New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“Makes him a good match for McQueen.”

“I’m sure they bonded. I want McQueen’s bitch, Peabody. Squeeze hard.”

“He’s the lemon, we’ll make lemonade. How’s it going down there?”

“It’s weird. They’re too polite, they talk funny, and stuff has too much shine on it. But the coffee’s worse than Central’s, so that’s something. I’m going to send you everything I’ve got, then I’m going to pull Roarke in from whatever he’s doing at EDD. I want to work on my own at the hotel for a while. You can reach me on my pocket ’link.”

“I’ll let you know when we’ve got him.”

Eve clicked off, sat back. She wanted to be there. She wanted to track down Civet, squeeze his lemons into lemonade.

She hadn’t been able to intimidate, squeeze, or snarl since she’d left New York. It just wasn’t right.

She tagged Roarke. “I’ve got a couple lines,” she told him. “I want to take what I’ve got and work at the hotel. I need to get out of here as soon as you can shake loose.”

“I’m right there with you. On my way.”

She copied and saved data, gathered what she wanted. Rather than contact the feds directly, she wrote a quick, down-and-dirty summary and shot it to their ’links as text mail.

When she walked out to inform Ricchio of her plans, Roarke intercepted her.

“I let the Texas lieutenant know where you’ll be. Let’s get the bloody hell out of here.”

“Problem?”

He took her arm to hurry her along. “Let’s just say I’ve gotten used to your cop house. This one’s given me an itch between the shoulder blades.”

“How’s the deal in EDD?”

“Not as charming to my mind as our own, but efficient and with a similar wardrobe—though with a southwestern edge. The commanding officer doesn’t care for civilians in his space—something else I’m accustomed to. But I’ve dealt with that.”

“You showed off,” Eve said as they got in the car.

“It had to be done. I dislike being scowled at and insulted by cops. Present company excepted. And how was your day?”

“Progress.”

She filled him in as they drove.

“Your two-pronged approach seems to be working quite well,” Roarke commented. “As does your focus on the woman. She’s a chink in his wall. I agree with you, he won’t keep her long. He has to know she’s a liability, if not at this point, soon.”

“She could stretch it out if she plays him right—but I think she’s probably emotionally attached, so she’ll fuck up. And he has Melinda for company and conversation.”

“You think he’ll use her after all?”

“I think that’s low probability, which is why I’m worried he’ll move on a kid, and soon. But she

’ll talk to him, at least I think she will. It’s what she does now. She’s trained. I want to believe she’ll get through this, use that training, keep him from hurting her.”

He pulled up in front of the hotel, one of those slick, shiny spears in the city’s arsenal. He said, simply, “Roarke,” and handed the key code and what Eve assumed was a hefty tip to the doorman as the man all but bolted to the doors to open them.

“This isn’t where we stayed last time. But it’s obviously one of yours.”

“It is, yes, and I thought we’d both want the change.”

When they walked to an elevator, the security man at the desk came to attention, snapped out, “Sir.”

Roarke gave him a nod, then swiped a card. When they stepped into the small, muted gold elevator, he said, “Triplex West, top level.”