The Escape Artist

by Brad Meltzer

  “What’d you just say?”

  “Back at my shop, you gave me your name, Mr. Zigarowski. You think I didn’t do a quick Google search? I found the obituary. I’m sorry you lost your daughter.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You’re proving my point. Today, the Internet makes it easy. Back then, though, it would blow people’s minds. How’d this stranger know all those details about me? But no one realized that the mediums themselves had their own underground network—they called it the Blue Book. In every town, they’d write down all the details of everyone who lived there. Mr. Montgomery recently buried his wife Abigail after she fell from a horse; Mrs. Addison is blind in one eye and lost a sister named Gertie.”

  “That’s what it said online. That it was like a Hobo Code.”

  “With more details and info. Think of it as Google .01. They’d hide the Blue Book in a known spot—somewhere by the train station—and when different mediums would come to town, they’d study the book and immediately be ready to show off their amazing powers. In Houdini’s act, he’d grab the Blue Book first, call the local mediums onstage, and show everyone what frauds they were.”

  “So when you opened that briefcase full of cash and saw the paperwork for Operation Bluebook—”

  “Whoever’s pulling the strings here, they’re obviously Houdini superfans. They’re using his old tricks, the names of his old agents—but what set me off wasn’t the bombproof suitcase, or even the cash inside it. It was the pickup man who came for it.”

  “The one they called Houdini.”

  “Like I said, I been doing this since Nixon was cursing in the White House. Every six months or so, Uncle Sammy sends someone to my shop. We make small talk, they mention the code name, I give them a package. No one’s perfect, but most people are generally nice. This guy, Houdini, though… Y’ever give your car keys to a valet and start worrying about your house keys being on that key ring too?”

  Zig nodded, noticing that through the front windshield, a few blocks away, there was another set of headlights. A new car was slowly coming toward them. Nothing to worry about. At least, not yet.

  “For most of my pickups, they send me Marines or SEALs. They’re kids…messengers…but they’re solid, like hammers,” Caesar explained. “This so-called Houdini, he was older. In his forties, at least—and when you spot a colonel suddenly doing a corporal’s job, you know something’s not right. That’s why I popped the locks on his suitcase. Then, after his first pickup, my phone rings again. And rings even more. Deliveries start coming more frequently. Every other month, then once a month, then every two weeks. And the suitcase? It’s getting heavier. Whoever Houdini is, he’s not just moving a few shekels. He’s moving cash—more and more with each visit, all of it peaking four days ago, when my phone rings and there he is, telling me that something big is coming. That I need to keep an eye out. And guess where that shipment was from?”

  “Alaska.”

  “Every time he came in, I swear, I had that bad feeling. But I’m a good American, Mr. Zigarowski. My orders were clear: Accept the cash and hand it over. Yet when I saw the news of that plane, I swear, I had that same bad feeling, praying it was just coincidence. But for you to show up now… Sacred Mary, if I caused those people’s deaths…!”

  “Caesar, you couldn’t have—”

  “I knew! Deep in my belly, I could feel it! Every time he came in, I knew something was off. And then for him to start calling me personally, checking to see exactly when his suitcase would arrive? No one does that. It was like he had a personal stake in it.”

  “Hold on. Back up. He called you personally? So you know how to reach him?”

  “Yeah. Sure. For emergencies only. Why?”

  Zig thought about that. Then, right there, Zig had a brand-new idea.

  47

  Dover Air Force Base, Delaware

  What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

  “Let me first say, I appreciate what you do there at Dover. We all do, Francis,” President Wallace said, using Master Guns’s first name. Even with admirals, most Presidents do away with titles and keep things informal.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “To that end, I know you’re busy. I’ll keep this quick. We were wondering…” He stopped himself, taking a moment. The concrete bunker was silent. “I was wondering…about that plane that went down in Alaska…” He stopped again. “I’d like to know how the investigation is going.”

