glides for the trip to the commander’s office.
The admin showed her in immediately, shut the door.
“Commander. Detective Peabody and I took Randall Stibble into custody. He gave up the partner.”
“We’ll get to that. Sit down, Lieutenant.”
Though she preferred standing, and he knew it, she sat, because his tone brooked no argument.
“Sir.”
“McQueen’s surfaced. He’s taken a hostage.”
“A hostage?”
“We assume hostage as she no longer fits his victim type.”
“No longer fits.” Her belly clutched. “He’s taken one of his former victims. He has one of those girls. I never considered—I should have.” She shook it off; tried to shake it off. “How do we know she’s with McQueen?”
“He left a message.” He paused at the knock, nodded when Dr. Mira came in.
Now Eve felt a prickle at the back of her neck.
“Eve.” Mira sat in the chair angled toward hers. Her face, as always, was quiet and lovely—but the worry in her eyes pushed Eve to her feet.
“Commander.”
“I want you to sit down, Dallas. I’ve asked Dr. Mira to join us as I—as we both—value her insight and opinion. I’ve already briefed her.”
When she obeyed, he brought his chair over—something she’d never known him to do—so he sat across from her, at eye level.
“At approximately midnight, Central Time, Isaac McQueen abducted Melinda Jones, one of the twin girls and last victims he previously abducted from the Times Square area.”
“I know who she is,” Eve said quietly. “She went to see him in prison when she was nineteen. I didn’t follow up on it.”
Her mouth went dry now, and her heart began to thump. “She lives in Dallas, she and her sister. The sister’s a cop. They live in Dallas. My name.”
Because she’d been found there, beaten, brutalized, and unable—or unwilling—to remember.
“What was the message?”
“This recording answered when Detective Jones called her sister’s’link.”
Whitney kept his eyes on her, ordered his computer to replay the message copied to him by the Dallas police.
Hello, Bree! I hope you remember me. Melinda did at our surprise reunion. Such a pretty young woman now, and you look just like her—even with the different hairstyles. It’s your old friend Isaac. Melinda and I are getting reacquainted, and we’ve so much to catch up on. I hope to do the same with you. We hardly had any time together all those years ago as we were so rudely interrupted. Be a sweetheart, won’t you, and pass this along to Eve Dallas—that’s Lieutenant Dallas now.
Come and get me. If it isn’t Dallas to Dallas—don’t you love that—within eight hours after this message is received, well, I can only say Melinda’s going to be very unhappy with only nine fingers. And that’s just the start.
Eight hours, Eve. Round two starts now. Love, Isaac.
“Did they trace the ’link?”
“In her vehicle,” Whitney told her. “Barely a mile from her apartment.”
“What time did the sister try to tag the ’link?”
“At ten forty-three this morning.”
“It’s still shy of noon. We’re good on time.”
“We have no proof of life,” Whitney began.
“He wouldn’t kill her, sir. Not right off the jump. He chose Melinda Jones for specific reasons. She confronted him while he was in prison. There are no visitor records listing any of his other victims or family members. In addition, he’s gone to some trouble to set this up. He had to have ways and means to get to her, a place to keep her, and that means he’s done his research and utilized his partner to make arrangements. No point in all that just to kill her.”
“While I tend to agree, it’s very possible she’s no more than bait—dead or alive—to lure you down. He wants you there, out of your element and without your usual resources. And we agree he’s gone to some trouble, used a partner, with you as the target.”
He paused, leaned toward her slightly. “Understand me, Lieutenant. I won’t order you to go.”
“Wherever he wants to take me on, Commander, he won’t stop until that happens.”
She’d known, Eve thought now. She’d known it wouldn’t be New York, that he wouldn’t wage this battle on her ground.
But Dallas. She’d never considered he’d use Dallas and a former victim.
And she should have.
“There are another twenty-one survivors from that room,” she continued, “and he can pick and choose. And there are countless others who fit his needs. He wants to engage me. He’ll torture Melinda Jones, and/or take other victims until he does. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s an either/or until I go where he wants me to go.”
No choice, she thought. He’d left her no choice at all. First strike to him.
“I’d prefer having your permission and support, Commander, and the cooperation of the Dallas PSD. But I’ll go without it. I have personal time coming, and I’ll take it.”
“I’ve spoken with Detective Jones’s lieutenant. He’s willing to accept your help, and include you in their investigation as a consultant. However . . .” Whitney laid the palms of his hands on his thighs, tapped them twice. “Dallas, we’re all aware of your background, your history in that city. We have to assume McQueen knows parts of it.”
A small, hard ball of ice formed in her belly. “It’s likely he dug up the basics. That I’d been found there, my condition. It would only add to his determination to draw me back. You know him.” She turned to Mira. “You know that would play.”
“Commander, if I could have a few moments in private with the lieutenant.”
His eyebrows drew together, but he nodded and rose. “Of course.”
“We’re wasting time,” Eve said the minute the door shut behind him. “We all know I have to go, so there’s no damn point in talking it all to death.”
“And I’ll block you leaving New York unless you talk to me.”
“You can’t.”
Mira’s eyes, a mild, soft blue hardened to steel. “Don’t be so sure.”
“You’d let him torture, dismember, kill an innocent woman so, what, I don’t experience some emotional trauma?” Eve shoved to her feet. “I’m a cop. It’s not your job to decide.”
“It’s precisely my job,” Mira corrected with a rare flash of temper. “You didn’t blink. You didn’t hesitate. And you’d better do both now, here with me. Or would you rather bull forward and go, then find yourself unable to deal with it when that innocent’s—and your own—life is on the line? You were beaten and raped in Dallas.”
“Chicago, too. I remember it some, and a couple other places. Do I have to give you a list of cities so you can clear my travel?”
“You didn’t kill your abuser in Chicago. You were finally able to defend yourself in Dallas, a child of eight, who—covered with blood, her arm broken, her mind frozen in shock—wandered the streets.”
“I know what happened. I was there.”
“And blocked it out for years, protected yourself from the memories of years of abuse as best you could. Lived with nightmares.”
“I don’t have them anymore. I dealt with it. They stopped.” Almost entirely.
“Have you considered, even for a moment, what going back under these circumstances might mean? Going there, of all places, to hunt a man who abuses—physically, sexually, emotionally—children, just as your father did to you. Have you considered how this might affect you, personally and professionally?”
“Do you think I want to go?” It burst out of her, a quick flood of anger and heat. “I went back once, to that
