New York to Dallas (7 page)

She needed to work, Roarke thought. To utilize data, logic, pattern, and step away from the emotion.

“How?” he asked. “How would he finance or acquire transportation, a place, suitable clothing, and so on?”

“If it’s convenient or necessary, he’ll steal. Pick pockets. He’s as good as you.”

“Please.”

“Okay, maybe not, and I’m going on reports and history anyway. We presumed he had money or funds stashed. The clothes, the electronics, the food and wine in his place? He had to have money, more than we found. He grifted, and well, a long time, and the e-fraud was lucrative. EDD couldn’t find a trace of an account attached to him, other than the standard he had under his own name with a couple thousand in it. It’s possible they missed it, but we figured he kept a stash, as he’d been trained to do as a kid. Just dig in, take the cash, and go.”

“Multiple caches would be smarter. All the eggs in one basket makes an expensive omelette if broken.”

“You’d know. If he had funds tucked away in New York, he’d have access by now. But . . .”

“But?” Roarke prompted.

“I could see a stash, or a few. Running money, quick cash. But he’s smart, greedy, like I said, he wants good clothes, good wine, all that. He knows his way around electronics.”

“He’d have that account—or likely accounts, you’re thinking. Investments, letting his money make money.”

“Yeah, I figure that. His other priority would be the partner. He needs that attention, support, and someone to run interference.”

“The visitor’s list, communications. She’d be in there, wouldn’t she?”

“Has to be. He might escape on impulse and opportunity, but if he hadn’t had a plan in place, he’d have gone underground until he had one.”

She paused a moment, let herself think it through now that her mind had cleared. “They’re looking for somebody running, hiding, even scrambling. He’s not. He deliberately sought attention, so he’s confident, secure. He’s not on the run. Getting a hit off the BOLO we’ve got out on him would be sheer luck. He kept his first New York victim in that room for three years. She was strong. He lived there in a working-class neighborhood, on the third floor of a well-occupied building, and managed to transport his victims in, and we assume transport the bodies or remains of the ones who didn’t survive out, without anyone seeing him. He won’t go down easy.”

“I don’t question your judgment, but will add that this time it’s more than feeding his need, more than the girls. It’s you. It’s showing you up, paying you back. And payback is a distraction. It adds an element of risk that wasn’t in play before.”

“It’s a factor,” she agreed. “And the break in his pattern complicates things for him more than us. Still, he’s had twelve years to think it through, plan it out, refine the details. I have to catch up.”

“Then we’d better get started.” He rose, took her hand to bring her to her feet. “You didn’t take him down all those years ago just because you were lucky. You were smarter than he was, even then. He was stronger, had the advantage, but you didn’t lose your head or panic. And you didn’t stop. He may have had this time to plan and refine, but you’ve had it to hone your instincts, to build experience. And you have something else now you didn’t have then.”

“You.”

“See how smart you are?” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “It’ll give me pleasure to use my considerable resources, not to mention skills—”

“You just mentioned them.”

“So I did. In any case, I’ll enjoy using them to help you put him away a second time, and for good. And I can start doing just that by accessing his visitors and communications logs from the prison.”

She opened her mouth, a knee-jerk refusal on the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t bent the rules before, but it never sat quite right. “Yeah. Yeah, you do that. They’ve got no business stonewalling until tomorrow while they work on their spin. I don’t care about their spin or the politics. I need to know who he’s talked to, seen. I need it all. A few hours’ jump on this might save some kid from being taken.”

 

 

They set up in Roarke’s private office
, with the unregistered equipment, shielded from the intrusive eye of CompuGuard. He walked to the wide, U-shaped command center, laid his palm on the security plate. “This is Roarke. Power up.”

And the controls glittered like jewels against the sleek black console. Nothing accessed here could go in any report, not until the data came to her by proper and legal channels. But . . .

One of his shades of gray, she thought. He had more than she did, a thinner and more adjustable line. Still, all she had to do was remember all the girls, all those eyes inside that obscenity of a room, to step over to Roarke’s side of it.

