New York to Dallas (6 page)

She noted the door had serious security, unlike the standard she’d observed in the rest of the building.

She filed away his approximate height, weight, what he wore as she approached. “Excuse me, sir.”

He’d just opened the door, reached down for the bags. He straightened slowly, turned. She saw a beat of blank before his face transformed into polite curiosity.

“Officer. What can I do for you?”

“Are you the resident?”

“Yes, I am.” Now he beamed a smile. “Isaac McQueen.”

“Are you just getting home for the day, Mr. McQueen?”

“Actually, I ran out a short time ago to do some shopping.”

“Were you at home approximately two hours ago?”

“Yes, I was. Is there a problem?”

Something off, she thought, but didn’t know what or why. She kept her eyes level on his as she walked toward him.

“There was a mugging.”

Distress covered his face, but it seemed to her he slipped it on like a mask. “Is that what was going on? I saw the police around when I walked down to the market.”

“Yes, sir. Did you see or hear anything else?”

“Not that I can think of. I really should get these groceries put away.”

Something off, she thought again. Just . . . something. “I’d like to ask you some questions, just routine. May I come in?”

“Really, Officer . . .”

“Dallas.”

“Officer Dallas, I don’t see how I can help you.”

“I won’t take up much of your time now, and it’ll save you from another visit later so I can complete my report.”

“Fine. Anything to help the boys—and girls—in blue.” He stepped in, let her follow.

Big space, she thought, nicely furnished. Plenty of windows, all privacy screened. And the door to the left had a security lock and two hand bolts.

Yeah, something off.

“I need to get my fresh fruits and vegetables in the cooler,” he told her.

“No problem. This is a nice unit, Mr. McQueen.”

“I like it.” He carried his bags to the kitchen, began to unload.

“Do you live alone?”

“At the moment.”

“Employment?”

“Is that relevant?”

“Just details for my report, sir.”

“I do e-work, freelance.”

“So you work at home.”

“Primarily.”

“Nice and quiet,” she commented.

Quiet, she thought, unlike the rest of the building. Why would a freelance e-man soundproof his apartment? Why would he have a room locked and bolted from the outside?

“Were you working two hours ago when the incident took place?”

“Yes, I was, which is why I didn’t see or hear anything.”

“That’s too bad because the window behind you has a direct view of the crime scene.” She glanced left. “Is that your office?”

“That’s right.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do.” He continued to smile, but annoyance slithered through. “My work is sensitive and confidential.”

“Requiring you to lock it up, from the outside.”

“Better safe than sorry. Now if that’s all—”

“You said you live alone.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s a lot of food for one person.”

“Do you think so? But then you’re very thin, aren’t you? Officer Dallas, unless you believe I mugged a couple of people on the street a stone’s throw from my own home, I’d like to get my food put away and get back to work.”

“I didn’t say a couple of people.”

He sighed, hugely. “You must have. Now, I’ll show you out.”

As he came around the counter, walked toward her, she shifted her balance, instinctively laid her hand on the butt of her weapon.

“Mr. McQueen, I’m wondering why you wouldn’t report a crime, or at the very least contact nine-one-one when a woman was screaming for help.”

“I told you I didn’t see anything. And if I had, some of us choose not to get involved. Now—”

“You don’t want to put your hand on me, sir.”

He held his up in a gesture of peace. “And I don’t want to contact your superior and report this harassment.”

“I’ll contact my partner downstairs. He’ll come up and you can report us both.” Fergus would kick her ass most likely, but
damn it
there was something here. So she pushed just a little harder. “And then you can explain what’s behind that door.”

“Officer Dallas.” His tone, his expression transmitted mild annoyance mixed with reluctant amusement. “Have it your way.”

His fist rammed fast and hard. She dodged, but the punch glanced off the side of her cheekbone, and her face exploded with pain. The single stumble back gave him the time and space to kick the weapon she drew out of her hand.

She pivoted, her right hand numb, her face throbbing, swung into a spinning kick, followed it with a back fist. She landed both, would have tapped her communicator for assistance, but caught the glint of a knife.

