New York to Dallas

by J. D. Robb

  Hi, Melinda! Just like old times.

  Then nothing, just nothing, until the dark.

  When he came, the lights came with him, stinging her eyes. Groggy, so groggy, and sick. But it was Bree on the ’link. Her face, her voice. She tried so hard to stay calm, to think clearly through the thick dregs of the drug.

  Sarajo, she thought again. His partner. He always worked with a woman. Oh, she’d read and studied everything on Isaac McQueen. Made herself read it, watch it, know it.

  And still, she’d walked right into his hands. Again.

  He hadn’t raped her. But he wouldn’t be interested in her that way now. She wasn’t a young girl.

  Thank God there were no young girls here. At least, she prayed there were none.

  He wanted her for another reason. Revenge? But she’d been one of many. He couldn’t possibly plan or hope to collect all the survivors again.

  No, no, too much time and risk, and for what?

  She tried to find some comfort on the floor of the room, tried to clear the smear on her mind from the drug. There had to be a reason for taking her, specifically her. For God’s sake her sister was a cop now, sharing the apartment with her. Surely one of the others would have been easier prey.

  Yet he’d targeted her, specifically, again. Sarajo had reported the rape months before. Nearly a year, yes, almost a year before. So he’d set the wheels in motion long before the abduction.

  Why?

  Something she’d done, something she was.

  She and Bree had been his last? Was it as simple as that? Picking up somehow where he’d left off? It didn’t make any sense, she thought. Why waste time with her? Once he’d gotten out, why waste time?

  So she served a purpose, he always had one. Or represented something. Was she bait to lure Bree, so he’d have them both?

  Oh God, Bree. Bree, Bree.

  This time the panic won, stealing her breath, pounding hard in her blood. The shackles cut into her skin as she fought against them in blind fear and rage.

  Not her sister. Not again.

  She heard the locks click and slide, and fought a bitter, painful war for control. Remembering, she closed her eyes an instant before the lights flared on. Still, the hot red haze burned against her lids.

  The woman, she realized, hearing the click of heels, catching the scent of perfume.

  She’d dressed for him, Melinda thought, groomed for him.

  And I’m the stupid bitch, she thought, digging for some grit. She’s not smart enough to know she’s as disposable for him as an empty tube of Coke.

  She opened her eyes slowly, looked into the face of the woman she’d thought wanted and needed her help.

  Yes, groomed for him, with lip dye and blond hair freshly fluffed around her shoulders.

  Older than McQueen, trying to be younger in the short, snug red dress and high heels.

  Melinda buried the disdain.

  Sarajo—think of her as Sarajo—carried a sandwich on a plate—disposable, just as she was—and a cup of water. Might be drugged, Melinda thought, but put gratitude on her face.

  “He doesn’t want you to starve to death.”

  “Thank you. I’m hungry. Is it very late?”

  “Too late for you.”

  “Please, Sarajo, I don’t know what you want. What he wants. If you’d tell me I could try to get it for you, or do it for you.”

  “We’ve already got what we want from you. Bleeding hearts like you, you’re all the same. Weak and stupid.”

  “I only tried to help you.”

  “I only tried to help you,” Sarajo repeated in a nasty singsong. “Marks like you are all the same, always whining. You think you’re so smart, and look at you. Nothing but an animal in a cage.”

  “What did I do to make you hate me?”

  “You exist for starters. You put Isaac in jail for twelve years.”

  “You know what he did to me, to all of us.”

  “Asked for it, didn’t you?” The boldly dyed lips sneered. “Little whores.”

  “I was twelve.”

  “Yeah?” Sarajo cocked a hip, angled her head. “When I was twelve I fucked plenty of men. They just had to pay for it first. That’s where you’re stupid. Seeing you in here’s almost worth the time I had to spend with you.”

  “If you help me, I’ll get you money.”

  “We’ve got money now.” The woman ran a hand down her side, sliding it along the dress. “And we’ll have more when we’re done.”