She sat at the auxiliary comp, called up her files. She’d need to set up a board, she worked better with visuals. But for now she’d take the time to refresh herself on all things Isaac McQueen.

She steeped herself in it, in the photographs, the data stream, the psychiatric reports, court transcripts. She surfaced when Roarke set a mug of coffee on the console beside her.

“The medical he killed yesterday had a wife and a two-year-old daughter.”

She nodded. “You think I need to justify what I’m doing, or letting you do. Maybe sometime down the road I will. Right now I’m clear on it. I’m sidestepping politics.”

She looked up at him. He’d tied his hair back—work mode. “I’ve got no problem with that.”

“All right, then. I have his visitors log, and the record of all approved communications. I imagine you’ve considered he communicated with someone outside by non-approved means. If so, he didn’t use any variation of his own ID, or send or receive by anyone using any variation of those on the approved list. I’ll look deeper.”

He leaned on the console, sipped from a mug of his own. “I programmed a search for key phrases, repetitions. So far all the e-coms are innocuous. Answers to messages from reporters, writers, an inmate advocacy group. There’s very little over a twelve-year period, which weighs on the side he found a way to skirt around approval.”

Eve drank coffee and considered. “He’s got the e-skills. He wouldn’t make a mistake there, and he’d be very careful what he put on a hard drive. We stripped down his electronics before. Next to nothing. He’s very careful. The way to the partner, if he’s lined one up, would be through visitation. Face-to-face contact. Privacy rules, thanks to prison advocacy groups—prevent monitoring prisoner visitation. It’ll be a woman, between forty and . . . adding the twelve years in, probably more like between fifty and sixty. Attractive, with some sort of addiction or vulnerability he can exploit.”

“Nearly all his visitors were female. Data’s copied to your unit.”

Eve called it up. Out of twenty-six visitors, eighteen were women, and most of them repeat visitors.

“I get the reporters—after a juicy story, maybe a big book deal or vid. He’d probably string them along awhile, get them to come back, entertain him. Tell them nothing. But the rest? What did they get out of spending time with him, knowing what he’d done, what he is? I don’t—Jesus, Melinda Jones.”

“Yes.”

“August, ’fifty-five. About five years ago. Single visit. I need to run her.”

“I did. She’s a rape and trauma counselor, attached to the Dallas police department, where her sister is a cop who just made detective. They share an apartment, live only a few miles from their parents, and the home where they grew up. She’s single, and she’s clean.”

“Okay. She’d have been about nineteen when she made this visit.”

“Facing her monster.”

“Maybe. Probably. I’ll have to contact her, see what he said to her. She’s not his type now. Too old for his tastes, too young for partner status. A rape counselor and a cop. They made something out of what happened to them. It’s good to know that.”

She scanned down the list. “Multiple visits would be the highest probability. Not too many. No point in sending up a flag.”

She ordered the computer to separate out names of subjects who’d visited between six and twelve times. “We’ll start with these.”

“I’ll take four.”

They ran them for data, put images on screen.

“Computer, delete subjects three, five, and eight. Too many busts,” she told Roarke. “He wouldn’t work with someone who screwed up that often and got caught. And since subject two is now deceased, we can toss her out of the mix. Down to four,” she said as she paced. “Number one, Deb Bracken, has a New York address, so we’ll check her out in person. The other three are scattered around. Miami, Baltimore, and Baton Rouge. We’ll have local authorities give them a look once we’re cleared.

“There’s something about this one. Number seven.”

“Sister Suzan Devon,” Roarke read. “Recovering illegals addict. Two busts for possession, one for solicitation without a license.”

“Yeah, but the busts are in her misspent youth. Nothing since she hit thirty. She’s the right age. Early fifties, not bad looking. Member of the Church of Redemption, based in Baton Rouge. Lists spiritual advisor as reason for visits. Bogus bullshit.”

“The last visit was more than a year ago.”

