She settled back. “Roarke, let’s see his floor.”
She studied the corridor, the placement of other apartments, the position of the stairs, the elevators. And the security on McQueen’s door.
“Target’s vehicle in assigned slot. Now disabled.”
“Acknowledged. We hold.”
And, she thought, we wait.
A few blocks away McQueen browsed the selections of a gourmet market. He’d missed this—missed the time to do as he liked, missed enjoying a meal of his own choosing when he chose to enjoy it.
He intended to make himself a very special dinner, the last before he had some company.
The last before Eve joined him.
It would work very well, he thought as he considered the artichokes. He knew just where to find her now.
The hotel security on communication was, as you’d expect from a Roarke property, perfection. But the Dallas police weren’t quite so clever or well-funded. It hadn’t been difficult to triangulate her signal during their last contact. And tonight, he’d pay her a visit. He would, undoubtedly, have to kill Roarke, which was a shame considering all that lovely money that might have come into his hands.
But Eve was worth the cost.
Just a few more details to iron out, which he’d do after marketing.
He found himself staring, unable to make a decision on olives. So many different choices, all those little jars. How was he suppose to pick one, to know what he’d want in an hour? In two?
Annoyed with himself, he grabbed one at random, then another, then two more. Of course he knew what he wanted, what he would want. He just had so many things on his mind. Gaining entrance to the hotel, then to Eve’s rooms wasn’t a snap, after all. Not that it was beyond his reach, but it did take careful planning. Hardly a wonder he couldn’t decide on olives.
He took out his PPC, where he’d carefully noted down everything he’d need for his special meal. Calmer now, he continued to browse. Everything was so much better when it was noted down, organized.
He studied the little berry tomatoes for a long time.
“Something’s going on at the Gold Door.”
McQueen came out of what felt like a trance. “What did you say?”
“Cops.”
He jerked, fumbled, and nearly dropped his basket. With his head swiveling from side to side, he prepared to run.
Then he saw the stock boy talking to another one of the staff.
“Cops at that place?” the stock boy snickered. “What, did somebody trip over their money and fall out the window?”
“Maybe bigger. I had a delivery over there. When I came out I see this cop.”
“So. Cops are everywhere except when you want them.”
“You took your cynical pill this morning. Not just a cop, a detective, and he must’ve been undercover.”
“Then how do you know he’s a detective?”
“Because I know him. Detective Buck Anderson. He came in to talk to my criminology class a couple weeks ago. He’s pretty chill, man, made me think about being a cop.”
This time a snicker and a snort from the stock boy. “As if.”
“I’d be a mag cop. I spotted an undercover detective, right? He’s sitting on the wall over there, jeans and a T-shirt, sunshades, but I recognized him.”
“Maybe it’s his day off.”
“No way, ’cause when I said hi to him, he acted like he didn’t know me. I talked to him after class for like twenty minutes. He gave me his card and everything. Like I said, he was chill, but he said I had it wrong. ‘Do I look like a cop,’ he says to me, and tells me to get lost.”
“Big whoop, Radowski. It probably wasn’t even him. And so what if it was?”
“It was him. I bet he’s on a stakeout or something. I bet we’re going to hear something big goes down at the Gold Door.”
Very carefully, McQueen set the basket aside. He fixed on a smile, strolled up to the two young men. “Excuse me, did I hear you mention the Gold Door? The police? I have a friend who lives there. I hope there’s no trouble.”
“I don’t know, sir. I just thought I saw somebody I knew.” The smile didn’t go with the fury in the man’s eyes, so the delivery boy edged away. “I have to get back to work.”
The stock boy turned to McQueen. “Can I help you find anything, sir?”
“No. No, you can’t.” McQueen stormed out, shoving past a couple just coming in, then walked quickly in the opposite direction from the Gold Door and his perfect apartment.
Eve blocked out the bored chatter, stayed inside her own head, her own thoughts. An hour into the wait, Roarke spoke in her ear.
“McQueen’s made contact again. He wants to talk to you.”
Something up, something wrong, she thought. “Hold him. Keep that sweep going. I don’t want to hear a sound from anybody in here. Can you track him?” she asked Roarke
“Possibly. It’s more difficult on these mobile units.”
“Try to pin him. Link us up, block the video.”
“Use the com on your mobile. I’m crossing to give us two points. Try to give me some time with the track. Linking now.”
She changed positions, waited.
“Twice in one day. You must miss me, Isaac.”
“Not for long.”
Something wrong, she thought again. She heard it in his voice—not the usual controlled amusement, but temper, ripe as roses.
“So you keep saying.”
“But you just couldn’t be patient. It’s rude, very rude, Eve, to come to my home without an invitation.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Just dropped by. When are you coming back, Isaac? I have a housewarming present for you.”
His breath hissed in and out, in and out. “You think you’re smart.”
“Found your hole, didn’t I?”
“Luck. Blind luck. It won’t be luck when I come for you. I’m going to make you very, very sorry, so sorry you’ll be grateful when I finally cut your throat.”
“Do you plan to use the knife you bought at Points and Blades? That’s a lot of money for a sticker. I can’t wait to see it.”
“You will. One day I’ll just be there.”
“You know, you sound a little miffed. Why don’t we—”
She swore under her breath when he cut her off.
“Working on it,” Roarke said before she could ask. “I can’t nail it, not from here. The best I can give you is somewhere on Davis Ave., between Corral and Kingston.”
Ricchio came on. “I’m alerting dispatch. We have an all-points out.”
“He’s not coming back here,” Eve said. “We’re going in. He’s running now, maybe we can find something that tells us where he’s most likely to run.”
She wanted to punch something, but kept it together as she got out of the van. She’d watched the sweeps, kept track of the cops they’d put on the street. Nothing should have tipped him off.
“How’d he make us?” she demanded when Roarke joined her. “How the hell did he make us?”
“Instincts perhaps.”
“Nobody’s are that good.” She shook her head at him. “He knew we were here. I was here. And he is seriously pissed.”
She let Ricchio clear the road with the check-in droid, building security. By the time they’d reached McQueen’s apartment and gained access, she found calm again.
“We think it was one of my men,” Ricchio told her. “Nothing he did, or we did. Someone recognized him, a college student. My detective had spoken to his class recently, spent some time answering the boy’s questions after. The kid came out of the building, spotted him. He got rid of him, but did a run on him anyway. He works at a gourmet market a few blocks away—just outside our perimeter.”
“Talk about luck.”
“He’s down there now, speaking to the boy. It’s possible McQueen was in there, the boy said something about the police.”
“Jesus.”
“No one could’ve predicted or foreseen—”
“No, no one could. It just swung McQueen’s way, and that’s all.” But she stiffened when Nikos strode up to her. “If you’re going to crawl up my ass on this, just save it.”