New York to Dallas by J. D. Robb Read Free Book Online

somebody running, but I didn’t think anything of it, just went back to bed. God, was somebody hurt? This is a good neighborhood.”
    “Yes, ma’am, someone was hurt. Could you describe the individual you saw running?”
    “Maybe. I didn’t really get a good look. That window.” She gestured. “I’d come out to get a drink—lots of fluids—and thought maybe I’d try the couch awhile. I heard something, and walked over to look.”
    “Do you mind if I come in?”
    “No, sure. Better keep your distance. I’m probably contagious. Honestly, Officer, I was pretty out of it. All the meds, but I did see somebody running. That way.”
    At the window, she pointed west. “It was a man. Long hair, um, brown, I think. He was running away, but he did look over his shoulder. I think. He had a scruffy little beard.”
    “Height, weight, skin color?”
    “Oh. White, I think. Not black. I guess he looked sort of skinny. Shorts! He was wearing shorts. Knobby knees. And he was carrying a couple of bags, shopping bags. I remember because I thought, ‘Wow, he’s in a hurry to get home with his loot.’ Jeez, it was someone else’s loot.”
    “Was it someone you’ve seen before?”
    “I don’t really think so. I’m usually at work during the day. I only moved in a couple months ago, and don’t really know anybody yet.”
    Eve took the woman’s name, her contact information, thanked her for her cooperation. She stepped out, intending to tag Fergus, inform him of the lead and her status.
    She saw someone at the door of 303.
    He had two shopping bags—local market, she noted—and set them down to uncode his door.
    She noted the door had serious security, unlike the standard she’d observed in the rest of the building.
    She filed away his approximate height, weight, what he wore as she approached. “Excuse me, sir.”
    He’d just opened the door, reached down for the bags. He straightened slowly, turned. She saw a beat of blank before his face transformed into polite curiosity.
    “Officer. What can I do for you?”
    “Are you the resident?”
    “Yes, I am.” Now he beamed a smile. “Isaac McQueen.”
    “Are you just getting home for the day, Mr. McQueen?”
    “Actually, I ran out a short time ago to do some shopping.”
    “Were you at home approximately two hours ago?”
    “Yes, I was. Is there a problem?”
    Something off, she thought, but didn’t know what or why. She kept her eyes level on his as she walked toward him.
    “There was a mugging.”
    Distress covered his face, but it seemed to her he slipped it on like a mask. “Is that what was going on? I saw the police around when I walked down to the market.”
    “Yes, sir. Did you see or hear anything else?”
    “Not that I can think of. I really should get these groceries put away.”
    Something off, she thought again. Just . . . something. “I’d like to ask you some questions, just routine. May I come in?”
    “Really, Officer . . .”
    “Dallas.”
    “Officer Dallas, I don’t see how I can help you.”
    “I won’t take up much of your time now, and it’ll save you from another visit later so I can complete my report.”
    “Fine. Anything to help the boys—and girls—in blue.” He stepped in, let her follow.
    Big space, she thought, nicely furnished. Plenty of windows, all privacy screened. And the door to the left had a security lock and two hand bolts.
    Yeah, something off.
    “I need to get my fresh fruits and vegetables in the cooler,” he told her.
    “No problem. This is a nice unit, Mr. McQueen.”
    “I like it.” He carried his bags to the kitchen, began to unload.
    “Do you live alone?”
    “At the moment.”
    “Employment?”
    “Is that relevant?”
    “Just details for my report, sir.”
    “I do e-work, freelance.”
    “So you work at home.”
    “Primarily.”
    “Nice and quiet,” she commented.
    Quiet, she thought, unlike the rest of the building. Why would a freelance e-man soundproof his apartment? Why would he