  “If you’re after a ransom, I—”

  “You think this is about you?” She threw back her head and laughed. “You’re nothing. You’re just a way to help us get to something worth a hell of a lot more. She’s going to pay for what she did to Isaac. And when we’re done we’ll have more money than anybody can dream of. Me and Isaac, we’re going to live the high life.”

  “He’ll kill you,” Melinda said, her voice dull now. “You’ll help him get what he wants, and when he has it, he’ll kill you and move on. You’re the mark, Sarajo. You just don’t see your cage.”

  Sarajo kicked the plate across the room, upended the water on the floor.

  “Uh-oh!” Isaac came in, all smiles. “Cleanup on aisle six.” He laughed, obviously tickled as he draped an arm around the woman’s waist, tugged her in. “Are you girls talking about me?”

  He pressed a kiss to Sarajo’s temple, all the while sending Melinda a cocky, conspirator’s wink.

  “She’s just running off at the mouth. It’s what she’s best at.” Sarajo turned into him, rubbed her body to his. “Come on, baby, let the bitch lap at the floor. You can lap on me.”

  “Sounds delicious. But we’ve got something to take care of, remember? And you have to change for it. Not that you don’t look amaaazing.”

  “Why don’t we make it just you and me tonight?”

  “It’ll be even better,” he promised in a whisper. “Promise. Go on, baby doll, go put on your Aunt Sandra clothes. It’s going to be fun!”

  He gave her a playful swat on the ass. With one last vicious glance at Melinda, she went out.

  “Isaac, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get me here.”

  “More than you know, sweetie pie, but worth every minute just to see your pretty face again.” His eyes, a brilliant blue now, sparkled with delight. “We have to make time to catch up. I want to hear every little thing you’ve been up to.”

  “I think you know. I think you’ve kept up since I saw you last.”

  He smiled at her, handsome in his pressed jeans and casual shirt. His hair was blond, his face tanned, as if he spent his days working outdoors in the sun.

  “It was so considerate of you to visit.”

  “Is that why I’m here? For being considerate. Am I the only one who came?”

  “And isn’t that a sad commentary on manners in today’s society.” He hefted out a sigh. “Then again, so many bad girls.”

  Melinda forced herself to maintain eye contact, to keep her voice mild. “You and I know you don’t take them because they’re bad, but because they’re innocent. You can be honest with me, Isaac.” She held up her shackled arms. “You’re obviously in control of this situation. In control of me, of Sarajo—or whatever her real name is.”

  “I don’t know if she remembers half the time. You’re doing such a good job, Melinda, using your counselor’s tone, the right words. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Tell me why I’m here. What you’re using me for. Don’t you want to share that with me?”

  “Tempting, but you know what would be more fun? And you know how much I love fun and games.” He came closer, cupped her chin in his hand, made her skin crawl. “Figure it out. It’s like a puzzle. Just put the pieces together. Now I’m going on a little adventure. You be good while I’m gone.”

  “Won’t you stay and talk to me? Or . . . we can do whatever you want. Anything. But don’t go tonight.”

  “That’s just so sweet. No offense, honey, but you kn
ow you’re not my type these days. Not that I can’t make do.” He gave her another wink. “The thing is, I’ve got plans for tonight.”

  “They’ll be looking for you.” She couldn’t stop her tone from rising, her voice from shaking. “If you go out, try to take another girl, they could catch you. Everything will be over before it begins. You don’t need to do this. I’ll be what you want.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head about me.” He blew her a kiss. “I’ll be back soon, and won’t it be nice for you to have some company?” He glanced toward the ruined sandwich. “Sorry about dinner, but I guess you’ve learned not to make the lady of the house mad. She’s got a temper, that one.”

  “Please, please, please. Wait!” No good, no good, nothing she could do to stop him. “Please, just tell me where I am. Just tell me, are we still in Dallas or—”

  “Dallas is the whole point. Be back soon.”

