New York to Dallas

girl, and want another. He’d always want another. He’d need that rush. He could take his time with me, take two or three days with me. Maybe he was going to try to squeeze you for ransom. He’s too much a grifter not to look for a profit.”
    “If he had you, stayed here, spent that much time and open communications for a ransom, he’d risk his primary goal for money.”
    “Adds to the thrill. And he’s got everything covered so well—he thinks. He’s arrogant,” she added. “So fucking cocksure he’s the smartest one in the room.”
    “What does that make you?” Roarke asked her. “The one who beat him?”
    Eve shrugged. “Going down before, that was just a twist of fate, just a lucky break for a rookie cop. He’s not that wrong. He eluded authorities for years. Years. He’s absolutely certain he can do it again. Takes me,” she continued. “Kills Melinda. He’d want me to see him do it, want me to watch him kill someone I saved. He’d want me to see him kill his partner, then when he’d had enough from me, kill the girl—or girls. I’d be last. He’d want me to watch him kill the kid, to know I was helpless to stop it. When he was done, he’d drift away. Set up shop somewhere else, far away. Maybe Europe this time. Somewhere urban and cosmopolitan enough for his tastes, where he could start a new collection.”
    “Now he has to regroup, rethink, replan.”
    So, Eve acknowledged, did she. “He’s got a contingency operation. He’ll adjust, refine. He means it when he says it’ll be soon. That must be the ME. I need to work with her, and I want to check with Laurence.”
    Her ’link signaled.
    “Dallas.”
    “Lieutenant,” Bree began, “sorry to interrupt.”
    “What do you need, Detective?”
    “Melinda—they’re hydrating her and treating her injuries. They want to keep her overnight for observation. Darlie . . . you know what they need to do with her.”
    “Yes.”
    “But they want to talk to you, both of them. They’ve given us a statement, answered some questions. It seems important to them. Ricchio and the doctors, and Darlie’s parents, have cleared it. If you could make the time, Lieutenant. We’re at Dallas City.”
    “When I’m done here.”
    “I’ll let them know.”
    When she put the ’link away, Roarke reached up, switched off her recorder. “You need a break.”
    “I don’t. The busier I am the better I am. I’ll deal with the rest of it when I have to. But not now, not yet, because once I start dealing with it I just don’t know. We don’t even have the DNA match, so . . .”
    She trailed off when he simply took her hand. And saw it in his eyes.
    “You got it done?”
    “The results came in when I went out to get your kit.”
    Something sick and sour lodged in her throat. “I was right.”
    “Yes. It’s conclusive.”
    “Better to know,” she said, and stared hard at the wall.
    “Is it?”
    “I knew it—knew her—the minute we looked at each other. I thought I’d accepted it. Now . . . Hell, I just don’t know.” She rubbed a hand over her face, pressed her fingers to eyes that throbbed. “I need to work. I need to work and deal with this later.”
    She walked to the medical examiner and the body. And Roarke stood for quite some time staring at the shackles fixed to the wall of the horrible little room.

17
     
    E ve didn’t wait for the bag and tag. What was the point? Instead, she walked into the bedroom where Laurence headed up what looked to her like a thorough and meticulous search.
    “Anything?”
    “High-dollar sheets, towels, nice fluffy duvet. We can trace them. Some he took with him. He’s obsessively organized, everything in its place, so we can see some sheets and towels are missing. Some clothes, some shoes.”
    He gestured toward the closet. “He’s got a dozen ties in there, and from the way he had them stored, took another dozen with him. Who needs two dozen ties?”
    Eve crossed over to look for herself. “He likes clothes, likes to collect. But . . . some of these ties are exactly the same. Or is that just my crappy eye for fashion.”
    “If it is, it’s mine, too. Same pattern, same designer.”
    “That’s not like him. And there’s too much here, not just to leave behind but too much in the first place. This isn’t so much collecting as it is—”
    “Hoarding,” Laurence finished. “That was my take. Could be he needed to hoard to compensate for a dozen years in prisonwear.”
    “Could be.