by J. D. Robb
Babies squalled, kids whined. Several women sported bellies testifying they’d soon bring more squallers and whiners into the world.
Eve walked to the counter where a woman in a floral scrub top worked feverishly on a computer.
“I’m sorry.” The woman didn’t pause. “The waiting time is two hours. There’s another clinic—”
“I need to talk to Dr. Hernandez.”
“I’m sorry.” The woman didn’t sound sorry. She sounded harassed and exhausted. “Dr. Hernandez is with a patient. I can—”
Eve palmed her badge, waved it in front of the woman’s face. “This is an urgent matter. I’ll be as quick as possible, but I need to speak with Dr. Hernandez.”
“Give me a minute. God, what a day.”
She popped up, scurried down a short hall, turned left, and vanished.
“Why is everybody sick or injured?” Eve wondered. “Thieves, murderers, and lunatics, sure. That’s why we love New York. But it looks like Dallas has a plague.”
The woman scurried back. “Listen.” She kept her voice low. “Every exam room and office is occupied. If these people who’ve been waiting so much as see a doctor, I could have a riot. Can you talk to her outside? Out the back?”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got to ask you to go out the front, walk around. If I take you back—”
“Riot. Got it. Thanks.”
“Not a plague,” Roarke said as they made the trip on foot. “More understaffed, likely underfunded, and the only free clinic for miles.”
“Okay, probably, but I’ve seen Louise’s clinic. Free, and sure crowded, but not like that.”
“Louise’s isn’t underfunded, thanks to you.”
She hunched her shoulders. “It was your money.”
“No, it was your money.”
“Only because you gave it to me.”
“Which, darling Eve, makes it yours.”
“Now it’s Louise’s, so it doesn’t really matter. I don’t like it here.” She rolled her shoulders when they reached the rear of the clinic. “It’s a run-down area, poor—and that’s not what I mean. It’s got a strong whiff of criminal underbelly. But you know, there’s just no sense of character, or atmosphere. You feel like if some asshole came up to mug you, he’d have that accent, or cowboy boots, maybe the hat. How is that intimidating?”
“I do so completely adore you, and your chauvinistic New York mind.”
A small, dark woman darted through the door. “Officer?”
“Lieutenant Dallas. I’m working with Detectives Walker and Jones. You had a patient, claiming she’d been raped last October—outside the Circle D. Sarajo Whitehead. Those detectives caught her case, and Melinda Jones came in as counselor.”
“Yes, I remember. Have you caught the rapist?”
“He doesn’t exist. She faked it.”
“I sincerely doubt—”
“Don’t. You can check with the detectives you know. This is a very dangerous woman who is working with a very dangerous man. You know Melinda Jones.”
“Yes, very well.”
“They have her.” As Hernandez stared, Eve pushed on. “The faked attack was staged to make contact with Melinda, to connect. This woman lured Melinda out last night, and abducted her. We need everything you can tell us.”
“God, oh my God. I’m going to contact Bree. I can’t just take your word.”
“Go ahead.”
Eve waited while Hernandez used her ’link, waited through the shocked words, the shakiness.
“I’m going to get you her files,” Hernandez said when she clicked off. “I’ll give you everything I have. I believed her. Her injuries weren’t that severe, but her emotional state . . . I believed her.”
“No reason you shouldn’t have,” Eve said. “She’s good at what she does.”
8
File in hand, Eve got back into the car.
“Back to the cop shop?” Roarke asked her.
“Have to. What I want to do is get to the hotel, set up my space, organize what I have, and think.” She scowled into space for a minute. “I’m a team player.”
Roarke said, “Hmmm.”
“I am,” she insisted.
“When necessary, yes.” He flicked her a glance. “Especially if you’re in charge of the team.”
“Okay, I’ll cop to that—and that it’s hard swallowing I’ve got to check with Ricchio—his house—the feds, figure out who to work with and how. Jones is sharp, but she can’t be objective on this. None of them can. Maybe I can’t either.”