  Master Guns glanced at the two Secret Service agents, both of whom were now pretending to look down at the metal detector. It wasn’t uncommon for White House staff to contact Dover; this week, they were calling at all hours. But in nineteen years, this was the first and only time a President had called directly. “We’re just getting started, sir,” Master Guns said. “I will say, I think we’re proceeding along nicely.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Francis, because as I understand it, you’re our chief homicide investigator there, correct?”

  Master Guns paused, sensing a trap. He’d never met President Wallace, but he knew all politicians were natural-born liars. Especially the world’s top politician. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir.”

  “What I’m getting at is that as chief investigator, you’re the one who goes out in the field. Last month, when that helicopter with four of our soldiers went down in the Philippines, you immediately flew to the Philippines. When that corporal went on a shooting spree at our base in Turkey, you flew to Turkey the next day. You interviewed everyone, examined it up close, and made a determination. But here we are with a plane down in Alaska—an entire crime scene out in the snow—and you’re still sitting there at Dover four days later.”

  His dog tags clinked around his neck as he put them back on. Master Guns chose his next words carefully. “Sir, if you’re accusing me of someth—”

  “Francis, do you know what’s on my schedule after I hang up with you?”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “It’s late in the day. At this hour, I usually get my final briefing from my national security team. After that, I return phone calls, like the one I have to make to Senator Castronovo, who’s been busting my chops on every damn cable show over the rehaul I proposed for the post office system. But tonight, do you know what I’ll be doing instead? Writing a eulogy.”

  “I know you and Mr. Rookstool were close,” Master Guns said, referring to the Librarian of Congress. “I’m sorry you have t—”

  “Don’t be sorry. This is my honor. Nelson was in my wedding party. On the night my son was born, he brought a Wiffle ball bat to the hospital. If he were just a friend, I’d have our top speechwriter write his eulogy—she’d do a beautiful job too. But for Nelson…” The President made a noise, a grunt that sounded like nuh-uh. “When I stand there at his funeral on Friday—when I look down at Nelson’s son and two daughters…at his ten-year-old grandson…this is a story only I can tell. So once again, Francis, tell me why you’re sitting on your thumbs in Delaware rather than sitting on a plane heading to Alaska?”

  “Because it’s my job, sir.”

  “No, your job is to find out why that plane went down!”

  “No,” Master Guns said as both Secret Service agents turned at his tone. Master Guns stared back, still gripping the phone. “With all due respect, sir, my job is to investigate. And as we both well know, a few hours after that plane crashed in Alaska, two men in suits were waiting in my office, demanding Sergeant Brown’s body. Do you know what that did to the investigator in me? It told me to start investigating anyone who’s interested in that body or, more importantly, this case. To my surprise, sir, that person is now you.”

  The phone went silent. Not for long, though. The President’s voice stayed calm and steady. Like yesterday out on the runway, no matter how hard the wind blew, Wallace didn’t let a hair on his head get out of place. “I’m glad to hear that, Francis, because the very last thing I want is for you to go easy on this.”

&
nbsp; “I can assure you, I never go easy, Mr. President. Honesty is my true north.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Wallace said—and right then, Master Guns realized the trap wasn’t coming. It had already been sprung. “Earlier today, Francis, the Service took a look at Dover’s security records. And y’know what they found? According to the card swipe systems in your building, an ID with your name on it was used to access a room called Personal Effects. But when they cross-checked their other reports, they realized that a mortician named Jim Zigarowski was attacked in that exact room at that exact time.”

  Master Guns stood at full attention, replaying how he let Zig use his ID to take a quick look in the room. “I would never hurt Zig.”

  “That’s the right answer, Francis. And I assume that if we look at all the photos that were taken out on the runway, we’ll find one with you on the back of the plane at the same time you were supposedly in that Personal Effects room. But the fact remains that even if you weren’t the one who personally attacked Mr. Zigarowski, the person who did it was someone who knew that he would be there at that time. And as far as my people can tell, you’re one of the few who fit that bill. In fact, Francis, you’re the only one who fits that bill.”

