New York to Dallas

He’d gone very blond for his South African ID. His movements precise, his suit perfectly cut.
    Where’d you get the suit, Isaac? Did Sylvia buy it for you? Or did you go shopping in New York? Good briefcase, good shoes, too. Somebody did the shopping.
    She watched him handle the transaction, flash the teller a charming smile. She followed him out of the bank, picked up the exterior cam. Crowded outdoor mall, she thought, and wondered why the hell people needed so many stores and restaurants. But he walked directly through the parking area.
    An all-terrain and a pickup obstructed the view of his vehicle. She ordered the computer to enlarge a section, freeze, and got enough to identify a dark blue sedan, late model. As he pulled out, she enlarged again, froze again, thought she had enough for a make. Only part of the license plate, she thought, but still enough to start a search.
    “Where’d you get the car, Isaac? Not a lot of time to wheel and deal, but plenty to set it up in advance.”
    She turned to her ’link.
    “Hey, Dallas.” Peabody beamed at her. “How’d it—”
    “Roust Stibble. He plays middleman. McQueen’s driving a new Orion sedan, dark blue. If Stibble brokered the buy, shake it out of him. I’ve got a partial plate, Texas, Baker, Delta, Zulu. I’m going to run it here, but you do the same. If he didn’t buy, he stole it. I want to know where and when he did either.”
    “Okay, I’m on it. Is there anything else new?”
    She hesitated, just a beat. “We have his partner in custody.”
    “Holy shit! That’s great.”
    “She’s not giving anything up. Not yet. We’re on the clock, Peabody. If she doesn’t show at his place by six, he’s going to smell something off.”
    “I got an update from EDD just a few minutes ago. They’re starting to pull transmissions off Stibble’s wiped ’link, and they’re digging out coms from his comps. You should have a report, including the data, pretty quick now. I know Roarke’s close on the accounts because he’s been keeping Feeney in the loop there. The dam’s breaking, Dallas.”
    “It can’t be soon enough. He’s got transpo and running money, and we can be damn sure he’s got an escape route. If he gets wind of the partner, he’ll use them. Drain Stibble dry, Peabody.”
    “He’s dust.”
    Closing in, Eve thought as she rose to study the board again. But would it be soon enough?
     
     
    Melinda stroked Darlie’s hair. She’d wrapped the girl in both blankets, but Darlie continued to shiver from the aftermath of the nightmare.
    Melinda’s own throat raged with thirst. She’d risked drinking from the bottle of water the woman had tossed into the room, but after a few swallows she’d felt woozy.
    Staying alert, staying aware was vital.
    Darlie needed her.
    He’d had the woman bring Darlie in the night—she thought it had been night—before. He preferred having the women he used deal with the chores. He’d think of the water, the blankets, snapping those restraints on trembling wrists and ankles as chores.
    She’d done what she could for the girl—held her, rocked her, cocooned her in blankets while Darlie cried for her mother.
    “Will he come back? Will he?”
    Melinda couldn’t count the times Darlie had asked, so she answered the same way.
    “I’m going to do everything I can to keep him from hurting you again. My sister’s looking for us. Remember, I told you about my sister, Bree?” She kept her voice soothing, like the stroke of her hand. “She’s a police detective. And there’s another. The other I told you about, remember? The one who saved me? Eve Dallas. They’ll find us, Darlie. We just have to hold on until they do.”
    “He said I was a bad girl. He said I liked what he did, but I didn’t. I didn’t.”
    “He lies, sweetie. He lies because he wants you to feel ashamed. But you didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault.”
    “I tried to stop him.” Darlie burrowed into her. “I tried to fight, but he hurt me so bad. I screamed and screamed, but nobody heard me.”
    “I know.” Melinda had to close her eyes, close them tight to block off the memory of her own wild struggles, her own screams. “I’m here. Help’s coming.”
    “He put the number on me, and now my mom’s going to be mad. She said—she and Dad said I couldn’t get a tattoo until I was eighteen. She’s going to be so mad.”
    “No, she won’t.” Melinda held Darlie tighter when she started to weep