hotel if there’s nothing immediate. You’d rather work there anyway.”

Since she’d already planned to do just that, it wasn’t hard to go along. “If you agree to try not to tranq me.”

“That’s a tough bargain, a hard line. Agreed.”

“That was easy. Too easy.”

“I’ll let Mira tranq you.”

She managed a weak laugh. “I can take Mira.”

“I imagine she’s wily.”

So was he, he thought, as he pulled her directly to Vending at the hospital. “Pick something.”

“I’m not really—”

“You may not think you’re hungry, but you need food. I’ll pick. Veggie-and-cheese pocket. Some protein,” he said as it slid out of the tray.

“I’d rather have the—”

“Candy bar, yes. And so you shall. When you eat that.” He ordered up the bar, wishing he could offer her some rich Belgian chocolate.

She stuffed half the pocket in her mouth. “Why do I have to eat and you don’t?”

“I’m considering my choices, which are all equally unappetizing. Ah, well.” He ordered up a second pocket. “We’ll suffer together.”

“It’s not that bad.”

He took a bite. “Yes, it certainly is.” Not wanting to risk the coffee, he ordered them each a tube of Pepsi.

“Food snob.”

“This barely qualifies as food. Give me some of that candy.”

“Get your own candy.” But she pulled credits out of her pocket, plugged them in. “There.” She ordered it, offered it, and gave him a genuine smile. “You look like a really well-dressed pirate carting around an ugly treasure chest. Thanks for lunch.”

18

A
nnalyn started to step on the elevator as Eve and Roarke got off.

She moved back.

“I was just on my way in. I’ve been splitting time between Melinda and Darlie, Darlie’s parents, Bree, her parents, the doctors.” She rubbed her eyes. “You see it, you see it in this job. You never get used to it.”

“Good cops don’t,” Eve said, and had Annalyn dropping her hands.

“Well, I’m a damn good cop today.”

“Do they still want to talk to me?”

“Yeah. Melinda convinced Darlie she should. She’s made you out to be the monster slayer. It’s a good thing,” she added when Eve winced. “It’s helping the kid. The idea there are slayers, since she knows monsters are real. Melly’s ambulatory. They want her in bed, resting, but she’s in and out of the kid’s room. That helps, too. It’s helping them both.”

She raised her eyebrows at the box Roarke held. “If that’s a gift, it’s really sparkly.”

“It’s evidence. We found it at the duplex.”

“What? Where? I didn’t see anything like that on the evidence list. I’ve been keeping in touch.”

“She had a hide in the bedroom closet. I played a hunch,” Eve added. “And we got lucky.”

“We could use some luck. Missing that son of a bitch today, losing Malvie.” She looked back down the hall. “I keep reminding myself we got Melly and the girl back safe. But Malvie’s dead, and McQueen’s in the wind.”

“She’s got some correspondence from McQueen in here.”

“No shit?”

“None, and some names, some data. If you’re going in, you can start the runs. There’s a photo of him, too. She took it while he was sleeping. There’s a champagne bottle in it. My source here tells me it’s pretty special.”

“There’s only two outlets for that label and vintage in Dallas,” Roarke told her. “Vin Belle and Personal Sommelier.”

“And he may get a yen for more.” Annalyn reached for the box. “I’ll get this in. If we hit anything, you’ll be the first.”

“My people are working on some of the New York data in there. You can connect with Detective Peabody.”

“Will do.” She called for the elevator again, glanced back as she got on. “You’re a good cop,” she said to Eve. “So the kid’s going to break your heart.”

“I’m going to take Melinda first,” Eve told Roarke as she walked toward the nurses’ station. “She’ll be okay with you in there if you want to be. With the kid, it’s better if you stay out.”

“If you don’t need me, I’ll find a spot, see if Feeney and I can make any progress.”

“Better yet.” She offered her badge at the station. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Yes, you’re cleared. Melinda—Ms. Jones—would like you to see her first. She’s in six-twelve. We arranged for Darlie to be across the hall.”

“Thanks.”

She started down the corridor. She hated hospitals, hated the memory of being in one, in this city, broken and traumatized like the child across the hall from Melinda. And the cops asking questions she couldn’t answer, the sorrowful sympathy the medicals couldn’t hide when they worked on her.