by J. D. Robb
“Not you. She knows who you are, and she’ll use it to shake you. Believe me,” Eve said when Bree’s face went stony, “if I wasn’t sure you’re the last person she’d spill to, you’d be in there working her now. Keeping a plug in leaks not only through the house but here is priority.”
“Ricchio has Annalyn laying it on that she’s a suspect in a series of robberies, injured during a chase after a botched B-and-E.”
“That should work for now.”
“I’ll coordinate with EDD. The lieutenant said Annalyn and I should be at your disposal.”
“How many men has Ricchio stationed here, discounting you and your partner?”
“Three, on three-hour shifts.”
“That should cover it. You and your partner head in. Start working the area around the duplex. We’re looking for an apartment, at least two bedrooms. Mid-range, remember, in a building with a garage. Good neighborhood. It won’t be ground level. It’ll have been rented within the last year. Follow up on the soundproofing. It’s going to be within a thirty-minute drive. More than five or ten, less than thirty. He doesn’t want her too close, but close enough.”
“Duplex, town house, condo?”
“Apartment,” Eve repeated. She’d gotten a good sense of how the split building worked that day. “A setup like she had? It’s too intimate. Too many people to see your comings and goings. And he needs parking for his other vehicle. Roarke said he made a personal in-bank withdrawal of funds from Prairie Bank and Trust, Davis Street branch. Use that for triangulation. I’m going by the bank, check out the security discs.”
“Roarke relayed that information. Ricchio had EDD pick up the discs.”
“Good. Have them sent to my unit at the hotel. I’ll head there with Roarke. I have a couple things to take care of from there, then I’ll be in.”
“If she gives us McQueen’s location—”
Like Bree, Eve glanced at the door of the treatment room. “She won’t. Your sister and the girl, they’re less than nothing to her. The only things that matter are herself and him, and he’s another drug to her. She’s hooked. If I’m wrong, the feds will get it out of her. But for now, work the search.”
She turned away from the hope and despair Bree struggled to keep off her face. She got Roarke on the ’link, kept her own face schooled.
“Did you get new transpo?”
“I did, yes.”
“I need to go back to the hotel, work some angles there before I bounce back to Ricchio’s house.”
“I’ll pick you up where we spoke earlier.”
The minute she got in the car, she put her head back, closed her eyes. “Just a minute, okay?”
“Take what you need.”
It hurt, she realized, now that she let it, everything hurt. Her head, her gut, her chest. Raw, wet wounds that throbbed with every heartbeat.
“I don’t know if I did the right thing, talking to her. I don’t know if I did it for me or the vics.”
“You never forget the victims, Eve.”
“She wouldn’t flip. And she won’t. She knows me—not the connection to her, but to McQueen. She knows he hates me, needs to teach me a lesson. So that’s what she wants, even more than any sort of deal we’d offer. It’s what she does, I think. Becomes addicted to a certain type of man, then puts him in control. Until she finishes, for whatever reason. She had a child she didn’t want because Richard Troy wanted the investment. Now she’s doing what McQueen wants. There have probably been others between.
“Doesn’t matter,” she added, “except as a pattern. But she’s a dead end. If there’s any chance I’m wrong and she can be flipped, it can’t be me. I’m the mark, that’s how she sees it. The mark, and worse, a cop. I’m the enemy and the mark. Or we are. It’s for money. Still looking to make money off me. It’s ironic, I guess.”
“Ransom?”
“Yeah. That’s what he’s told her. They get me—and he gets to punish me, play with me, and extort big piles of money from you. There may even be some truth in it, though he doesn’t intend to share any of the take with her. It’s a job for her. A labor of love. Melinda and Darlie, they’re just incidental.”
“The withdrawal means he’s on the clock.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She rubbed her hands over her face, shoved them back into her hair. “He hopes to have me within a couple of days. Sooner if he can. He’d need her for that. A decoy, a lure. So we’ve fucked that up for him.”
