New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(71)

She looked away again, shrugged. “It’s your money. No skin off mine to flush it. It’s stupid to talk about, anyway. He doesn’t have me. He has Melinda and Darlie, and within a few hours he’s going to realize something’s wrong. He’ll go under. He may leave them alive when he does, or he may not.”

“And you’ll still have a target on your back.”

“Right now, that target is keeping those two people alive. The minute he has to change angles, all bets are off.”

At the hotel, she got out of the car, started inside. “I wanted to come back here primarily because you’ll work better. No cops to bitch about, including me as I’ll stay out of your way. You stay out of mine. He’ll contact me and soon. I need to be ready for it. I need to write things out, sift through them—in the quiet. When I’m done I can have Ricchio send someone to pick me up so you can keep at it here.”

Rather than respond, Roarke rode up with her in silence. Bubbling silence, he thought. Right at the boil.

They got off on the office level, but before she could reach hers, Roarke took a good grip on her arm.

“As you’re spoiling for a fight, I’ll oblige you. But you’ll take a blocker for the headache first.”

“I don’t have time for a fight.”

“Then you shouldn’t take a swing at someone ready to take one back.” He pulled a small case out of his pocket, opened it.

She scowled at the little blue pills.

“Simpler for you to take it,” he said all too easily, “than for me to stuff it down your gullet.”

“Why do you do that? Push and order and threaten.”

“Because you’re in pain, and too much of a bloody mule to admit it. Because I’m in the often maddening position of loving you beyond all reason, so you can infuriate and rip me to pieces at the same time. Now take the f**king pill.”

She snatched one, swallowed. “I don’t have time for emotional dramas.”

“Then don’t set the stage for one by telling me to sit on my arse as you’ll be dead anyway. I live with the reality of what you are and what you do every bleeding day, and don’t need to have it shoved in my face.”

“I was only—”

“Don’t.” He whipped out the word, and the end of the lash was ice cold. “Don’t tell me you were only being rational. You’re trapped in a brutal situation, working to save lives while a piece of your own slashes your heart. I’m trying to cut you a break though you’re denying both of us the comfort of sharing an impossible load.”

The fact that she wanted to weep, to just curl up in a ball and wail appalled her. Sympathy, one kind word from him would break her.

So she lashed out.

“I don’t have time for comfort, or to examine my feelings, explore my goddamn psyche. While we’re standing here discussing why you’re pissed off, two people, one of them a thirteen-year-old girl, are being tortured or worse. So comfort and bruised egos just have to wait.”

“Bruised ego, is it? All right, then. You do what you must, and I’ll do the same. When we’re done we’ll have that drama. We’ll have a bleeding opera.”

He turned, walked into his office. Shut the door.

She took one step toward the door, stepped back. She wasn’t going to play the talk-it-out, fix-it-up routine. Her personal problems had no bearing on the case. The fact that her mother was McQueen’s partner meant nothing to anybody but her.

If they didn’t find McQueen in a matter of hours, they’d lose whatever advantage they held. He could decide to dispose of his two prisoners before he went under.

She couldn’t be responsible for that. She couldn’t let emotional turmoil over something that was over and done bog her down when lives were on the line.

She stepped to her case board, made herself look at the photos of the woman she remembered as Stella. Whatever Stella had done thirty years before had nothing to do with Melinda Jones, Darlie Morgansten, their families, their friends.

At this point she was Sylvia, and Sylvia was only a tool they might be able to use to save two people, to bring McQueen to justice. And she would spend all the years she had left in a cage.

However that made Eve feel, however it might haunt her, didn’t apply to now.

She went to her desk, angling herself so she could see those photos as she worked.

She replayed the interview, making notes, looking for key words, any mistakes. Melinda and Darlie were still alive—it became clear Stella—no, Sylvia, Sylvia now—Sylvia hated them, wanted them dead and gone. Wanted McQueen to herself. Also clear Sylvia hadn’t known that McQueen had withdrawn a large amount of cash.

Eve brought up the security discs from the bank, began to study them.

She made him immediately. He’d gone very blond for his South African ID. His movements precise, his suit perfectly cut.

Where’d you get the suit, Isaac? Did Sylvia buy it for you? Or did you go shopping in New York? Good briefcase, good shoes, too. Somebody did the shopping.

She watched him handle the transaction, flash the teller a charming smile. She followed him out of the bank, picked up the exterior cam. Crowded outdoor mall, she thought, and wondered why the hell people needed so many stores and restaurants. But he walked directly through the parking area.

An all-terrain and a pickup obstructed the view of his vehicle. She ordered the computer to enlarge a section, freeze, and got enough to identify a dark blue sedan, late model. As he pulled out, she enlarged again, froze again, thought she had enough for a make. Only part of the license plate, she thought, but still enough to start a search.