New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“Shoving more in there gives me more to work through, and with. I couldn’t get a feel for the place before. It was too crowded, and . . . I wasn’t at my best.”

He said nothing for a moment. “Mira’s at the hotel.”

“I’m not ready for Mira. I’m not ready to yank my mind and guts open. I need to feel I’ve done all I can. I need to do what I’d do under any other circumstances. What I’d do is go back to the scene.”

“All right, we’ll go back to the scene. Then that’s enough, Eve. That’s bloody all for the day.”

Not if they got any sort of a hit, she thought, but didn’t argue.

“Park in the garage,” she told Roarke when they approached the building. “That’s the way he’d have gone in and out routinely.”

She got out of the car. Minimum security, but still it was there. He’d have jammed the cameras when he brought Melinda, then Darlie in. Dallas EDD would work with the discs. If they pulled anything out, she’d take a look. But for now . . .

“You know he may have kept the second ride here, right under her nose. How would she know? Why pay to store it somewhere else, and have to go get it? Plus, it’s just like him. He loves screwing with people, pulling the con, making them a fool.”

“I asked for copies of the building security. We can review them.”

“Yeah, you never know.” She studied the area, the setup, and yes, began to get the feel of it. “He’d bring them in late, reduce risk of running into another resident or visitor. But he’d jam the elevator. No one up or down but him until he was inside. He puts them in a kind of twilight sleep. Walks them right up. Uses the stairs, that’s why he likes a lower floor.”

She started up. “Quiet. Quick. Confident, but excited, too. Especially this time because it’s been so long. The partner goes out first, clears the hall.”

Roarke obliged.

“And they walk the vic right in,” Eve said, stepping out, using her master to uncode the police seal.

“Melinda, straight into the holding room. But Darlie, into the bedroom.” She crossed to it. “Put her down a little deeper, secure her hands to the headboard. It’s a form of paralytic. The vic is aware, but immobilized. He can’t have her squirming around when he does the tat. He’s a perfectionist.”

She visualized it. Stripping the girl, touching her—but just a little, not too much now. Removing his clothes, putting them away. Neat and tidy. Then the tools, the tat.

“Camera’s in the closet.” She walked over, opened it. “He took the brown shoes,” she noted. “The ones Melinda remembered. He took time to select what he’d pack. Nothing rushed or spur of the moment. Nothing carelessly discarded. Except the shirt with his partner’s blood on it.”

She studied the ties again, the duplicates, thought of Melinda’s statement. Just stood there—indecisive.

Considering, she fingered the sleeve of a jacket, a shirt. “Nice. Nice material. He must’ve hated leaving some of this, especially since he couldn’t have had time to wear a lot of it. He’ll want replacements. Will he wait until New York? I don’t know. Can’t say.”

She stepped out of the closet.

“Dallas at their feet. If he means the city, he’s got a place posher than this. He’s tired of the middle-class scene. He bought too many swanky clothes to suit this neighborhood. Not just a few select pieces like before. So, he’s planning, he’s thinking it’s time to move up, where he belongs. He’ll need to bring me there now, so it’s either set up for that or he needs to do it.”

She walked into the bath, stood there, studied, moved out and on, back into the living area where her mother’s blood stained the floor.

Did she believe herself unaffected by it, Roarke wondered. Didn’t she realize she looked at everything but the blood?

“He spends a lot of time out here. He likes the space. A cage is so confining. He can watch Melinda, then Darlie on the monitor, or catch up with some screen, listen to music, read. But he’d get itchy. He needs to be out and about. He needs the city. He’ll go out, seek out places with people. Shops, restaurants, galleries, clubs. After he sends the partner away, he’d go out. He’d want to go out, get the smell of her out of his nose. Put on a new persona, sit at a bar or a table in some trendy club. Strike up conversations, flirt with some woman. If he could run a game, so much the better. Then he’d come back, lock up, check on his ‘guests.’ Maybe have a drink while he counted up his take. Then he’d sleep like a baby.”

She walked to the kitchen, checked the AutoChef, the friggie, the cabinets. “He left a lot of this behind, and you know, there’s a lot of duplication here, too. Does anybody need a half-dozen jars of stuffed olives?”

“Hoarding?” Roarke suggested.

“Yeah, maybe.” But she wasn’t so sure of that now. “He has to leave a lot behind because it’s too annoying and time-consuming to repack food. He can get more. Check gourmet food shops, that should be on the list. And clubs, the trendy ones. If we can find out where he went the nights he abducted Melinda, then Darlie, we’d know what he’s looking for in late-night entertainment.”

“He wouldn’t go back. He’d look for fresh,” Roarke said when she turned and frowned at him. “And wouldn’t go back on the off chance whoever he played as a mark came in as well.”

“You’re probably right. Good thought. So if we can find, we eliminate. But we’d have a style.”

She walked to the window, looked out, looked down.

Dallas at our feet, she thought again.