by J. D. Robb
“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.
“Lieutenant, my partner will join the briefing through communications when I reach the point in the briefing where her data is relevant. I’ll need to speak with your SWAT commander, and the EDD team assigned. Detective Jones informs me you have men on the UNSUB, watching her current location.”
“That’s correct. At last communication, no movement reported.”
“Maybe she’s sleeping in. Have you run a heat source to confirm she’s in there?”
“Just setting that up.”
“Let me know as soon as you do. She may be out on foot. Can you get me a visual of the area, a ten-block radius? Shops, restaurants, businesses?”
“Of course. The men at the duplex have photos and descriptions of all known IDs. I take it you want to head the briefing?”
“Simpler and faster. We don’t know when she’s going to move. It’s imperative for the safety of the abductees, and for a quick containment of the two subjects that the operation be set in place fast. Fast and clean, Lieutenant. I need you to select your best for this, and to brief me and the feds regarding the area around the duplex. Subsequently, on the area around McQueen’s location. Once she leads us there, we’ll want to know what we’re dealing with as far as civilians, escape routes, best points for SWAT op, if necessary.
“I don’t know your city, Lieutenant, but I know McQueen. And over the last couple days, I’ve gotten to know his partner.”
“If you’ve got operation strategy worked out, I’d like to hear it. I’ve got my own.”
“Absolutely. If we could get started. I don’t want the men you assigned forced to tail before we’re set.” She paused a moment. “If time wasn’t so crucial, I’d go over everything with you first, work this out with you, then step back. I don’t want the collar, Lieutenant. I want to be in on the interviews when we’ve got the fuckers, but I don’t care about the rest.”
“Understood. It is understood, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’ve got the room.”
“I appreciate it.”
She turned then, scanned the faces of the men and women standing, sitting, moving.
“Everybody sit. Knock off the chatter. Here’s the situation.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nikos start to rise, and Laurence put his hand on her arm, shake his head.
First problem solved.
“You.” She pointed to a Texas version of McNab—gaudy colors, a dozen pockets in baggy red pants. “EDD?”
“You bet. Detective Arilio.”
“Run the screen, Arilio, and keep up. Get the surveilled location on screen one.”
He scrambled to obey the order. “We found the UNSUB’s hole,” she began, rattling off the address as Arilio fed the video. “We have eyes on it now. We’ve identified and found the vehicle purchased by the partner for McQueen. Images of UNSUB’s last two aliases—on screen two. Sandra Millford is the persona used to troll for McQueen’s vics, and used in the abduction of Darlie Morgansten. Sylvia Prentiss, we believe, is the UNSUB as she looks when not using a disguise. This is her preferred appearance in what we’ll say is her own time. She lives at this location under one, more likely both, of these IDs. We have another ID to add.”
She tagged Peabody.
“Put this on screen, Arilio.
“Detective Peabody, send ID image of the UNSUB identified by Civet during Interview.”
“Yes, sir. Sending.”
“Give us the salients on this ID.”
“Lieutenant,” Peabody began, and with her face sober as stone, her hair pulled back, gave the data quickly.
“In addition, sir, we are currently at the location where the UNSUB resided under this ID while in New York. We are in the process of interviewing other residents of the building, and have a name and address for her place of employment while she resided here.”
“Good work, Detective.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Contact me with further data as it comes. Dismissed.”
She cut the transmission. “I want everyone in this room as familiar with every one of these names, faces, salients as they are with their own. If, by chance, the UNSUB goes on the move under one of these IDs, she is to be followed. Not approached.
“Whether she’s on foot or using the vehicle, we’ll tail her until she leads us to McQueen.”
“Why don’t we put a homer on the vehicle?”
She glanced at Detective Price. “We have no way of knowing if said vehicle has sensors or security that would alert either the woman or McQueen if any attempt at tampering is made. As his vehicle we confiscated in New York did. Four-vehicle tail,” she continued. “Five with me. Your lieutenant will assign the teams, and select the best location to wait until she’s on the move. Air backup. EDD coordinating switchoffs and visuals throughout. We give her a clean path to McQueen. To his location, and straight to him. She so much as smells cop, we lose her. Lose her, and we lose McQueen, Melinda Jones, and Darlie Morgansten.
“Nobody, absolutely nobody goes near the vehicle or the house, not when she’s in or out. There may be alarms set on the residence. We wait.”
“Heat sensors identified a single hit inside the residence,” Ricchio told her. “Moving around.”
“Excellent. She’s there, she’s up. Surveillance at that location is to be changed hourly. If she’s spending some time at home, I don’t want her noticing unfamiliar vehicles in place for long. I want a team of four ready in softclothes in case she leaves on foot.”
She waited a beat. “Now, McQueen.”
Tough to refine an op when the location remained unknown, but she laid out basic strategy for recovery and apprehension.
“When she
leads us there, we’ll refine and adjust for specific location. We take this a step at a time. We’re careful and we’re smart. And we get it done.”
She answered questions, but kept it short. Time, she thought. The bitch was no housewife, who’d putter around half the day.
Nikos waited until she’d finished to approach. “We can work the air surveillance and tail. Laurence and I will stay on the ground, part of the ground tail.”
“That’ll work.”
“I’ve got some concerns about the recovery and apprehension.”
“Let’s work that out when we have the location. Once she’s with McQueen, we’ll have time to nail it down. But I don’t want to lose her now, so let’s get where we’re going.”
She turned away, went to Roarke. “I need you in EDD on the financials. I know you’d rather stick with me.”
“My first and last priority, Lieutenant.”
“I get it, but I need those accounts. I’m going to be with two dozen cops, federal agents, SWAT. I’d say I’ve got plenty of backup there. Plus, I’ll tag you the minute she’s on the move. And again when she goes to McQueen. I’ll give you the location, and you can come in then. You can come in before we take him.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“I’m good,” she said, because he was studying her just a little too carefully.
He touched his fingertips, just a skim, to hers. “I can see that.”
“I’ve gotta go. I’m taking the car. Nobody tails in a rig like that, so she’ll never smell cop. I’ll arrange for an officer to bring you to McQueen’s location when we’ve got it.”
“No, you won’t,” Roarke corrected, with feeling. “I’ll arrange for another car, and get myself there.”
“Have it your way.”
“That’s the way I like best.” This time he took her hand, but very briefly. “Go nail her down, Lieutenant.”
“Count on it.”
13
Nice neighborhood, Eve mused. Solid middle-class, with a selection of young families if the kid shit in the yards was a gauge. Little playgrounds with a lot of stuff to swing on, climb on, fall off, and break your arm on. A whole slew of bikes. Bikes not locked away, she noted, which meant nobody was too worried about theft.