New York to Dallas - J. D. Robb [72]
“She’s good hands for it,” he commented. “Quick ones.”
“She’s using. Oh yeah, got a nice buzz on. Feeling good.”
Eve watched her walk, sort of breezily. Enjoying herself.
At a lingerie boutique she bought and lifted several sets—bras and matching panties, a couple of sex-me outfits, and a robe that would hide nothing.
“She’s peeling off the cash in the best stores,” Bree commented, “but if you ask me she’s not paying for class. Her taste leans toward tacky.”
“Shoes,” Eve muttered. “Had to be. Women always go for the shoes, especially if trying to walk in them makes your feet cry like a baby.”
“Actually I like that one pair, the green ones.”
“She’s loving it,” Eve said, “clerks fawning over her. Shoes, bags, clothes, sex-wear, face and hair gunk. Oh yeah, she’s stockpiling for McQueen. Her shopping safaris run from two weeks prior to his escape, to two days. I’m going to want stills of some of these.”
“I have something I think you’ll want more,” Roarke told her. “I have the van.”
“What the fuck?”
“Apparently she didn’t see any reason to, or perhaps didn’t have the capability to jam security when she parked as Prentiss. I took a chance, did a few scans. She also decided to give herself a break, and parked with the valet.”
He toggled something on the keyboard.
“Oh thank you, Jesus.”
“It’s Roarke.” He tapped a finger on Eve’s head. “You really shouldn’t forget your own husband’s name.”
“There it is. Make, model, year. A dark, dull brown now. You got the fucking license plate.”
“A job not done well is just buggering around.”
“Nailed the bitch,” Eve said, and felt an uneasy mix of satisfaction and trepidation. “Jones, run that plate, contact your people. Briefing in thirty. Shit, contact the feds, too.”
She turned, grinned fiercely at Roarke. “You’ve earned more than a cookie.”
“I’ll remember that come payday. Your color’s back, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, I’m feeling more like myself. I want to run the address on her ID, see what we’ve got there.”
“I’ll do it. I would have sooner, but I wanted to get you her face, then there was the van.”
“The van’s the killer. If you find the address, I can tag Peabody. At this rate, I could’ve walked to New York, sweated Civet, and walked back.”
She yanked out her ’link.
“Plate’s registered to Davidson Millford, with the same address as her Prentiss ID. I’ll run Millford after I set up the briefing.”
“Good enough. Once I contact my—” The ’link beeped in her hand. “Peabody,” she snapped. “It’s about fucking time.”
“Sorry, Dallas, Civet was a cashew, or whatever nut’s really tough to crack. Apparently he did some studying during his last stretch and considers himself a jailhouse lawyer. Pain in the ass.”
“Did you go bad cop?”
“No.” On screen, Peabody sulked. “I wanted to, but Baxter pointed out he has more evil genius. We worked him until nearly midnight. Civet kept calling for breaks, tossing out crazy loco trades. At one point he wanted a walk on the illegals charges, free ice cream for life, and season tickets to the Yankees.”
“How the hell did you let him play you that way?”
“Dallas, I swear he wouldn’t be squeezed last night. Said we could toss him back in the cage, no problem. This time he’d come out a judge.
“I think he meant it. He could cite all these weird regulations and laws and bullshit.” As she spoke Peabody rolled her dark, tired eyes. “He was enjoying the whole deal. I figure he was trying out his bullshit lawyer chops.”
“Did you get anything?”
“We broke at midnight, then went back at him this morning, bright and early. He took the deal. He was going to take it all along, the little bastard. He knows of McQueen, swears he never had direct dealings with him. We don’t believe him.”
“No kidding?”
Peabody offered a wan smile. “We made like we bought it to get the rest. He admitted he’d had regular transactions with a Sandi Millford, who—”
“Did you say Millford?”
“Yeah. M-I-L-L—”
“I know how to spell it.”
“Okay, then. She claimed—this would be if and when he took payment