New York to Dallas

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 in trade, and they partied together—that she was McQueen’s woman, and they had big plans. He was getting out, and they were going to fuck up who fucked with him, then they’d be swimming in money. He figured she was full of it. I believe him there. He’s a reptile, but once he got the deal—in writing, in trip—he talked for a freaking hour. We ran Millford and got a Sandra, showed him the pic with a handful of others. He picked her out first shot.”
    “This is good. It’s good. Run Millford,” she said to Bree, “Davidson and Sandi and/or Sandra.”
    “Who’s that? Is it Roarke? I miss you guys. Can I say hi before—”
    “It’s not Roarke.”
    “No Davidson Millford in Dallas or New York,” Bree told her. “But I’ve got Sandra at a New York address.”
    “I guess you’re working with somebody else.” Peabody went back to sulking. “Is she pretty?”
    “Oh, Jesus. I want you to dig on Sandra Millford, and a Davidson Millford. Get me some data, Peabody.”
    “Sure. I’ll send you a copy of the interview with Civet now, and my report once I write it up. We were going to check out the New York address after I connected with you.”
    “Do that. I’ll send you an update from here asap.”
    “Can you just tell me what—”
    “Not now. I’ve got a briefing—and then I’m going to bag me a bitch.”
    “I want to bag a bitch with you, Dallas.”
    “There are plenty more. Later.”
    She clicked off, saw Roarke watching her from the doorway. “We should take her a souvenir. Maybe cowboy boots.”
    “What? Who? Peabody? For God’s sake. What did you get?”
    “It’s a duplex,