“You have to adjust without having any time to adjust.”
“There isn’t any time.”
“Exactly.”
“And he knows that. He’s playing with that. Yeah. Yeah.” She tapped her fingers on her thigh as she chewed that over. “The longer I’m off my rhythm, the longer he has to screw with me.”
“There are times when in order to get what you need, you have to work on two levels and integrate them on another.”
So speaks the business god, she thought—and accurately. “Work with Ricchio and the feds here, with my people there. I guess the trick is the integration. We can all say it doesn’t matter who does what or gets what, and it’s mostly true. But cops are territorial. We have to be.
“God, I want coffee. And no, you’re not having a supply sent down to Ricchio’s department. It’s just . . .” She wiggled a hand in the air. “Adjust.” She nodded to herself. “Gotta adjust.”
Adjusting, she took the medical files straight to Ricchio.
“Hernandez was very cooperative. I have her statement here as well. The gist is, the female unknown subject’s injuries were fairly minor, but consistent with her story, as was her emotional state. She played the role well.”
“So she’s played it before.”
“My take, yeah. We’re looking for someone who’s run sex cons. I understand you have people who can work with the data we have. So do I. I’d like to have some of my men working this in conjunction with yours. Different eyes, different angles. Whoever gets there first, we all win.”
“Overlapping ground takes time and manpower away from other potential leads.”
She wanted to stand, but sat. “Look, I don’t want to step on toes, but this is a tough balance for me. Imagine yourself called up to New York to work with an established unit.”
He smiled a little. “I went to New York once, and I still can’t imagine it. Imagine yourself, in charge of an established unit, juggling in not only federal agents but a New York boss.”
“Tough balance all around,” Eve agreed. “But the goal’s the same for all of us. I’ll get more done toward that goal if I’m able to tap my own resources as well as work with you and yours.”
She paused a moment. “Straight out, I strongly believe the female UNSUB is the route to McQueen. She’s done the legwork, and very likely continues to. She’s the one who’ll run the errands, and she’s separated from him for periods of time. Her own apartment, potential other employment. She’s been here for more than a year. Somebody knows her, has done business with her, sold her food, clothes, goods. She’s an addict, and that’s another angle. Where does she get her junk? She’s attractive, and she’s got a man to please. Where does she get her hair stuff, her face stuff, all that other woman stuff?”
Lips pursed, Ricchio sat back, nodded slowly. “All right, you’ve got points. Focusing on McQueen sits easier with me, but you’ve got points.”
“If I may,” Roarke interjected. “If you consider it a two-pronged approach rather than an overlap. Improve the odds.”
“Frankly, if I were in your position, I’d do what I felt I needed to do, regardless of the politics of cooperation. It’s better if we all say we agree.”
“Works for me.” Her ’link signaled. “Excuse me.”
When she stepped away, Ricchio turned to Roarke. “As the word is your particular area is electronics, you should meet Lieutenant Stevenson. He runs ED
D.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have someone take you up when you’re ready. We work with civilians, such as Melinda, in SVU routinely. That’s not the usual in EDD.”
“Then I’ll do my best to be unobtrusive.”
“My father recently retired as Deputy Chief,” Ricchio began in an easy, conversational tone. “He was part of a task force, years ago, working on taking down a major weapons organization. Part of the investigation included a Patrick Roarke. I remember because my father spent a couple weeks in Ireland during the investigation. Any relation?”
“That would have been my father,” Roarke said coolly, “which illustrates the world is a strangely intimate place. He had dealings with Max Ricker, as I’m sure you’re aware. As you’d be aware that my wife is responsible for Ricker’s current accommodations in an off-planet cage. A strangely intimate place indeed.”
“With interesting turns,” Ricchio agreed. “Patrick Roarke was stabbed to death in Dublin, wasn’t he?”
“If you’re asking if I killed him, I didn’t have that pleasure.”