She drew a breath, turned to study him. “I’d be really pissed off if he’d made this work and you’d paid.”
“Would you now?”
“Flushing money away. He’d kill me anyway.”
“Aren’t we matter-of-fact,” he said, very quietly.
“Just the way it is.”
“And this is your way of telling me, should he get lucky, I should sit on my big piles of money and simply consider my wife’s fate sealed. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted.”
She knew that tone of voice, so cool, so pleasant. And dangerous as a snake. At the moment, she simply couldn’t care.
“Not exactly. More or less. It’s nothing to get steamed over since it’s not going to happen.”
“But I should take note for the future. Your point of view is so noted. Now let me tell you just the way it is. If McQueen, or anyone, got lucky, I’d pay whatever I had to pay to get you back. And while I paid, I’d hunt him down. And I’d find him. When I did, he’d come to wish I ended him.”
He glanced at her. “What would you do in my place?”
She looked away again, shrugged. “It’s your money. No skin off mine to flush it. It’s stupid to talk about, anyway. He doesn’t have me. He has Melinda and Darlie, and within a few hours he’s going to realize something’s wrong. He’ll go under. He may leave them alive when he does, or he may not.”
“And you’ll still have a target on your back.”
“Right now, that target is keeping those two people alive. The minute he has to change angles, all bets are off.”
At the hotel, she got out of the car, started inside. “I wanted to come back here primarily because you’ll work better. No cops to bitch about, including me as I’ll stay out of your way. You stay out of mine. He’ll contact me and soon. I need to be ready for it. I need to write things out, sift through them—in the quiet. When I’m done I can have Ricchio send someone to pick me up so you can keep at it here.”
Rather than respond, Roarke rode up with her in silence. Bubbling silence, he thought. Right at the boil.
They got off on the office level, but before she could reach hers, Roarke took a good grip on her arm.
“As you’re spoiling for a fight, I’ll oblige you. But you’ll take a blocker for the headache first.”
“I don’t have time for a fight.”
“Then you shouldn’t take a swing at someone ready to take one back.” He pulled a small case out of his pocket, opened it.
She scowled at the little blue pills.
“Simpler for you to take it,” he said all too easily, “than for me to stuff it down your gullet.”
“Why do you do that? Push and order and threaten.”
“Because you’re in pain, and too much of a bloody mule to admit it. Because I’m in the often maddening position of loving you beyond all reason, so you can infuriate and rip me to pieces at the same time. Now take the fucking pill.”
She snatched one, swallowed. “I don’t have time for emotional dramas.”
“Then don’t set the stage for one by telling me to sit on my arse as you’ll be dead anyway. I live with the reality of what you are and what you do every bleeding day, and don’t need to have it shoved in my face.”
“I was only—”
“Don’t.” He whipped out the word, and the end of the lash was ice cold. “Don’t tell me you were only being rational. You’re trapped in a brutal situation, working to save lives while a piece of your own slashes your heart. I’m trying to cut you a break though you’r
e denying both of us the comfort of sharing an impossible load.”
The fact that she wanted to weep, to just curl up in a ball and wail appalled her. Sympathy, one kind word from him would break her.
So she lashed out.
“I don’t have time for comfort, or to examine my feelings, explore my goddamn psyche. While we’re standing here discussing why you’re pissed off, two people, one of them a thirteen-year-old girl, are being tortured or worse. So comfort and bruised egos just have to wait.”
“Bruised ego, is it? All right, then. You do what you must, and I’ll do the same. When we’re done we’ll have that drama. We’ll have a bleeding opera.”
He turned, walked into his office. Shut the door.
She took one step toward the door, stepped back. She wasn’t going to play the talk-it-out, fix-it-up routine. Her personal problems had no bearing on the case. The fact that her mother was McQueen’s partner meant nothing to anybody but her.
If they didn’t find McQueen in a matter of hours, they’d lose whatever advantage they held. He could decide to dispose of his two prisoners before he went under.
