New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

He drove out of the station and straight into Dallas traffic.

She remembered this, from her previous return there. The thick traffic, the roads and streets that curled or angled off rather than forming a reasonable grid. And the buildings, she thought now—not like New York where old mixed with new, where brownstones spread and sleek towers climbed. But spears and towers, arc

hes and wedges, all flashy to her mind.

Like a solid gold zippy toy.

She focused on them, on her instinctive dislike of the skyline, and refused to think about what had happened in a freezing room in a run-down hotel in the city’s hard-edged sex district.

“It doesn’t look the same, really, as it did when we were here. Not even two years ago.”

Roarke gestured to one of the many towering cranes. “Something’s always coming down and going up. It’s a city in perpetual evolution.”

“Maybe that’s good.” She shifted in her seat. “Good it doesn’t stay the same. Maybe I won’t feel anything. It’s like coming to an anonymous city. It’s more off-planet than on to me anyway. Any city, anywhere. It’s nothing to me.”

If it was, he thought, she wouldn’t feel the need to convince herself.

“We’ve got a visitor’s slot.” She read off a text. “Level Three East, Slot Twenty-two. That’s the same level as SVU.”

“Convenient.”

“They’re being polite. They could’ve given us a slot on the other side of the building. So this is a good sign. I’ve got to persuade Ricchio to let me take the lead. He doesn’t know McQueen, he’s got no reason to. He’ll have done his homework since the grab, sure, but he doesn’t know this fucker.”

“Bree Jones does.”

“Yeah, but she’s still got some green on her. And it’s her sister on the line. You add that to the trauma, and believe me she’s relived every second of it since ten forty-three this morning. I don’t know if she’s going to help or muck it up.”

Roarke turned into the garage, wound up the levels. “You’re nervous, anxious. Don’t tell me you’re not. I know you. They won’t see it, but I can feel it.”

“Okay. I can hold that down.”

“No question. You might want to slow it down, follow Ricchio’s lead, get a sense of him, and Bree Jones. Give them a chance to get a sense of you.”

“You’re right. You’re right, and I know that. I just want—”

“To get through it,” Roarke said, and parked in 22.

“Yeah, and that stops. Stops right now. If that’s the best I can do, I should have stayed home.” She got out, looked at Roarke over the car. “Priority one, get Melinda Jones out, safe and alive. Priority two, put Isaac McQueen, and his partner, in cages. The rest? It’s just clutter.”

He walked around the car. “Let’s go clean house.” He took her hand as they walked to the interior doors.

“Hey! Consultants don’t walk into cop shops holding hands with badges.”

He gave her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “That’s my cop.”

Security logged them in, cleared Eve’s sidearm and clutch piece, then had them wait.

The white tile floors all but sparkled. The walls hit a soft brown, several shades richer and warmer than beige, and sported art with colorful geometrics framed in bronze. Benches under them held a shine. Nearby vending machines gleamed spotlessly clean.

Eve felt a nagging itch at the base of her spine that only increased when a couple of uniforms strolled by, smiled, and gave her and Roarke a cheery, “Afternoon.”

“What kind of cop shop is this,” she asked, “with fancy art on the walls and uniforms who give you a big smile instead of the beady eye?”

“You’re the New York in Dallas.”

“What?”

“Buck up, darling. I’m sure somewhere in this facility someone’s getting the beady eye.”