He set aside irritation as Eve strode back. From the look in her eye, he knew she had something.
“Our female UNSUB traded sex with the guard we have in custody for contact with McQueen. He got her in three times in the last year under the radar, let them use one of the conjugal trailers. He swears the contact initiated with the woman, not McQueen. She angled for a fourth, two weeks ago. McQueen instructed Lovett to tell her to wait.”
“She’s in love with him,” Roarke commented.
“In whatever twisted way it works with her kind. She’s hooked— addictive personality, and he’s another drug. He won’t keep her much longer.”
“He never confessed. It could never be proven, but the prevailing theory is once he disposed of his partner, he’d shortly dispose of any captives and move on.”
Eve looked at Ricchio, understood his guts would be in knots. “Prior to New York, he was still evolving, finding his pattern, his rhythm. Added to it. He hasn’t finished with me, so he hasn’t finished with Melinda. Who do you want me to work with, Lieutenant? And do you have somewhere I can set up?”
“I’ve got a temporary office for you. It’s not much. I’d like you to use Bree and Annalyn. Bree needs to keep her mind engaged, and she trusts you.”
Eve started to point out that Bree Jones didn’t know her, but let it go. “I’m good with that. Saves having to update them on what we got from the bar.”
“If you don’t need Roarke at the moment, I’d like to have him acquaint himself with our EDD.”
“Best use,” she said to Roarke.
“Then I’ll get back to you later.”
They went their separate ways.
“Not much” turned out to be twice the size of her office at Central with a shiny desk outfitted with a data and communication center, a multiposition gel-chair, an AutoChef, a personal friggie, an auxiliary station, two cozy visitor’s chairs—and a large window she immediately shielded.
Too much space, she thought, too much comfort. Adjust, she reminded herself. Make it work.
She programmed what passed for coffee, made do with that while she began to set up a case board. She barely glanced over when Bree and Annalyn came in.
“I’m still setting up. I’ll need you to share the auxiliary. Run an anal on all the data we have, specifically on the female UNSUB. And I want a time line up here on the board, starting with first known contact with McQueen right up to his last communication with me.”
“I’ll start on the data,” Annalyn said. “Bree, while the lieutenant’s setting up, why don’t you get us some eats? Use my code. My treat.”
“Sure. What would you like, Lieutenant?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You a veggie?” Annalyn asked her.
“Not unless I can’t identify the meat.”
“Texas beef, one of the perks. Hardly any filling. I’ll spring for burgers, Bree.”
“Could use a Pepsi,” Eve added. “Coffee’s absolute shit.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
When Bree left, Eve glanced at Annalyn again. “Something on your mind, Detective?”
“She’s a good cop, doesn’t miss much. A little more seasoning, she won’t miss anything. On a personal level, she can be a little intense, but she’s not an asshole. Right now she’s holding on by her fingernails. She’ll keep holding on as long as she believes we’ll find Melinda. She stops believing that, she’s done. Not just for now. Just done.”
“Then we won’t give her any reason not to believe it.”
“She needs to be part of bringing McQueen down.”
“I’ve got that, but that’s your lieutenant’s call, not mine.”
“You don’t get you’re her hero. Whether you want to be or not,” she continued, correctly reading Eve’s face. “You saved her life, and more important to her, you saved Melly. You know what he did to them, to all those kids, and you stopped him, you got them out.”
“I got lucky. If you read the files, you know I was lucky I didn’t get us all killed.”
Annalyn propped her ankle on her knee. “Not the way I read it—and besides, if it wasn’t for lucky, half the cases we close would still be open. It doesn’t matter how you did it, you did it. And you’re a big part of why she can believe we’ll do it again. Stop him, and get Melly out. If you’ve got doubts—and Christ knows I do—and you want Bree to keep hanging on, to be a useful part of the investigation, don’t let her see them.”
Eve didn’t hesitate, didn’t need to. “Let me make this clear. At this point in time, I don’t have any doubts. What I have is data, facts, pattern, theory, and instinct. I don’t believe we’re going to get Melinda Jones home, and put McQueen and his partner in prison. I know it.”
