New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(17)

She scanned down the list. “Multiple visits would be the highest probability. Not too many. No point in sending up a flag.”

She ordered the computer to separate out names of subjects who’d visited between six and twelve times. “We’ll start with these.”

“I’ll take four.”

They ran them for data, put images on screen.

“Computer, delete subjects three, five, and eight. Too many busts,” she told Roarke. “He wouldn’t work with someone who screwed up that often and got caught. And since subject two is now deceased, we can toss her out of the mix. Down to four,” she said as she paced. “Number one, Deb Bracken, has a New York address, so we’ll check her out in person. The other three are scattered around. Miami, Baltimore, and Baton Rouge. We’ll have local authorities give them a look once we’re cleared.

“There’s something about this one. Number seven.”

“Sister Suzan Devon,” Roarke read. “Recovering illegals addict. Two busts for possession, one for solicitation without a license.”

“Yeah, but the busts are in her misspent youth. Nothing since she hit thirty. She’s the right age. Early fifties, not bad looking. Member of the Church of Redemption, based in Baton Rouge. Lists spiritual advisor as reason for visits. Bogus bullshit.”

“The last visit was more than a year ago.”

“That wouldn’t matter if he managed to set things up, and contact her under the radar. She gives me a buzz, so we’ll look at her, and number six—she hits the notes. So Bracken, because she’s here, Devon and this Verner because they buzz, and the last of the four, Rinaldi, because she made the cut.”

She turned to him. “If we correlate their geographical location at the time of the e-mails you dug up, can we identify their particular communications? The contact system they used?”

“I don’t know about we, but I can.”

“Smart-ass.”

“I’ll just sit my smart ass down and do that for you, darling. And you can get me a cookie.”

“A cookie?”

“Yes. I’d like a cookie, and more coffee.”

“Huh.”

As he sat his smart ass down, she decided she wouldn’t mind a cookie herself.

4

When Eve walked into Whitney’s office the next morning, she’d already decided how to play it. She had data, theories, and specific individuals who needed a good talking to.

How she divulged it was key.

The meeting with the feds, the prison rep, the lawyers, and the department’s Fugitive Apprehension team could be a lot of blather, spinning, glad-handing, or a pissing contest.

Personally she enjoyed a good pissing contest, but not when she was pressed for time.

So she went in prepared to play the game with every intention of winning it.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Whitney remained at his desk as he introduced her to the feds.

She judged the curvy brunette, Special Agent Elva Nikos, and her partner, Scott Laurence, with his boxer’s build and shiny pate, as seasoned.

And hoped they weren’t ass**les.

“Lieutenant Tusso is heading the FA team. We’re waiting on the representative from Rikers.”

“While we are,” Nikos began, “I’d like to relay to you what Agent Laurence and myself have related to both Commander Whitney and Lieutenant Tusso. We’re not here to shut you out or step on your toes. We understand that the NYPSD apprehended the subject and built a case for conviction, and that you, in particular, Lieutenant Dallas, have a vested interest in locating Isaac McQueen.”

“Then let me relay to you I don’t care who finds McQueen and slaps him back in a cage. You and your partner, Lieutenant Tusso and his team, or me and mine—or any combination thereof. I don’t care if it’s somebody’s grandmother with a can of pepper spray and a good right hook.”

“I appreciate that, Lieutenant. You can be assured that any leads or information we generate during this investigation will be shared.”

“Ditto. I can start now, or wait until the prison rep decides to join us. Commander?”

Whitney watched her carefully. “You have new information, Lieutenant?”

“I believe I’ve . . . generated possible leads, yes, sir.” At his nod, she continued. “I accessed the employment records of guards and other staff who most often came into contact with McQueen. As all of the staff can and would be considered suspects, this access fell into the boundaries of procedure. Executing standard runs and probability scans, I’d like to bring in Kyle Lovett, a guard assigned to McQueen’s block, and Randall Stibble, a lay counselor.”

“What do you have on them?” Nikos demanded.

“I’m assuming you don’t need to see my work,” Eve said, on the dry side. “Lovett’s done two rounds in a gambling addiction program. Since his wife left him eighteen months ago, I’m betting he needs round three. McQueen likes addictive personalities.”

She had more, but the access there dipped into shadow territory.

“Stibble counsels chemi-heads and alcoholics. He brings his own personal experience. He’s been in and out of rehab since he was sixteen, did time as a juvie and an adult for illegals-related offenses. McQueen doesn’t do illegals, drinks—wine is his choice—in moderation, but he attended Stibble’s sessions regularly. He doesn’t waste his time or do anything without a purpose.”