  He left the lights blazing. Melinda dropped her head on her updrawn knees, let out a keening wail for the child whose life would be forever scarred if McQueen had his way.

  She rocked, she wept, she finally released the screams burning her throat until, exhausted, she lay curled on the floor of the horrible room.

  She let her eyes track it now, let herself see where she was. A rectangle of walls, floor, ceiling, the single window barred and screened. Even if she could reach it, she’d need a tool of some sort to hack at the screening. No table, no chair, just a blanket tossed on the floor.

  And four sets of shackles fixed to the walls.

  He didn’t mean for her to stay alone.

  God, God, give her the strength to help whoever he brought in here. To help the children survive, to help her find a way to save them.

  Help her save their hearts and minds. It’s what she’d trained and studied for. And Bree, she had to trust that Bree would do the rest.

  If they were still in Dallas, as he’d said, there was a chance, a good chance. Bree would never give up, never let up. And she was smart, canny, tireless. A cop through and through, Melinda told herself. She’d started to become one the day they’d been saved.

  The moment Officer Eve Dallas had opened the door to that awful room in New York, Bree had set her path, and had followed it without detour.

  To protect and serve, Melinda thought as she closed her eyes, the victims, the abused, the marks, the shattered. And she’d used the career of the cop who’d saved them as her template. Setting the goal high, that was Bree. That was . . .

  She shoved up to sit, eyes open.

  Dallas was the whole point. Eve Dallas?

  Was it all just about revenge after all?

  Eve paced in front of her board, juggling the details, making patterns, taking them apart, reforming them. She constantly checked the time.

  It hadn’t been that long, not really, since they’d picked up Civet in New York. Pressuring solid information out of a dealer with his record and experience took finesse, effort, sweat.

  But why the hell hadn’t they pressured anything out of him?

  She stepped to the connecting door where Roarke worked three comps, muttering at all of them, in his search for McQueen’s accounts.

  “Maybe you could holo me in to New York, into Interview.”

  He paused, rolling his shoulders as he sat back to study her. “If that’s what you want, we can set it up.”

  “If I’m there it adds weight, and maybe I can hit him from another angle.”

  He said nothing for a moment, only watched her.

  “And completely screw up their rhythm,” she said. “Undermine their progress and fuck Peabody’s confidence to hell. I know what you’re thinking because I’m thinking it, too. But waiting here, it’s . . .”

  “Hard. Waiting is hard, and frustrating, even when you know it’s what you have to do. Maybe especially then.”

  He’d know, she thought. A cop’s spouse knew every layer of waiting. “Does it piss you off, too?”

  “More than a little at times.”

  “There’s nothing else for me to do tonight. Nothing else to dig at. All I can do is keep going over and over what we have, and fucking wait for somebody else to give me more.”

  “Then take a break, let it settle awhile. I’ll give you more on my area when I get it.”

  She retreated, got more coffee.

  She circled the board, told herself they had every area covered that could be.

  She checked the time.

  While Eve circled and studied, Darlie Morgansten tried on the most icy jacket ever. It was pink, her favorite color, and had sparkles all over the collar. Completely vid star.

  It also cost more than three months’ allowance, and since she’d already spent most of this month’s on a too totally mag purse, and last month’s plus on stuff she couldn’t quite remember but wanted so abso-complete, she was awesome short.

  Still, she modeled and admired herself in the mirror, ignoring the watchful eye of the salesclerk who’d given her and Simka, her best friend since ever, the eyeball treatment since they’d walked in.

  “Darl, you have to get it. It’s, like, mag to infinity on you.”

  “Maybe Dad will give me an advance. Mom won’t.” She rolled her lively green eyes. “All I’ll get from her is—”

  “The Lecture,” Simka finished, rolling her eyes in solidarity. “You could tag him up, show him how super-frosted you look in it.”

  “Too easy to say no over the ’link. Sheesh, that lady’s still hawking us. It’s not like we’re shoplifters. Here, take my picture.” She handed Simka her ’link. “Then I can go home, soften him up, show him when he’s in a really good mood.”

