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“You need to go back further. It won’t be that recent. A year, maybe more. They’ll have put some distance between the alleged rape, the initial consults, and this contact and abduction. The ID she used to meet with McQueen is fake, good enough to beat the prison scans. Like McQueen, her appearance is probably altered somewhat. But they can’t alter who and what they are.”
“I’d like you to brief my officers, give them profiles. Your experience with McQueen will be invaluable to the search for Melinda.”
“Agents Nikos and Laurence should be here within twenty.”
“Then we’ll brief in thirty, if that suits you.”
“It does.”
“How is he financing this?” Ricchio asked her. “The travel, the apartment, the transportation?”
“We always knew he had money. We just couldn’t find it. He’ll have funneled some to his partner for expenses on the setup. That’ll give us a trail, once we find the crumbs on it. Our civilian consultant has a particular expertise on financials.”
She glanced at Roarke, nodded.
“He’ll have multiple accounts,” Roarke began. “Stibble and the guard he worked with both had secondary, buried accounts. Not particularly well buried. McQueen was able to transfer relatively small amounts out of an account—standard off-shore, registered to a dummy corporation—to theirs. He most usually used Stibble’s e-mail account to do the transfers. The off-shore account was easy to find once we looked, which tells me he has more. More and fatter. As he greatly depleted, we’ll say this payroll account, he’ll likely need to tap one or more of the others to cover his current expenses.”
“Why Melinda? Why here? I believe it’s relevant,” Bree added. “I’d ask even if she wasn’t my sister.”
“You were his last, and you were a particular coup. Twins. He’d never, to our knowledge, taken more than one at a time. He’d only had you for a short period.”
“He could have tried for me. He should have tried for me,” Bree insisted. “Taking a trained police officer has to be more of a rush than a crisis counselor.”
“I agree,” Eve said. “But you didn’t visit him in prison.”
“When?” Ricchio demanded. “You’re telling me Melinda had contact with McQueen before the abduction? Were you aware of this, Detective?”
“Yes. God.” A flicker of pain crossed her face as she pressed a hand to her temple. “I didn’t think of it, Lieutenant. I didn’t remember, it was years ago. She didn’t tell me until after she’d seen him. I was so angry. We had a terrible fight about it. I . . .”
“Sit down, Bree. Sit, for God’s sake.” Ricchio rubbed his hands over his face. “Why did she go to see him?”
“She said if she was going to help people who’d been abused, she had to deal with her own baggage. She had to see him, in prison, see him for herself, see him paying for what he’d done to us and the others. And she had to show him she’d survived it. Show him she was free and healthy and unscarred.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath. “She didn’t tell me before she did it because she knew I’d fight her on it. I’d have gone to our parents, done everything I could to stop her. But she was better after. She used to get headaches, debilitating ones. They eased off. So did the nightmares. She was better, calmer, happier.
“So I forgot it,” Bree said, bitterly now. “Just let it go and forgot it.”
“Did she tell you what they said to each other?” Eve asked her.
“She said he smiled almost the whole time, so pleased, so charming. He said it was wonderful to see her again, how she’d grown into a beauty, crap like that.” Again, the ring went round and round her finger. “He asked her questions she didn’t answer, like if she had a boyfriend, if she was in school. He asked about me, wondered why I hadn’t come to see him, too. She waited, just let him talk. Then she said it was wonderful to see him, too. In prison. It was wonderful to know thanks to Officer Dallas he’d be there for the rest of his life, that he’d never be able to hurt anyone ever again, to prey on children ever again. She loved knowing he was in a cage while she was free, living her life. And she left. He’d stopped smiling, and she left.
“She taunted him, rubbed his face in it,” Bree continued. “He wouldn’t forget that. He’ll hurt her. Like he did before.”
“Not yet,” Eve said quickly. “Right now she’s a tool, like Stibble, like the woman, like Lovett—the prison guard he bribed. She’s just a tool and he needs to keep his tools. I’m his focus now. You said she mentioned me, specifically, as the reason he was in prison.”
“Yes, she—we—were so grateful.”
“As long as I’m his focus, he’ll keep her alive.”
A female officer opened the door without knocking. “McQueen’s on Bree’s desk ’link, blocked video. We’re running it. He wants to talk to Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Show me,” Eve ordered. “You don’t.” Eve reached out, gripped Bree’s arm as the detective bolted for the door. “You don’t give him another. You don’t give him the satisfaction. Keep out of range, don’t say anything. He doesn’t see or hear you.”
Eve walked into the bullpen, crossed toward the empty desk. Remembered herself, glanced at Ricchio. At his nod, she stepped over, sat, and angled herself in full view of the ’link screen.
“A little ahead of deadline, aren’t you?”
“You, too.” A smile radiated in his voice. “How does it feel to be back where you started?”
