New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(109)

“Possibly.”

“Because if he had another, and I think he did, why didn’t he go there, too? Why just where I took him down? He could’ve used that instead of a hotel. If someone else is living there, he just does what he did to Schuster and Kopeski. More fun anyway. But if he sold it, it doesn’t mean anything. Reaching,” she said, pushing her hair back.

“Maybe, maybe not. Keep going.”

“I’m not sure where I’m going, but okay. He killed the New York partner before I took him down. Our best anal is he kills his partner before he switches locations. But there wasn’t any sign he planned to leave that apartment or New York. He had his collection there.”

“He was bored with that partner.”

“Yeah, or she got on his nerves or screwed up. But say he was bored with her, wouldn’t he have another on the string? A replacement, at least potentials?”

“I’d say yes. Yes,” he repeated, pleased they both seemed to be thinking more clearly. “And wouldn’t he want or need another place—one where he didn’t have to worry about the partner dropping by, or the potential becoming too curious about that locked room. A place where he could entertain her, begin to train her, develop the bond.”

“A place more suited to his tastes.”

“I could find it for you, given time,” Roarke considered. “But I don’t see how it would help you at this point.”

“Just additional data. He’s nested in New York. It’s his kind of town, and he’s having one hell of a run there. He’s listening to the media reports on the Collector, how the cops aren’t any closer. Oh, he’s loving it, maybe about to get a new mommy, too. Life is excellent. Then some poor bastard gets mugged and murdered outside his building, and I show up at his door.”

“He couldn’t have planned on that.”

“No, and that’s what he does. He plans. Anticipates, prepares for contingencies while he”—she trailed off with a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth—“plans.”

“Someone got a buzz,” Roarke commented.

“He plans.” She pushed up, strode to the board. “That control, anticipation. Routine, procedure. It’s what made him so good at what he did. What did he have to do in prison but plan? Oh, he’s going to get out. It may take time, but that’s all right. He wants everything in place first. It takes time to groom the errand boys, time to get the rhythm of the prison, and show what a good boy he is so he gets a few perks. Time to find the partner, start the training. Time to set it all up, so he can move right ahead.”

Roarke saw precisely where she’d landed. “We haven’t been looking back far enough for the location.”

“No. We’ve been looking back a couple of years. Not far enough.”

“A dozen years is a long time, and clever. Who’d look that far back?”

“Not that far.” She laid a finger on Melinda’s picture. “Here, right here. She went to visit him. Whatever plans he made prior, he adjusted. She was the key. A sign from whatever perverted god he worships. He took her—the last he took—and I freed her. Melinda from Dallas. I knew that would trip his switch. I knew it had. How did I miss this?”

“Bollocks. You didn’t miss a thing. You didn’t even suspect he had another hole until yesterday. Why would you?”

He got up, went to her desk. “When did she visit him?”

“August ’fifty-five.”

“Then we start there.”

“New construction. He had plenty of time, why not customize it, get exactly what he wanted?”

She pulled out her ’link, nearly tagged Peabody before she remembered. Dutifully, she contacted Ricchio. “I might have something.”

She let Roarke handle the search while Ricchio set up a team to do the same from his end.

“The feds are about to freeze the accounts,” she told Roarke. “This bought us a couple hours. They’ll hold off that long.”

“But no pressure,” he muttered.

She started to snap back, then got a look at him. Hair tied back, working the comp, a smart screen, data flashing on the wall screen across the room.

But no glass wall, she thought. And no drag of worry and fatigue on his face.

Instead of snapping she walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.

He glanced up at her. “I haven’t found it yet.”

“But you will. I’m calling Mira in. She may be able to help us. And Feeney. I should let him know where we are.”

“Go do it somewhere else.”

When she brought Mira up, Eve gave Roarke another glance. “Don’t talk to him,” she warned. “He can get bitchy when he’s in this deep. I don’t know if we have any of that tea stuff.”

“I had it stocked, and I don’t get bitchy. Bloody, buggering hell.”

Eve just rolled her eyes and got the tea.

“Thanks.”

“We can take this downstairs.”

“No. The board’s helpful to me, too.” But Mira spoke quietly as Roarke switched to Irish and mutters. “He’s devolving.”

“No, he just gets more Irish when he’s frustrated.”

“Not Roarke.” Mira smiled a little. “McQueen. He spent a long time in prison, and as many do, he grew used to the routine, the structure. Freedom after confinement can be frightening, overstimulating, leave you floundering. How do you make a decision when making decisions has been taken away?”