The Escape Artist

by Brad Meltzer

  For nearly two hours, Nola had been parked outside, sitting in her car as she went through Markus’s phone. She’d made a list of every incoming number, every dialed number, every missed call. There were nearly a hundred in total, most of them coming up as No Caller ID—Unknown. Those were the burner phones, or at least those who were smart enough to shut off their tracking. Another two dozen gave her “…the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service…”

  It used to be to track a phone number to a name, you had to have someone inside the phone company, or at least do what private eyes do and pay seven bucks a pop to a place like Intelius. Today, all you needed was the right website, which is what Nola was counting on as she opened a browser on her phone.

  One by one, she entered each number. A few were traceable to a carrier—all to MetroPCS, though they weren’t attached to names.

  “Cellular,” it read on-screen. More burner phones. She then noticed three phone numbers that were in a near-identical sequence. Yet more burner phones, all bought at the same time. She knew this was the tricky part. On the boat, Markus had given her Houdini’s real name, but before she went hunting, she needed to know who else she was up against.

  Outside, a chubby bald man in an Elliot in the Morning baseball hat kept his head down as he entered the strip club. His left hand was fidgeting in his pocket. Took off his wedding band and still wasn’t used to it. Putz. He shot a quick look at Nola as she entered yet another phone number into the online site. It was a number that hadn’t been called in over a month.

  240 area code. Western Maryland.

  Seconds after hitting Search, the details appeared on her phone screen. Nola’s eyes narrowed. So far, every single hit came up the same: “Cellular.” Never linked to a name, always a burner. But there it was—rare as a dodo. An actual landline.

  Corporate account. Registered to something called Powell Rock Inc. Established 1987.

  Most important? The very best thing that comes with every landline.

  An address.

  41

  Washington, DC

  The shop had a metallic smell, like a used bookstore filled with old pennies.

  As the door closed behind him, puffs of dust cartwheeled through the air. Zig didn’t say a word. Better to get a lay of the land.

  The magic shop was a time machine straight from the 1960s, cluttered with rusty spinner racks and vintage bookcases filled with magic wands, exploding pens, X-ray specs, and everything else that used to be sold in the ads in the back of old comic books.

  Then Zig’s eye caught the stainless-steel surveillance camera up on the ceiling. A round lens at the center, with seven little lenses circling it. Thermal imaging. Military hardware. In a decrepit magic shop.

  “Anybody home?” Zig called out, approaching the L-shaped glass counter.

  No one answered. Next to the antique cash register was a dirty ashtray and an open can of cream soda. Someone was—

  “Hope you’re not here for the bathroom,” a man in his late eighties called out in a Southern twang. With a big barrel chest, buzzed gray hair, and a long nose that had outgrown his face, he hobbled out from the back room, the sound of a toilet still flushing behind him. “Because if you are, I apologize for what I just did in there.”

  “Sounds like my ex-wife,” Zig teased, determined to keep things light.

  “You look like you got something on your mind,” the man said as Zig eyed a pale yellow business license underneath the glass counter. Registered to Joe Januszewski.

  “Januszewski?” Zig asked, feigning excitement. “My whole family’s Polish, though that just gives me lots of vowels in my name.”

  “Haven’t been called that in years,” the old man said, pointing to a business card taped to the front register:

  The Amazing Caesar

  Greatest Magician in DC

  (Except for the Liars in Congress)

  “I take it you’re the owner?” Zig asked.

  “For the past few years. Original owner is there…” He pointed at a Bozo the Clown head, up on the wall, stuffed and displayed like a wild animal. Bozo had a perma-smile. It was meant to be a gag.

  Zig wasn’t laughing.

  “Clown jokes don’t seem to land the way they used to—but at least it keeps the little kids outta here,” the old man jested, though again, it didn’t feel like much of a joke. “So what kinda magic can I help you with?”

  “Just looking for a few supplies. Some mouth coils, a new squeaker…plus I’m due for a new thumb tip,” Zig said, recalling the list he memorized from a magic website.