She couldn’t be responsible for that. She couldn’t let emotional turmoil over something that was over and done bog her down when lives were on the line.
She stepped to her case board, made herself look at the photos of the woman she remembered as Stella. Whatever Stella had done thirty years before had nothing to do with Melinda Jones, Darlie Morgansten, their families, their friends.
At this point she was Sylvia, and Sylvia was only a tool they might be able to use to save two people, to bring McQueen to justice. And she would spend all the years she had left in a cage.
However that made Eve feel, however it might haunt her, didn’t apply to now.
She went to her desk, angling herself so she could see those photos as she worked.
She replayed the interview, making notes, looking for key words, any mistakes. Melinda and Darlie were still alive—it became clear Stella—no, Sylvia, Sylvia now—Sylvia hated them, wanted them dead and gone. Wanted McQueen to herself. Also clear Sylvia hadn’t known that McQueen had withdrawn a large amount of cash.
Eve brought up the security discs from the bank, began to study them.
She made him immediately. He’d gone very blond for his South African ID. His movements precise, his suit perfectly cut.
Where’d you get the suit, Isaac? Did Sylvia buy it for you? Or did you go shopping in New York? Good briefcase, good shoes, too. Somebody did the shopping.
She watched him handle the transaction, flash the teller a charming smile. She followed him out of the bank, picked up the exterior cam. Crowded outdoor mall, she thought, and wondered why the hell people needed so many stores and restaurants. But he walked directly through the parking area.
An all-terrain and a pickup obstructed the view of his vehicle. She ordered the computer to enlarge a section, freeze, and got enough to identify a dark blue sedan, late model. As he pulled out, she enlarged again, froze again, thought she had enough for a make. Only part of the license plate, she thought, but still enough to start a search.
“Where’d you get the car, Isaac? Not a lot of time to wheel and deal, but plenty to set it up in advance.”
She turned to her ’link.
“Hey, Dallas.” Peabody beamed at her. “How’d it—”
“Roust Stibble. He plays middleman. McQueen’s driving a new Orion sedan, dark blue. If Stibble brokered the buy, shake it out of him. I’ve got a partial plate, Texas, Baker, Delta, Zulu. I’m going to run it here, but you do the same. If he didn’t buy, he stole it. I want to know where and when he did either.”
“Okay, I’m on it. Is there anything else new?”
She hesitated, just a beat. “We have his partner in custody.”
“Holy shit! That’s great.”
“She’s not giving anything up. Not yet. We’re on the clock, Peabody. If she doesn’t show at his place by six, he’s going to smell something off.”
“I got an update from EDD just a few minutes ago. They’re starting to pull transmissions off Stibble’s wiped ’link, and they’re digging out coms from his comps. You should have a report, including the data, pretty quick now. I know Roarke’s close on the accounts because he’s been keeping Feeney in the loop there. The dam’s breaking, Dallas.”
“It can’t be soon enough. He’s got transpo and running money, and we can be damn sure he’s got an escape route. If he gets wind of the partner, he’ll use them. Drain Stibble dry, Peabody.”
“He’s dust.”
Closing in, Eve thought as she rose to study the board again. But would it be soon enough?
Melinda stroked Darlie’s hair. She’d wrapped the girl in both blankets, but Darlie continued to shiver from the aftermath of the nightmare.
Melinda’s own throat raged with thirst. She’d risked drinking from the bottle of water the woman had tossed into the room, but after a few swallows she’d felt woozy.
Staying alert, staying aware was vital.
Darlie needed her.
He’d had the woman bring Darlie in the night—she thought it had been night—before. He preferred having the women he used deal with the chores. He’d think of the water, the blankets, snapping those restraints on trembling wrists and ankles as chores.
She’d done what she could for the girl—held her, rocked her, cocooned her in blankets while Darlie cried for her mother.
“Will he come back? Will he?”
Melinda couldn’t count the times Darlie had asked, so she answered the same way.