  “But somebody might buy it before you give him the works.”

  “I’ve got a little left. I can put it on hold.”

  She angled herself, smiled brilliantly for the shot, a pretty young girl with long brown hair, temporarily streaked with vivid purple, which had earned her The Lecture just that morning.

  In fact, the hair deal had meant she’d had to wheedle her butt off for this trip to the mall, and she’d only copped it because her mother was shopping, too.

  And she had to meet The Warden—her most current term for her mother—at nine forty-five on the dot right under the clock tower. And tomorrow was a free day and everything with no school due to teacher-planning sessions.

  She’d wanted to shop with Sim, go to the vids, have pizza after, but no. Home by ten, in bed by ten-thirty.

  You’d think she was three instead of thirteen.

  Mothers were such a pain.

  “I’m going to put it on hold. We’ve still got a half-hour before we have to meet The Warden.”

  “Check. I’m going to try on this top and the pants, too. I’ll come out so you can tell me the abso-total truth about how they look.”

  “I will, but I already know they’ll look complete on you. Cha.”

  Darlie hurried to the counter, gave the watchful clerk a haughty stare as she paid the holding charge. She started back toward the dressing area when a fabo skirt caught her eye.

  “Excuse me.”

  Startled, Darlie jumped back. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sarajo—now Sandra Millford—put on an easy smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wondered if you could help me out. My niece is about your size, your coloring, your age. Fifteen?”

  Flattered, Darlie lied cheerfully. “Yeah.”

  “Do you think she’d like this? I want to get her something special for her birthday next week.” Sarajo held up a pink party dress.

  “Oh, wow. I was looking at that before. It’s so, just so. It’s way expensive.”

  “She’s my favorite niece. Can I just hold it up against you, to see how she might look?”

  “Sure. Oh, it’s just frosted extremely.”

  “You think?” Sarajo slid the pressure syringe under the material, shifting as she’d practiced to shield the movement from view. She jabbed it quickly into
the side of Darlie’s throat.

  “Ow. What was—”

  “Must be a pin in it.”

  She watched the girl’s eyes glaze.

  “I don’t guess it suits her after all.” Supporting Darlie with one arm, she hung the dress up. “Time to go.” She spoke clearly, smiling, walking the girl out. “School night!”

  “No school tomorrow.” The words slurred.

  “You’re right about that.”

  She walked Darlie toward the south entrance. McQueen picked them up on the way, tucked his arm around Darlie from the other side. “How did the shopping go, ladies?”

  “We had fun,” Sarajo said easily. “But our girl’s not feeling very well. Overtired, I guess.”

  “Aw, well, we’ll be home soon.”

  Looking like a family, they went outside to the lot, McQueen jamming security as they went. Even as Simka came out of the dressing room to show off her outfit, they lifted Darlie into the van.

  Eve walked into the shop with Roarke. It was a ground-level shop in a three-level mall. Dozens of ways in, she’d already noted, dozens of ways out.

  Bree broke out of a huddle of cops, hurried to her.

  “Darlie Morgansten, thirteen, brown and green, five-three, a hundred and ten. She was with her friend.” She gestured toward another girl, sitting on the floor, crying. “The friend was trying something on in the dressing room. When she came out, Darlie was gone. They were to meet Darlie’s mother, Iris Morgansten, at twenty-one forty-five. The mother”—she gestured again to a woman talking rapidly to Bree’s partner—“was shopping elsewhere in the mall.”

  Bree took a breath.

  “One of the clerks noticed Darlie with a woman, assumed it was her mother. They were looking at a dress. Then they left together. No struggle, no sign of duress. We’ve got people going over the security discs now.”

  “Nearly an hour ago,” Eve calculated. “They’re gone. They won’t be anywhere in here. Have them check the logs for the last few days. The partner would have cased the place for him, taken pictures. He’d have to know the best way out, where security is inside and out. Why the hell did it take this long to get out the alert?”