  The old man nodded, taking a sip of his cream soda. He had an elderly warmth about him, but dark, doubting eyes, the color of dirt. His hands were big like manhole covers, and though his posture was no longer at its peak, no question…former military. In the field, not behind a desk. An old bruiser.

  “What size for the thumb tip?” The Amazing Caesar asked.

  “Usually a medium.”

  “Even though thumb tips are individually measured and don’t come in small, medium, or large?”

  Zig just stood there, feeling the stare of Bozo the Clown—and that thermal camera.

  “Wanna start again? Maybe without all the horse manure this time?” the old magician challenged.

  “I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  At this point, it made no sense to hold back. “Harry Houdini. And Operation Bluebook.”

  “I think you have the wrong person.”

  “Sir, I’m not insulting you, so please don’t insult me. I’m guessing this is a shop-and-drop, yes?” Zig asked. The government had them all over the world. People came in and gave a password; if it was right, the shop would give them something they needed. “Whatever the case, I know that a man named Markus Romita came in here before he—”

  “You’re not listening to what I’m saying.” Stepping out from behind the main display case, Caesar lumbered toward Zig, putting a hand on his shoulder and shooing him toward the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know who Markus is, and if you—”

  “I’m not your enemy here,” Zig said, hands in the air.

  Caesar kept pushing. He was stronger than he looked.

  “Sir, if you’ll just listen—”

  “I don’t like liars. Even worse, I don’t like people pretending to be magicians so they can case my place. That’s disingenuous bullshit,” Caesar said, reaching the door and pulling it open.

  “Listen to me! My name is Jim Zigarowski—”

  “I don’t care if you’re Elvis Aaron Presley—and I’m from Tennessee, where that still matters—if you don’t get outta my shop—”

  “The crash! Please…the plane that crashed. I know you saw the news…the plane that went down in Alaska…” Zig’s voice was racing, pleading as he stood there in the threshold, Caesar about to slam the door in his face. “Seven people died on that flight! The pilot was twenty-nine. An Army lieutenant, Anthony Trudeau, was twenty-five. They all died. And one of them…” Zig felt that pill in his neck. The globus. He swallowed, but it still wouldn’t go away. “I’m just asking for two minutes of your time. Please…two minutes.”

  Caesar looked down his long nose, his dirt eyes unreadable. “I hate watching cable news; it makes you dumber. So I guess I missed it. You have a good day, Mr. Zigarowski.”

  With a slam, The Amazing Caesar was gone, leaving Zig alone in the street, watching the puffs of his own breath.

  “Okay, so that went crappily,” Dino said through the phone as Zig headed back up the block. “That’s the very last time I’m buying any saw-a-girl-in-half boxes from that magic shop.”

  “He knows who Markus is. I could see it in his face.”

  “You knew that two hours ago.”

  “Yeah, but now we have his name. The Amazing Caesar,” Zig said, reaching for his car keys and—

  “Ziggy, you there? You okay?”

&
nbsp; In his pocket, Zig felt his car keys…and something else. A small, folded-up sheet of paper. Zig pulled it out, confused. How did…?

  Unfolding the paper, he read the handwritten message.

  Capitol Skyline Hotel

  I Street

  Ten minutes

  Zig looked over his shoulder, back at the shop. Show-off magicians.

  42

  Dover Air Force Base, Delaware

  There are plenty of places to hold a private meeting at Dover: staff offices, conference rooms, the clean breakroom, the medical examiner’s room, the chaplain’s office, or even the casket storage room. There’s also the embalming room and the viscera prep room, which don’t allow cameras.

  But when Master Guns heard that someone wanted to see him here—in this room, accessible only from the back of the building? He knew he wouldn’t leave here without some bruises.

  Lifting a roll-top metal door, Master Guns revealed a long concrete hallway. There were a few doors along the sides—a mop closet and a contamination shower—but Master Guns’s attention was focused straight ahead, at the dead end: a set of double metal doors reinforced with five inches of steel. There was no room number out front, no door handles either. These doors opened only from the inside. Master Guns knew better than to knock. They’d be expecting him.