Annalyn glanced toward the door. “How do you know it? No, wait. If you mean that, tell us both when Bree gets back.”
“I’ll do that. Get started on the anal.”
Having said her piece, Annalyn got to work without any more chatter. Eve continued with her board, had it nearly set to her satisfaction when Bree and the food arrived.
The smell of burgers and fries filled the room, and for a moment made the strange space comfortably familiar. Eve took her burger off the disposable plate, chomped in. “Good,” she decreed. “Okay, here’s how I work, and how we’ll be working as long as I’m here. I use visuals, like the board here, and if I’m sitting back with my eyes closed I’m not catching a nap. I’m thinking. If I kick you out it’s because I want to think without your thoughts getting in my way. Detective Jones, if I refer to your sister as the vic, I don’t want to see that look on your face I caught during the briefing. I know it’s personal, and to a point that could be an advantage. But if it gets in the way, you’re out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your partner understands you, and she’s got your back. I don’t want her distracted worrying that you’re going to lose it at any point—any point—in this investigation.”
“I—”
“Don’t interrupt. We’re going to find McQueen and put him back where he belongs. I believe the most direct route to that end is the partner. We identify, locate, apprehend her, and bring her in, grill her like this pretty damn good Texas beef.”
She took another bite, swilled down some Pepsi.
“He had a long run before he went down. He chose his spot and made it his sick, personal playground. He’s not going to have a long run this time for very specific, very definite reasons.”
On another bite of burger, she leaned back on the shiny desk. Adjusting, she thought, and finding her rhythm after all.
“First,” she continued, “I’m a hell of a lot smarter than I was twelve years ago. We have more resources and we know more about him than we did at that time. Second, because he’s obsessed with getting to me, he’s gone over the top pulling this off, involved too many people, left too many avenues—and we’re go
ing to squeeze all those people dry, take every one of those avenues until we find him.
“And the third reason.” She took another long drink of Pepsi. “Melinda. She’s a trained therapist. She knows how to talk to people, to get in their heads. She had the guts to confront him in prison, to know herself well enough to do that so she could take her life back. She had the stones to go into a career that would remind her, every day, of what he did to her. That makes her tougher and smarter than he is.
“If you don’t believe that, all of that, then I can’t use you here. Find something else to do.”
“I believe it, Lieutenant. All of it.”
“What’s with the ring?” Eve demanded, and Bree stopped turning it.
“It’s Melly’s. I . . . I put it on this morning after this started. I wanted to have a piece of her, something I could touch, something to remind me I’m a piece of her.”
Eve nodded. “Good enough. Do the time line.”
Eve studied the board, made some adjustments, some additions. She paced back and forth in front of it, frowning at the time line Bree created, mixing it in.
She needed to go by the female’s former apartment, take a look at it, talk to the neighbors, the shopkeepers. Overlapping the feds, maybe, but she liked Roarke’s two-pronged approach.
Might be something there, she thought. Some little crumb—something said, something seen. An impression. An opinion.
She wished fleetingly for more salt as she ate her fries. A lot more salt. She should just carry some in her pocket for fry emergencies.
An addiction, she admitted, like the coffee. Just something she craved and Roarke provided. That made him sort of her pusher, didn’t it?
“Why does she fall in love with him?”
“Sorry?”
She shook her head at Bree. “He’s in prison. She goes for the money, the work—gotta live, gotta get what she needs. She’s experienced, she’s hard, she’s self-absorbed. All addicts are. But she falls for him.”
She paced again, studying the two shots of the female, the picture of McQueen.
“Sure he’s attractive. Maybe even her type. He’s hard, too. He’s been around, knows the score. But he likes little girls. Those small, supple bodies just budding. She’s too old for his needs, too experienced sexually. However well she’s kept her body, it’s never going to be in first bud again. She has to know that.”