New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“It’ll probably still get screwed up before it’s over.”

“Oh, almost certainly. So why don’t we eat before it does?”

“Good idea.” But she walked to him first, wrapped her arms around him. “I’d rather be screwed up with you than smooth with anybody else.”

“Again, both ways.” He drew her back, traced his finger over the dent in her chin. “What do you say to spaghetti and meatballs?”

“I say yay.” She hugged him again, then let out a genuine laugh as Galahad wound between their feet. “In a dead sleep he hears you say spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Three plates, then. If you can’t spoil your cat, who can you spoil?”

“But no wine for him. He’s a mean drunk.”

She held on another moment, taking comfort, giving it back. “I want to say just one more thing about it, then set it aside, at least for now.”

“All right.”

“When I was a kid—after, I mean. When I was in the system, I used to imagine somebody stole me from my parents. They’d find me, take me home. Somewhere nice, with a yard and toys. And they’d be great, perfect. They’d love me.”

She closed her eyes when he tightened his grip. “After a while I had to deal with what’s real. Nobody was coming for me. There was no house and yard and toys. I did okay, and one day I did a whole hell of a lot better. I found you.”

She stepped back, gripping his hands in hers. “I got really lucky because, Roarke, you’re my what’s real.”

He brought her hands to his lips. “Always.”

20

He expected she’d go back to work after dinner, and she didn’t surprise him. But Mira was right. He understood her.

She needed the work, the forward motion again. She needed to connect with Peabody again, like a touchstone, no matter how brief the conversation.

“They’re still working on finding his New York hole. But we’ve sussed out his steps from the breakout to Dallas.”

She went to her board, started another time line. “He picked up a package at the mail drop he’d arranged with his partner. The IDs, some clothes, the jammers, the ’link. From there, he goes to his old apartment. Secures Schuster and Kopeski, does his particular brand of torture. Has some breakfast, cleans up, takes what he wants. When he’s finished there, he takes a stroll. He checked into the Warfield Hotel, reservation, early check-in secured, under Milo, picks up a package they’re holding for him—which I’d say is the suit. Peabody tracked down the cab that dropped him off, and that’s damn good work. He’d walked five blocks from his old place, hailed one. We’ve got the security disc from check-in.”

She ordered it on screen. “See, working man—traveling. A duffel, a ball cap, sunshades—Tray Schuster’s—skids, Schuster’s again. He makes contact with me from the hotel room, using the filtered ’link and jammer. He calls for the valet to press his suit, the one she sent him. He orders a hearty meal from room service. Gets suited up.”

She shifted the screen image, showed him coming out of the elevator, blond hair, sharp suit, briefcase he probably bought in New York. “He used the in-room checkout. He’d arranged for private car service, which picked him up, took him a block from Central, where he ordered it to wait. Breezed by to see me, slipped back into the car, which dropped him off at the shuttle. He had a light snack and two glasses of Cabernet in flight. Stibble spilled he’d helped McQueen purchase a vehicle that was waiting at the transpo station here.”

She snorted. “Claims, according to Peabody, McQueen told him it was a gift for an old friend.”

“He’s a poor judge of people for a grifter,” Roarke commented.

“He wasn’t. Prison’s taken some of the shine off him, and he had a fairly murky pool to fish from. Stibble served his purpose well enough,” Eve added. “McQueen didn’t think we’d fish Stibble out of the pool so fast.”

“One of a number of miscalculations this time around.”

“Even miscalculating, he’s killed two people, tortured two more, abducted Melinda, abducted and raped Darlie.”

“So don’t underestimate him,” Roarke concluded.

“Never. We lose him once he picks up the car at the transpo center here, but I’ll fill that in. What he did was go to the fancy wine store, run more errands before going to the apartment.”

She tucked her hands in her pockets as she tried

to put herself in McQueen’s head. “I think he didn’t give Sylvia his ETA. Didn’t want her there to greet him. Had things to set up. He’d want to enjoy his alone time, check the cams, hide whatever he didn’t want her poking into. Plus, she’d want a romantic reunion, wouldn’t she? No time for that. He wants to get Melinda in before the champagne and caviar.”

She walked around the board. “And maybe, most probably, one of the errands he ran was a stop-off at his second location. Check it out, set up whatever he wanted in the place, assure himself it was adequate when and if, if and when.”