  Sure enough, as he approached, the steel door rumbled open.

  “I’m here to see—”

  “Not out here,” warned a man with a dark suit and a heart-shaped face. He scanned the hallway as he led Master Guns inside.

  The room was dark. There were no windows. It took a moment for Master Guns’s eyes to adjust. People called it a room, but it was really a bunker, its bare walls built with steel-reinforced concrete that was at least a foot thick.

  “Metal on the belt,” the man said, pointing Master Guns to one of two Rapiscan metal detectors. Now they were just trying to intimidate.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “On the belt,” said a second man, also in a dark suit.

  When fallen service members are carried off the plane at Dover, this is actually their first stop. One by one, each body is run through the scanner to check for unexploded ordnance, concealed IEDs, and any other booby traps that might be hidden on a body. The reinforced walls can withstand just about any blast. Except for maybe the one that was coming.

  “Let’s go,” Heart-Shaped Face added, motioning to the plastic bin by the metal detector.

  Master Guns unloaded his homicide badge, a pen, a Leatherman combo knife and pliers, and his Beretta 9mm. He then reluctantly pulled off his dog tags and dropped them into the plastic bin.

  There was a high-pitched beep. A green light went off as he stepped through the scanner.

  Master Guns was close enough now that he saw the five-pointed star pin on Heart-Shaped Face’s lapel. Secret Service.

  There were plenty of private places at Dover. But none as private as this.

  The agent handed Master Guns a thin cell phone that looked like nothing else on the market.

  “Hello?” Master Guns said.

  “Please hold for the President,” a female voice announced.

  43

  Washington, DC

  The Capitol Skyline Hotel sat on a corner, across the street from a construction lot on one side, a homeless shelter on the other, and diagonally from a McDonald’s, which was where Zig parked.

  For two minutes, Zig stared out his front windshield, fighting off the smell of french fries and scanning the hotel for anyone who might be watching.

  All clear. At least from here.

  Zig didn’t want to be early. He pulled out his phone, looking again at the photos he took yesterday at Nola’s office. The painted canvases. He’d forgotten about them until now, but here he was, again staring at the haunting portraits that Nola had done. He swiped left, enlarging the photos of the names on the back.

  Daniel Graff—Monterey, CA.

  Sgt. Denise Madigan—Kuwait.

  A quick Google search told him the rest. They had one thing in common.

  “Huh,” Zig muttered, making a mental note. He put his phone away and stepped outside. Something to deal with later.

  Keeping his head down as he walked across the street, Zig entered through a side door, which was marked with its own warning.

  Doors lock at night.

  Designed by an architect in the futuristic modular style of 1960s Miami Beach, the Capitol Skyline Hotel aged into one of those outdated concrete behemoths that people hated about downtown DC—until the family of one of the Studio 54 developers threw millions into the interior, declared it retro, and suddenly, poof, it was chic.

  Sure enough, as Zig reached the modernist lobby, with its chocolate-brown leather Barcelona chairs and hip Deco wallpaper, the place felt more South Beach than Southwest DC.

  “Anything I can help you with?” called a male desk clerk who was a little too handsome for his own good.

  “Meeting a friend,” Zig said, eyeing a nearby couple, two men who could both give the desk clerk a run in the handsome contest. In a place like this, The Amazing Caesar should stick out like a turd in a fishbowl. But there was no sign of him.

  Same in the fancy restaurant. Same when Zig checked the poolside lounge in back.

  “Nothing, huh?” Dino whispered through the phone as Zig returned to the lobby.

  “Maybe he got scared,” Zig said as two sliding doors opened on his left. Outside, idling in front, was a two-tone eighties-era Lincoln Continental.

  “Dino, what kind of car did your grandfather drive?”

  “Same as every Pop-Pop. His trusty Lincoln, why?”

