New York to Dallas

on the cushion. Needed a hit. He gave her a hit. Tox screen hereby ordered to determine substance and amount. Talking to her, taking time to talk to her, placate her, until she told him what she’d spilled, what we knew. Already packed, ready to go. Sure, all packed and ready because she’d tagged him from the stolen car. Note to check the in-dash ’link in the vehicle stolen from hospital lot for communications from vic to McQueen.”
    She tagged him, Eve thought. Warned him, gave him time to pack up, plan, and plot. She set up her own murder.
    While she waited for Roarke and the kit, Eve imagined it. The frantic rush in the stolen car from the hospital, after she’d done murder. After she’d killed in the same way she’d be killed so soon after. By the man she ran to.
    Was that irony? she wondered. Some sort of brutal poetic justice.
    She’d have been hurting, Eve thought. Head, ribs, chest.
    Eve let her eyes track over the body. Badly swollen left ankle. That had to give her pain. Limping, trying to run, jonesing, sweating, heart racing, head pounding. Sick and hurt, a cop’s blood on her hands, and thinking only of getting back to the man who’d kill her.
    Thinking, too, no doubt, of another cop. Thinking of payback and paydays, of causing pain, spilling blood.
    Was it more irony that her mother’s last thoughts had revolved around her? Hateful, violent, murderous thoughts.
    She straightened when Roarke came back with the kit.
    “Easy enough to see how it played out,” she began, and kept her eyes on his face. Kept them on him until she felt centered again.
    “We’re going to find she contacted him from the stolen car. That gave him time to pack up what he wanted or needed to take with him. There aren’t enough electronics in here, not for McQueen. He’s got what he wanted there with him. Clothes, personal items, cash, alternate IDs. He had time. Most likely he already had a go bag stashed with the essentials.”
    “He’d want the flexibility of being able to leave, move quickly, at any time,” Roarke agreed.
    “I bet he kept that suit, the sharp one from the bank. He doesn’t know you found the accounts. He doesn’t know that yet. Can you trace any transactions he makes?”
    “I can.”
    “Set that up, okay? But I’ve got to play the team deal. Nikos! I need a minute.”
    “You need help with her?”
    “No. Roarke found McQueen’s primary accounts. We’ve got his money.”
    “That’s good work.” Nikos gave Roarke a considering look. “Our guys are still bouncing around. I need that data. We can freeze the funds, block him out, make him sweat.”
    “You could,” Eve said, “or you could track any activity, and maybe lock his new location.”
    “And if he uses the money, manages to get someplace we don’t have extradition, he’s gone.”
    “It’s a chance. He’s not finished, Nikos. He didn’t get what he wants, what he’s been working toward, planning. You better believe no matter how he rolls on this, under it he’s pissed. He’s furious. He wants another shot.”
    “At you, maybe. Or he’s smart enough to cut his losses. Look, I’ll run this by my superiors—both ways. We’ll make a decision, but I need the data.”
    “I’ll send you the files,” Roarke said. “It’s actually three accounts. He’s not an eggs-in-one-basket sort.”
    “Thanks.” Nikos pulled out her ’link, turned, and walked away.
    “I can delay the data transfer, maybe an hour with a bit of a glitch in the routing.”
    “Do that.” Eve nodded. “Yeah, do that. I’ll push harder if the feds opt for the freeze, because it’s the wrong move. For now, we set it up—you should get Feeney in on that.” She took the field kit. “I have to finish this.”
    He laid a hand over hers on the handle. “I can do this. You could assist with the search. You’ve a better sense of McQueen than anyone here.”
    “You know I can’t. She’s mine now, whether I want it or not.”
    She opened the kit, hunkered down again. And taking her mother’s hand, checked prints. “Victim is identified as Sylvia Prentiss, which has been determined to be falsified ID. Victim will be listed as Jane Doe until true identification can be verified.”
    She fit on microgoggles, said nothing when Roarke stooped down beside her, took out gauges. Instead, she examined the fatal wound.
    “ME to confirm. However, primary investigator’s on-scene examination indicates a single cut, left to right with a sharp,