New York to Dallas - J. D. Robb [132]
Roarke saw precisely where she’d landed. “We haven’t been looking back far enough for the location.”
“No. We’ve been looking back a couple of years. Not far enough.”
“A dozen years is a long time, and clever. Who’d look that far back?”
“Not that far.” She laid a finger on Melinda’s picture. “Here, right here. She went to visit him. Whatever plans he made prior, he adjusted. She was the key. A sign from whatever perverted god he worships. He took her—the last he took—and I freed her. Melinda from Dallas. I knew that would trip his switch. I knew it had. How did I miss this?”
“Bollocks. You didn’t miss a thing. You didn’t even suspect he had another hole until yesterday. Why would you?”
He got up, went to her desk. “When did she visit him?”
“August ’fifty-five.”
“Then we start there.”
“New construction. He had plenty of time, why not customize it, get exactly what he wanted?”
She pulled out her ’link, nearly tagged Peabody before she remembered. Dutifully, she contacted Ricchio. “I might have something.”
She let Roarke handle the search while Ricchio set up a team to do the same from his end.
“The feds are about to freeze the accounts,” she told Roarke. “This bought us a couple hours. They’ll hold off that long.”
“But no pressure,” he muttered.
She started to snap back, then got a look at him. Hair tied back, working the comp, a smart screen, data flashing on the wall screen across the room.
But no glass wall, she thought. And no drag of worry and fatigue on his face.
Instead of snapping she walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.
He glanced up at her. “I haven’t found it yet.”
“But you will. I’m calling Mira in. She may be able to help us. And Feeney. I should let him know where we are.”
“Go do it somewhere else.”
When she brought Mira up, Eve gave Roarke another glance. “Don’t talk to him,” she warned. “He can get bitchy when he’s in this deep. I don’t know if we have any of that tea stuff.”
“I had it stocked, and I don’t get bitchy. Bloody, buggering hell.”
Eve just rolled her eyes and got the tea.
“Thanks.”
“We can take this downstairs.”
“No. The board’s helpful to me, too.” But Mira spoke quietly as Roarke switched to Irish and mutters. “He’s devolving.”
“No, he just gets more Irish when he’s frustrated.”
“Not Roarke.” Mira smiled a little. “McQueen. He spent a long time in prison, and as many do, he grew used to the routine, the structure. Freedom after confinement can be frightening, overstimulating, leave you floundering. How do you make a decision when making decisions has been taken away?”
“But he made decisions in prison. He chose a partner, chose a location, chose his first victim with Melinda.”
“Yes, but even those were illogical. He’s first and foremost a pedophile, but he risks his freedom with a plan to kill you.”
“I stopped him. He’s also made of ego.”
“Yes. I would have expected him—and so did you—to go under first, to hunt next, and to come after you last. He put you first. And since he’s been out, he’s acted on impulse, he’s been impatient, broken pattern. His confidence is broken. He denies it, but his actions are rash . . . inelegant. Contacting you today, showing you the video—”
Eve looked Mira in the eye. “I’m okay.”
“Showing you tells me he’s fighting to get his confidence back, to show you how confident he is.”
“Ties and olives.”
Mira simply stared. “I’m sorry?”
“He’s bought a lot of stuff, duplicated it, which doesn’t go with his previous pattern. Like dozens of ties, multiple jars of olives. Other stuff. And Melinda said he went blank for a minute after he got the call from Sylvia. Pulled out the knife, then just went blank. Like he forgot what he wanted to do.”
“It fits.” Mira nodded. “Freedom after a long confinement can be stressful even though