New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(100)

“He wasn’t. Prison’s taken some of the shine off him, and he had a fairly murky pool to fish from. Stibble served his purpose well enough,” Eve added. “McQueen didn’t think we’d fish Stibble out of the pool so fast.”

“One of a number of miscalculations this time around.”

“Even miscalculating, he’s killed two people, tortured two more, abducted Melinda, abducted and raped Darlie.”

“So don’t underestimate him,” Roarke concluded.

“Never. We lose him once he picks up the car at the transpo center here, but I’ll fill that in. What he did was go to the fancy wine store, run more errands before going to the apartment.”

She tucked her hands in her pockets as she tried to put herself in McQueen’s head. “I think he didn’t give Sylvia his ETA. Didn’t want her there to greet him. Had things to set up. He’d want to enjoy his alone time, check the cams, hide whatever he didn’t want her poking into. Plus, she’d want a romantic reunion, wouldn’t she? No time for that. He wants to get Melinda in before the champagne and caviar.”

She walked around the board. “And maybe, most probably, one of the errands he ran was a stop-off at his second location. Check it out, set up whatever he wanted in the place, assure himself it was adequate when and if, if and when.”

She glanced over, saw the cat had found the sleep chair, and was putting it to his usual good work. Then she turned, saw Roarke drinking coffee, watching her.

“No comments?”

“Just watching my cop work. I like the look of her when she’s on her game.”

“I feel on game—or close. Better.”

“I can see it.”

“Aired out the brain, and the belly. Then filled the belly part with spaghetti and meatballs. McQueen’s toasted.”

He smiled at her. “And what does all this tell you, his errands and caviar?”

“It’s pattern, it’s movement. The more you know, the more you know. He’s had to take time to change his hair, subtle changes to the face, eye color. That means supplies. Wigs and rinses, enhancers. We didn’t find anything at the apartment, so he took those with him. Which tells me he means to use them again.”

She stepped back to study the various photos, the IDs he’d used.

“You’re always buying me jewelry.”

“Are you angling for a gift?”

“Jesus, no, I can’t keep up as it is. She had jewelry at her place. A couple of nice pieces. She was wearing jewelry when I crashed her van. Wouldn’t she have had some at his place? She had clothes, shoes, the face and hair gunk. Wouldn’t she have left some baubles there?”

He considered. “Yes. She wanted to be with him, hoped to live with him. When a woman’s maneuvering to move in with a man she tends to leave pieces of herself behind. Get him used to it.”

“Really?”

Her tone made him grin. “Something you were careful not to do initially. I had to make do with a stray button.”

“Living with you wasn’t in the plans. Plans change. So saying she left some baubles, he took them. Which means he thinks he can use them, or sell them, pawn them. The locals could look at that.”

“Sounds like busywork, as you don’t know what or when he might sell or pawn.”

“Investigations are loaded with busywork. The locals need to find the people he told her to contact for the soundproofing, the security. He wanted them, specifically for the main apartment. Wouldn’t he have used them for the secondary location? No,” she said before Roarke could comment.

“No,” he agreed. “Because they might have mentioned the other job to his partner, even if he instructed them not to. She was a player, knew the games. Sex, money, or just asking the right question at the right time, and she could have found him out. Better to keep it all separate.”

“So, the locals dig up the first round, and we dig for the second. I need you to search for a second location. The higher level. Classier, more central. He had to arrange it from prison, and without an outside partner. I’ll get Feeney on it, piecing through what he’s getting on McQueen’s coms, but everything coming through is patchy and fractured.”

“It takes time to piece jammed, wiped, and filtered coms back together.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. We work it here; they work it there. The locals and feds do what they do.”

“You want him now,” Roarke decided. “Before, you wanted him, but it didn’t matter who took him down. Now, you want it.”

She didn’t answer at first, but walked to the AutoChef for coffee. “It’s not because he killed her,” she began, and turned back to Roarke. “Not because of the connection.”

“All right.”

“It’s because he killed. Because she killed a cop. It’s because Darlie’s father gave me ice cream while he was fighting back tears. And I guess it’s because I remember when I was the kid in the hospital bed with a cop standing over me.”

“I don’t care why unless you do. I’m just glad of it, because it’s been personal, Eve, all along. And don’t tell me it can’t be, that you have to stay objective. It’s both. It’s always both for you. That’s why you’re so good at it.”