Fear coated her throat as she barely evaded the first vicious jab.

“Scream if you want.” He smiled, but she saw—somehow recognized—the monster behind it. “No one can hear. And your’link, any com devices?” He jabbed again, almost playfully. “They won’t work in here. I’ve got jammers activated. You should have listened to me, Officer Dallas. I gave you every opportunity to leave.”

He blocked her kick, sliced out with the knife and scored her shoulder.

He outweighed her, had a longer reach and a weapon. Combat training, she judged, as she used her own to dodge, to weave, to land a blow or two.

Fergus would contact her, and unable to tag her come looking.

But she couldn’t depend on backup. All she had was herself.

“You wanted to see what was in my workroom. I’m going to show you when we’re done. I’ll show you where the bad girls go.”

She threw a lamp at him. Pitiful, she thought, but it gave her a little room.

This time when he sliced, she went in low, plowed her fists into his balls, her head into his belly. She felt the knife catch another piece of her, but came up hard with an uppercut, jammed her knee into his already tender crotch.

She tried a body takedown, and he flung her across the room.

“That
hurt
!” Outrage reddened his face, stripped away all amusement. “You skinny bitch, you’re going to pay for that.”

Her ears rang. Her vision blurred. She thought,
no,
she’d be damned if she’d die this way. She was going to make goddamn detective.

She shifted her weight and balance, came up with both feet. When he staggered back she scrambled up and behind a chair. Time to catch her breath. She was hurt, knew she was hurt. Couldn’t think about it. He’d kill the hell out of her unless she evened the odds.

“I’m a cop.” She tasted blood along with the fear. “Dallas, Officer Eve. And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”

He laughed. Laughed and laughed with blood running from his split lip. He came forward, passing the knife from hand to hand. “You’re a feisty one, and entertaining. I’m going to keep you alive for a long, long time.”

For an instant she saw two of him and thought, fleetingly, she might have a concussion. Closer, she thought, let him get closer. Let him think she was finished.

Then she shoved the chair hard into his knees, and dived.

She rolled, came up with her weapon. As he leaped toward her, she fired. He jerked back, kept coming. She fired again. “Go down, you fucker!” And again.

She heard herself screaming when the knife dropped out of his hand, when he slid, shaking, to the floor.

“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.” She got to her knees, weapon still trained. She couldn’t get her breath. Had to get her breath.

Training, routine. Kick the knife away, get out your restraints. Secure the prisoner.

She straightened, swayed as pain and nausea churned through her.

Jesus, Jesus, I’m hurt.

She couldn’t say why she did it. Even years later she didn’t know why she’d felt so compelled. She searched his pockets, found the key.

She staggered to the locked room even as her mind reeled off procedure. Go out, contact Fergus, call for backup. Officer needs assistance.

Sweet Jesus, officer needs assistance.

Instead, she dragged the bolts clear, managed after three tries to uncode the lock.

And she opened the door to hell.

 

 

“There were so many of them.
Children, just girls, shackled, naked, covered in bruises, dried blood, God knows what. Most of them were huddled together. Eyes, so many eyes on me. The smell, the sounds, I can’t tell you.”

She didn’t know if she’d taken his hand or he’d taken hers, but the contact kept her grounded in the now, and a desperate step back from the horror.

“He’d put a couple chem toilets in there, some old blankets. There were cams up in the corners so he could monitor them. I didn’t see any of that, not then. All I could see were girls and their eyes. I can still see them.”

“Take a break.”

She shook her head, tightened her grip on his hand. “All at once, that’s better. For a minute I went somewhere else. I’d buried those memories of my father, and that room in Dallas so deep. It was gone, all of that was just gone. But for a moment, standing there, with all the girls, all the eyes, I went back. The dirty red light from the sign flashing against the window glass. The cold, so cold. And the blood all over me. Not me, a child, but the child was me, and the pain was mine. For that moment it just poured back, poison down the throat. I froze. Just stood there with part of me eight years old and covered with blood in that awful room.