“That wouldn’t matter if he managed to set things up, and contact her under the radar. She gives me a buzz, so we’ll look at her, and number six—she hits the notes. So Bracken, because she’s here, Devon and this Verner because they buzz, and the last of the four, Rinaldi, because she made the cut.”

She turned to him. “If we correlate their geographical location at the time of the e-mails you dug up, can we identify their particular communications? The contact system they used?”

“I don’t know about we, but I can.”

“Smart-ass.”

“I’ll just sit my smart ass down and do that for you, darling. And you can get me a cookie.”

“A cookie?”

“Yes. I’d like a cookie, and more coffee.”

“Huh.”

As he sat his smart ass down, she decided she wouldn’t mind a cookie herself.

4

W
hen Eve walked into Whitney’s office the next morning, she’d already decided how to play it. She had data, theories, and specific individuals who needed a good talking to.

How she divulged it was key.

The meeting with the feds, the prison rep, the lawyers, and the department’s Fugitive Apprehension team could be a lot of blather, spinning, glad-handing, or a pissing contest.

Personally she enjoyed a good pissing contest, but not when she was pressed for time.

So she went in prepared to play the game with every intention of winning it.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Whitney remained at his desk as he introduced her to the feds.

She judged the curvy brunette, Special Agent Elva Nikos, and her partner, Scott Laurence, with his boxer’s build and shiny pate, as seasoned.

And hoped they weren’t assholes.

“Lieutenant Tusso is heading the FA team. We’re waiting on the representative from Rikers.”

“While we are,” Nikos began, “I’d like to relay to you what Agent Laurence and myself have related to both Commander Whitney and Lieutenant Tusso. We’re not here to shut you out or step on your toes. We understand that the NYPSD apprehended the subject and built a case for conviction, and that you, in particular, Lieutenant Dallas, have a vested interest in locating Isaac McQueen.”

“Then let me relay to you I don’t care who finds McQueen and slaps him back in a cage. You and your partner, Lieutenant Tusso and his team, or me and mine—or any combination thereof. I don’t care if it’s somebody’s grandmother with a can of pepper spray and a good right hook.”

“I appreciate that, Lieutenant. You can be assured that any leads or information we generate during this investigation will be shared.”

“Ditto. I can start now, or wait until the prison rep decides to join us. Commander?”

Whitney watched her carefully. “You have new information, Lieutenant?”

“I believe I’ve . . . generated possible leads, yes, sir.” At his nod, she continued. “I accessed the employment records of guards and other staff who most often came into contact with McQueen. As all of the staff can and would be considered suspects, this access fell into the boundaries of procedure. Executing standard runs and probability scans, I’d like to bring in Kyle Lovett, a guard assigned to McQueen’s block, and Randall Stibble, a lay counselor.”

“What do you have on them?” Nikos demanded.

“I’m assuming you don’t need to see my work,” Eve said, on the dry side. “Lovett’s done two rounds in a gambling addiction program. Since his wife left him eighteen months ago, I’m betting he needs round three. McQueen likes addictive personalities.”

She had more, but the access there dipped into shadow territory.

“Stibble counsels chemi-heads and alcoholics. He brings his own personal experience. He’s been in and out of rehab since he was sixteen, did time as a juvie and an adult for illegals-related offenses. McQueen doesn’t do illegals, drinks—wine is his choice—in moderation, but he attended Stibble’s sessions regularly. He doesn’t waste his time or do anything without a purpose.”

“You suspect either or both of these men aided McQueen in his escape?” Lieutenant Tusso asked.

“I think one or both did more. McQueen works with a partner until she bores him, screws up, or fulfills her purpose. He’d want someone on the outside. He’d need to get and receive communication from her.”

“He needed a liaison,” Nikos said.

“And has likely worked with more than one over the past twelve years. We’re going to find his visitors list leans heavily toward females. We connect someone at the prison—and my money’s on either or both of these men—we have a lead on the partner. She’ll be an addict of some kind, likely have a sheet for grifting at the least. She’ll be between the ages of forty-five and sixty. Attractive.”

Now it got trickier.