New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(59)

“Shaved that some, I bet. Probably had some work done, too, but this is the face she sees in the mirror now.”

“How do you know? How did you find her?”

“Mall security discs,” Roarke answered when Eve said nothing, only stared and stared at the image on screen. “The lieutenant believed, correctly, as she’d grazed that area with her more maternal aspect, she used it for herself as well. As herself, to shop for a proper wardrobe and the like.”

He waited again, this time running a hand gently over Eve’s hair. “Do you want to see her movements at the shopping center?”

“I can’t find it,” Eve muttered.

“What, darling?”

“I—I don’t know. Something. Doesn’t matter.” She tried to shrug it off, then bore down and shoved until she was clear of the feeling that dogged her. “Yeah, let’s see her—how she moves, where she goes.”

“There’s an address on her ID.” A tremor shook lightly in Bree’s voice.

“Yeah, I saw it. She might have listed her actual address here, might not. But we’ll check it out. Let’s get all we’ve got first.”

“I need to call it in. We need to get over there.”

“Detective, we don’t rush this. She’s smart. She’s worked games for years. If we go charging after her before we lay out some strategy, we could lose her.”

She checked the time. Early still. “And I’m waiting for my partner who’s working another source. Let’s look at the security.”

“Once I got the match,” Roarke said, “I isolated her a number of times, various shops, dates, times of day.”

“Going for enhancements—upscale types,” Eve noted. Blond now, hair worn long and loosely waved. Dress, brilliant blue, short and tight. Good manicure.

“Jesus, do they watch these things? She palmed that lip dye and the other thing, whatever it is, right under the clerk’s snooty nose.”

“Eye smudge,” Bree supplied. “Top-drawer brand. But she’s paying—cash—for the skin cream, and that costs more.”

“Maybe habit. Stealing for some’s like a hobby.” She shifted her gaze toward Roarke, watched him smile at her cheerfully.

“She’s good hands for it,” he commented. “Quick ones.”

“She’s using. Oh yeah, got a nice buzz on. Feeling good.”

Eve watched her walk, sort of breezily. Enjoying herself.

At a lingerie boutique she bought and lifted several sets—bras and matching panties, a couple of sex-me outfits, and a robe that would hide nothing.

“She’s peeling off the cash in the best stores,” Bree commented, “but if you ask me she’s not paying for class. Her taste leans toward tacky.”

“Shoes,” Eve muttered. “Had to be. Women always go for the shoes, especially if trying to walk in them makes your feet cry like a baby.”

“Actually I like that one pair, the green ones.”

“She’s loving it,” Eve said, “clerks fawning over her. Shoes, bags, clothes, sex-wear, face and hair gunk. Oh yeah, she’s stockpiling for McQueen. Her shopping safaris run from two weeks prior to his escape, to two days. I’m going to want stills of some of these.”

“I have something I think you’ll want more,” Roarke told her. “I have the van.”

“What the f**k?”

“Apparently she didn’t see any reason to, or perhaps didn’t have the capability to jam security when she parked as Prentiss. I took a chance, did a few scans. She also decided to give herself a break, and parked with the valet.”

He toggled something on the keyboard.

“Oh thank you, Jesus.”

“It’s Roarke.” He tapped a finger on Eve’s head. “You really shouldn’t forget your own husband’s name.”

“There it is. Make, model, year. A dark, dull brown now. You got the f**king license plate.”

“A job not done well is just buggering around.”

“Nailed the bitch,” Eve said, and felt an uneasy mix of satisfaction and trepidation. “Jones, run that plate, contact your people. Briefing in thirty. Shit, contact the feds, too.”

She turned, grinned fiercely at Roarke. “You’ve earned more than a cookie.”

“I’ll remember that come payday. Your color’s back, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling more like myself. I want to run the address on her ID, see what we’ve got there.”

“I’ll do it. I would have sooner, but I wanted to get you her face, then there was the van.”

“The van’s the killer. If you find the address, I can tag Peabody. At this rate, I could’ve walked to New York, sweated Civet, and walked back.”

She yanked out her ’link.

“Plate’s registered to Davidson Millford, with the same address as her Prentiss ID. I’ll run Millford after I set up the briefing.”

“Good enough. Once I contact my—” The ’link beeped in her hand. “Peabody,” she snapped. “It’s about f**king time.”

“Sorry, Dallas, Civet was a cashew, or whatever nut’s really tough to crack. Apparently he did some studying during his last stretch and considers himself a jailhouse lawyer. Pain in the ass.”