  Zig nodded to himself, heading straight for the car. The perfect accessory for an eighty-year-old magician.

  Yet as Zig stepped outside, the car started moving, a slow easy roll out to the street. Through the window, Zig spotted the driver, a young woman with cat’s-eye glasses and those stretch earlobe things that the military would never allow. Just another hipster who didn’t realize her trend was over.

  “Need a cab?” one of the valets called out.

  “Thanks, I’m set,” Zig said, watching the car disappear up the street.

  “Maybe our shuttle, then?”

  “No, I’m—” Zig turned to the valet, a lanky kid with acne scars. The valet kept staring, shooting Zig a look. It wasn’t a question.

  “Maybe you’d really like our shuttle,” the valet repeated, pointing far too long at the boxy airport shuttle bus with the bright red stripe.

  “Yeah, no…that’s a good idea,” Zig said, heading for the shuttle.

  As he got closer, the shuttle doors didn’t open. He tapped the glass with his knuckles. Still nothing. Then he gave them a push and the bifold doors gave way.

  Zig climbed the carpeted steps. The driver’s seat was empty. But when he looked to his left, in the very last row there was an older man in a tan trilby hat with a pinch front.

  “Abracadabra, Mr. Zigarowski,” The Amazing Caesar said. “I should warn you, I’m only doing this because of those people who died. They deserve better. Now would you mind shutting off your phone? Despite what you think, not all magicians love an audience.”

  44

  Homestead, Florida

  Eleven years ago

  This was Nola when she was fifteen.

  It was after school, nearly five o’clock. Ms. Sable was grading papers as Nola cursed at the charcoal pencil in her hand.

  According to the syllabus, charcoals wouldn’t be introduced until next year, in Advanced Art. But Nola was ready, Ms. Sable insisted, teaching Nola that when you work with charcoals, you have to grip them differently than a pencil.

  “Hold it with your thumb and pointer finger,” Ms. Sable had explained, holding her own arm up and revealing a glimpse of the tiny initials tattooed on her forearm. “And keep your palm off the page. Charcoals smear.”

  It was that precise detail that had Nola cursing and starting again, rubbing th
e paper with a kneaded putty eraser that lifted the charcoal off the page. “I hate this,” Nola said.

  “Just draw the damn jug,” Ms. Sable shot back, pointing Nola to the aquamarine water jug at the center of the table.

  For the next half hour, both were silent, both lost in their work. This had been Nola’s afternoon for weeks now: sketching, drafting, practicing. Extra credit, they called it. For Nola, although she wouldn’t know it for years, this time with Ms. Sable—it wasn’t a relationship that was simply about art. It was a relationship about respect.

  “Great Hera. Good for you, Sophie,” Ms. Sable said to herself, flipping to a new sheet of drawing paper and admiring a pencil sketch that Smiling Sophie had submitted. It was of Sophie’s dog Flynn, a drooly pug with a wide bow tie that made him look like a Republican.

  “That’s really good,” Nola said, craning her neck to admire Sophie’s art.

  Ms. Sable looked up. Eyebrows furrowed. “What’d you just say?” Ms. Sable asked.

  “Sophie’s art,” Nola explained, wondering what she did wrong. “I was just— I thought it was…good.”

  “Good?” Ms. Sable asked. “You don’t know enough to know what’s good. If you want, you can say you like it, or that you like how it makes you feel, or even say that you love it. But if you ever say that something is good again, you’ll be cleaning paintbrushes for the next month. You don’t know what good is. After college—after you study form, color theory, perpetual presence, and negative space—then you can tell me what good is. Or when you get a fine arts degree and study the difference between intention and execution, then you’ll know what’s good. But until then, I’m the teacher. I’ll tell you what’s good. We clear on that?”

  Nola nodded, though from the look on her face, she was still clearly confused.

  “What?” Ms. Sable asked.

  “I just—” Nola paused, as long a pause as she’d ever done before. “What’s college?”