J. Robb - New York to Dallas

“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.

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 assholes.

“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.”

“You suspect either or both of these men aided McQueen in his escape?” Lieutenant Tusso asked.

“I think one or both did more. McQueen works with a partner until she bores him, screws up, or fulfills her purpose. He’d want someone on the outside. He’d need to get and receive communication from her.”

“He needed a liaison,” Nikos said.

“And has likely worked with more than one over the past twelve years. We’re going to find his visitors list leans heavily toward females. We connect someone at the prison—and my money’s on either or both of these men—we have a lead on the partner. She’ll be an addict of some kind, likely have a sheet for grifting at the least. She’ll be between the ages of forty-five and sixty. Attractive.”

Now it got trickier.

“I have a short list of names of women who fit the partner profile, and have connections or associations with either Stibble or Lovett. We could get lucky and match one up with the visitors list.”

“That’s considerable, and in a short amount of time.”

Eve merely glanced at Nikos. “We don’t have any to waste. He’s already hunting.”

“We know McQueen prefers urban environments,” Tusso began. “He most usually hunts and abducts his victims in busy areas, likes the crowds. Times Square, Chelsea Piers, Coney Island—those were his primary hunting grounds during his last spree.”

Eve wanted to say it hadn’t been a spree. Sprees were fast, furious, often random. Just a thirst for violence and excitement. But she held her tongue.

“He’s already hit in New York,” Tusso continued, “and sent messages to Lieutenant Dallas through the victims. Our focus will be on his known hunting grounds.”

“We’ll coordinate with you,” Nikos told him. “Our probability scans and anals are heavily weighted toward McQueen moving out of New York and going under for a period of time,” she began. “We’re looking at public transportation, and doing facial recognition on toll scans.”

Eve held her tongue again as Nikos ran through the FBI’s strategy. If the feds wanted to believe McQueen was on the run, let them.

“We already have officers in place at the high-probability targets,” Tusso continued. “McQueen usually snatches his vics at night, but he’s been known to work in daylight. We’ll have those areas covered twenty-four/seven until his capture.”

After a brisk knock on the door, Whitney’s admin announced Oliver Greenleaf, the prison’s chief administrator. Eve immediately dubbed him a weasel. Striding in at his side in a sharp red suit, Amanda Spring, the prison’s chief counsel, carried a glossy leather briefcase the same shade of golden brown as her hair.

“Commander.” With a toothy smile, Greenleaf extended his hand as he crossed the room. “I do apologize for being a bit late. We were detained by—”

“You’re fully twenty minutes late,” Whitney said in a tone that, to Eve’s private satisfaction, wiped the smile off Greenleaf’s pale, pinched face. “And I’m not interested in your reasons or excuses. You’ve already kept this department and agents from the FBI waiting more than twenty-four hours for information vital to our joint investigation.”