“I started to go, just slide away, just slide to the floor, just slide back into that place I didn’t really recognize. But one of the girls started screaming at me.
Help us. Do something. You bitch,
she said,
do something.
Her name was Bree Jones. She and her twin sister, Melinda, were the last taken, only a week before. A week in that hell. Well, some of them had endured it for years.”

“As you had,” he murmured.

“I didn’t know, or couldn’t know. Or wouldn’t.” Eve closed her eyes a moment, focused on the warm, firm contact—Roarke’s hand holding hers.

“But she screamed and shouted, yanking at the chains. And it brought me back.
Help us.
That was the job, to help, not to stand there frozen and shaking and sick. The others started screaming, shouting, crying. It didn’t sound human. I went in. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t have the keys to the shackles. I had to find the keys.”

She let go of his hand to rub both of hers over her face. “Procedure, routine. I pulled it out, dragged it through the hell. It got me through. I told them I was the police, told them my rank and name, told them they were safe now. When I said I had to go out, get more help, they went crazy.
Don’t leave us
. Begging me, cursing me, wailing like animals. But I had to. I had to get Fergus, get more cops, get medicals. Procedure, routine. It’s the foundation. I left them. McQueen was coming around. I didn’t even hesitate, just gave him another shock. Didn’t think twice about it. I stepped out in the hall, and got Fergus on my communicator. I told him to call for backup and medicals. A lot of both. Multiple victims, apartment three-oh-three. He didn’t ask questions, called it in while he came on the run. He was a good cop, a solid cop. I heard him running up the stairs when I went back to the room. I heard him say, ‘Mary, Mother of God.’ Like a prayer. I remember that, then it gets blurry for a while.”

She took a breath, another drink of wine. “But we found the keys, and he found some sheets, some blankets for the girls. He stayed so calm, like a good dad, I guess. Soothing. Then procedure. Backup, medicals, getting identification and information. Feeney.”

She looked over the garden with its glimmering lights, drew in the fragrance of flowers she couldn’t name.

“Feeney came in, sat down beside me while the MTs dealt with the cuts. All that controlled chaos around us, and he sits down, gives me a long look. You know how he does.”

“Yes,” Roarke murmured. “I do.”

“ ‘Well, kid,’ he said, ‘you caught the bad guy today, and saved some lives. Not a bad day’s work for a rook.’ I was a little punchy. They’d given me some tranq before I could stop them. So I said, ‘Fuck that, Lieutenant. It’s a good day’s work for any cop.’ He just nodded, and asked me how many girls. I said twenty-two. I don’t know when I counted. I don’t remember counting.”

She swiped at tears she’d just realized streamed down her cheeks. “God. I wouldn’t go to the hospital. Big surprise. He took my oral report right there in McQueen’s apartment. Two days later, I was reassigned as his aide. Homicide, Cop Central. In some twisted way, McQueen got me everything I wanted.”

“You’re wrong. In every way, Eve, you got it for yourself. You saw something in him others hadn’t, and maybe wouldn’t have for a long time.”

She took his hand again, needed his hand again. “I saw my father. I saw Richard Troy. I didn’t know it, but I saw him when I looked at McQueen.”

“And saved twenty-two young girls.”

“For twelve years that was enough. Now it’s not. He’s already hunting, Roarke.”

She brought her gaze back to his. “He’ll have a place. If he doesn’t have his partner already, he’ll soon find one. He’ll have transportation, probably a dark van. He broke out through the infirmary, so he’ll have drugs—tranqs, paralytics. He’ll change his appearance a little. His hair was lighter when I caught sight of him today. He’s too vain to change it much, but he’ll do subtle alterations. He’ll dress well, fashionably, but nothing overdone. He’ll look safe, attractive. And he’ll be eager to start again. Julie gave him a release, but she’s not what he’s after. He’ll need a girl, twelve, thirteen, or a young-looking fourteen or fifteen. If she’s with friends or family he’ll find a way to separate her. He’ll lure her into the van, or give her just enough tranq to make her compliant.”