New York to Dallas

homework since the grab, sure, but he doesn’t know this fucker.”
    “Bree Jones does.”
    “Yeah, but she’s still got some green on her. And it’s her sister on the line. You add that to the trauma, and believe me she’s relived every second of it since ten forty-three this morning. I don’t know if she’s going to help or muck it up.”
    Roarke turned into the garage, wound up the levels. “You’re nervous, anxious. Don’t tell me you’re not. I know you. They won’t see it, but I can feel it.”
    “Okay. I can hold that down.”
    “No question. You might want to slow it down, follow Ricchio’s lead, get a sense of him, and Bree Jones. Give them a chance to get a sense of you.”
    “You’re right. You’re right, and I know that. I just want—”
    “To get through it,” Roarke said, and parked in 22.
    “Yeah, and that stops. Stops right now. If that’s the best I can do, I should have stayed home.” She got out, looked at Roarke over the car. “Priority one, get Melinda Jones out, safe and alive. Priority two, put Isaac McQueen, and his partner, in cages. The rest? It’s just clutter.”
    He walked around the car. “Let’s go clean house.” He took her hand as they walked to the interior doors.
    “Hey! Consultants don’t walk into cop shops holding hands with badges.”
    He gave her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “That’s my cop.”
    Security logged them in, cleared Eve’s sidearm and clutch piece, then had them wait.
    The white tile floors all but sparkled. The walls hit a soft brown, several shades richer and warmer than beige, and sported art with colorful geometrics framed in bronze. Benches under them held a shine. Nearby vending machines gleamed spotlessly clean.
    Eve felt a nagging itch at the base of her spine that only increased when a couple of uniforms strolled by, smiled, and gave her and Roarke a cheery, “Afternoon.”
    “What kind of cop shop is this,” she asked, “with fancy art on the walls and uniforms who give you a big smile instead of the beady eye?”
    “You’re the New York in Dallas.”
    “What?”
    “Buck up, darling. I’m sure somewhere in this facility someone’s getting the beady eye.”
    “The security officer smiled and said, ‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ to me before I gave him ID.”
    “It’s a sick world, Eve.” He resisted taking her hand for another squeeze. “A sick, sad world.”
    “Yeah, it is. So why are these cops smiling? It’s just wrong.”
    He couldn’t help it. He gave her a quick one-armed hug, brushed his lips over her hair. “Cut it out, yes, I know,” he said with a laugh. “But it seemed appropriate enough in a world of smiling cops. And here’s one who isn’t.”
    Eve made Bree Jones the minute the detective stepped through the doors. For an instant then overlaid now and she had a perfect image of the young face, bruised, swollen, twisted with rage and fear.
    Then it vanished, and she saw a pretty woman, blond hair short, spiky, with soft features overset by a sharp, firm chin. Blue eyes dominated a face pale and shadowed.
    She couldn’t cover the fatigue, Eve thought, but she cloaked the fear. It barely showed around the edges.
    She walked briskly to Eve, a small, compact woman in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and brown boots.
    “Lieutenant Dallas.”
    The voice didn’t quiver. There was an inherent drawl in it that made it sound lazy and overcasual to Eve’s ears. But there was nothing lazy or casual about the handshake.
    “Detective Jones. This is Roarke. He’s cleared as consultant.”
    “Yes. Thank you for coming. Thank you both for coming so quickly. I asked my loo to let me escort you in. I wanted a moment to thank you personally.”
    “There’s no need.”
    “So you said before, but there is. And was. I’ll take you in to Lieutenant Ricchio.”
    “Are you working the case, Detective?”
    “Lieutenant Ricchio is persuaded I’ll be an asset.”
    “Did you persuade him?”
    Bree glanced at Eve, away again as they passed through the doors. “Yes, Lieutenant, I did. It’s my sister. I wouldn’t have attempted to persuade him unless I believed, completely, I can and will be an asset.”
    Eve said nothing. Bree walked like a cop—and excusing the drawl, talked like a cop. But the place? Everything glimmered clean and shiny. Treated glass on generous windows diffused the light, and the air hung steady at a pleasant temperature, belying the wet blanket of heat that smothered the