New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“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 fucking 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.

“Where’d you get the car, Isaac? Not a lot of time to wheel and deal, but plenty to set it up in advance.”

She turned to her ’link.

“Hey, Dallas.” Peabody beamed at her. “How’d it—”

“Roust Stibble. He plays middleman. McQueen’s driving a new Orion sedan, dark blue. If Stibble brokered the buy, shake it out of him. I’ve got a partial plate, Texas, Baker, Delta, Zulu. I’m going to run it here, but you do the same. If he didn’t buy, he stole it. I want to know where and when he did either.”

“Okay, I’m on it. Is there anything else new?”

She hesitated, just a beat. “We have his partner in custody.”