“I’m going to do everything I can to keep him from hurting you again. My sister’s looking for us. Remember, I told you about my sister, Bree?” She kept her voice soothing, like the stroke of her hand. “She’s a police detective. And there’s another. The other I told you about, remember? The one who saved me? Eve Dallas. They’ll find us, Darlie. We just have to hold on until they do.”
“He said I was a bad girl. He said I liked what he did, but I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“He lies, sweetie. He lies because he wants you to feel ashamed. But you didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault.”
“I tried to stop him.” Darlie burrowed into her. “I tried to fight, but he hurt me so bad. I screamed and screamed, but nobody heard me.”
“I know.” Melinda had to close her eyes, close them tight to block off the memory of her own wild struggles, her own screams. “I’m here. Help’s coming.”
“He put the number on me, and now my mom’s going to be mad. She said—she and Dad said I couldn’t get a tattoo until I was eighteen. She’s going to be so mad.”
“No, she won’t.” Melinda held Darlie tighter when she started to weep again. “I promise she won’t be mad at you because it’s not your fault.”
“I said mean things about her. I was mad and said mean things. It’s bad. I’m bad.”
“No.” Firmer now to cut through the rise of grief and guilt. “No, it’s normal. It’s what every girl does sometimes. You’re not bad. You listen to me now. Don’t let him get in your head. Whatever happens, remember who you are, that it’s not your fault.”
“I’m not allowed to have sex.” Darlie wept.
“You didn’t. He raped you. That’s not sex. That’s attack, assault, abuse. It’s not sex.”
“Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know.” But she did. Of course she did. “Remember they’re looking for us. Everyone’s looking for us. Darlie, I’m going to do everything I can, but if I can’t stop him—”
“Please.” The shackles rattled as Darlie shot up in panic. “Oh please, don’t let him hurt me again.”
“I’ll do everything I can, but . . .” Melinda turned, cupped Darlie’s pale, wet face in her hands. “If . . . you have to, remember it’s not your fault. If you can, go somewhere else inside your head. Don’t let him get inside your head.”
“I want to go home.”
�
�Then go there in your head. Go—” She heard the locks give, felt Darlie cringe and shudder.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
“Shh, shh. Don’t cry,” she whispered. “He likes it better when you cry.”
The monster opened the door.
“There’s my bad girls.”
His smile beamed indulgence, affection, but Melinda saw the hot glint in his eyes.
“Time for your next lesson, Darlie.”
“She needs a little more time. Please? She’ll do better if she has a little more time to absorb the first lesson.”
“Oh, I think she absorbed just fine. Didn’t you, Darlie?”
“Take me. I need to learn a lesson.”
He spared Melinda a glance. “It’s too late for you. Past your prime. Now this one—”
“I’ll be anything you want,” Melinda said as he stepped forward. “Anything. Let you do whatever you want. You can hurt me. I’ve been bad. I deserve it.”
“You’re not what I want.” He struck out, a brutally casual backhand that rapped her head against the wall. “Keep it up,” he warned Melinda, “and she’ll pay.”
“How about conversation? The woman you’re with? She doesn’t seem like she has a lot to say. It’s obvious she doesn’t have your intellect. We’re not going anywhere,” Melinda added, gripping Darlie’s hand hard under the blankets. “Wouldn’t you like to talk for a while? The day I came to see you, you wanted to talk and I didn’t let you. I’m sorry. I’d like to make up for that now.”
He angled his head. “Isn’t that interesting.”
“I can’t give you what she does, but I can offer something else. Something you must have missed, something you can’t get from her—or the woman.”
“And just what would we talk about.”
“Anything you like.” Her heart beat like a drum in her throat, and the beat was hope. “A man like you enjoys the stimulation of conversation, debate, discussion. I know you’ve traveled a great deal. You could tell me about the places you’ve been. Or we could talk about art, music, literature.”
“Interesting,” he said again, and she could see she’d intrigued him, amused him.
“You have a captive audience.”