  “Zig is my friend.”

  “And Nelson Rookstool is my friend,” the most powerful man in the world said. “Do your job, Francis—because I promise you, we’ll be doing ours.”

  Before Master Guns could say a word, there was a click. The President of the United States was gone.

  The agent with the heart-shaped face pointed to the door. “This is the easiest way—”

  “I know how to get out,” Master Guns said, plowing toward the exit.

  In the hallway, he waited for the steel door to slam behind him. Then he pulled out his phone—the one his wife didn’t know about.

  Master Guns sent a quick text.

  We need to talk.

  48

  Washington, DC

  Nola was cold. She was hungry too, with nothing but a scattering of granola-bar wrappers tossed across the passenger seat. Granola bars were never a proper meal, no matter how many you ate.

  She’d been sitting in the car for hours now, her notepad propped against the steering wheel as she drew another sketch in green pencil of the old storefront diagonally down the street. She liked using green in winter. Made everything seem serene. According to phone records, this was the one landline Markus called from his cell, squeezed between a check-cashing place and a liquor store. Powell Rock Inc.

  It was an insurance agency. Prudential. The front glass window had the old eighties logo that built the Rock of Gibraltar out of a few slanted lines, with these words underneath: Get a Piece of the Rock with Benjamin R. Powell. Prudential updated the logo years ago. The same wasn’t true of the storefront. With its peeling sign and tattered blue-striped awning, it was decades past its golden days.

  As Nola continued to draw, new details popped out: The pattern of zigzagging cracks in the storefront’s wood paneling. Rotting underneath. The rust streaks below the gutters. Definitely a leak there. And the subtle sag of the roofline that made the front sign look slightly higher on the right than the left? Foundation problems for sure.

  Yet of all the details in Nola’s sketches, the most noticeable was what wasn’t there. People.

  For hours now, no one went in the place, no one came out. Not a big deal for most insurance agencies. Walk-ins had to be rare. But here, there were no customers, no employees, no deliveries, nothing. Even after lunch, when the rest of the street swelled with locals, Powell Insurance was lifeless.

  Only one way to find out what’s going on.

  Readjusting the mesh baseball cap that she’d bought at a gas station, Nola picked up her new disposable phone and started to dial. But as she entered the number—

  Across the street, in front of the coffee shop, a quick movement caught her eye. A fluffy white dog—a bichon…no, a Havanese—was being yanked on his leash, back toward his owner, a heavy man with a beard. Middle-aged. Expensive shoes, expensive gloves. Likes to be noticed.

  He was talking, leaning in toward a younger woman. Late thirties. No lipstick. No wedding ring. Still deciding if she’s buying his bullshit.

  The dog let out a high-pitched whine, trying to get to a nearby tree in front of the coffee shop. The dog had to pee.

  The man yanked the pup back. Then yanked him again, still focused on the woman.

  The dog was begging now, whining and pleading. Like he was in pain. Yank.

  Nola was tempted to get out, tempted to have a few words about the way this man was treating his dog. But now wasn’t the time. Stay focused, she thought, entering the final digits of the phone number. But just as she did…

  The man gave another yank, a hard one that, as the dog was in mid-jump, sent the furry animal crashing on its back, scrambling to right itself.

  Shutting her phone and tossing her sketch pad aside, Nola kicked open the car door. Dammit, she cursed herself, knowing she was being stupid. But as the dog let out a yelp— Screw it. She headed straight toward the man. The dog was rattled now and skittish, looking up as Nola got closer.

  She walked up to the man. His lower teeth slanted sideways, like half-fallen Towers of Pisa. No braces when he was young. To afford those shoes and gloves, he worked for it.

  “You got something to say?” the man challenged, turning toward Nola, expecting her to back up.

  She stayed where she was. “Your dog’s trying to tell you something.”

  “You fucking kidding me?”

  “Mason, not here,” the woman warned. This wasn’t the first time he lost his temper.

  Nola turned to Mason, so close that her elbow was now touching the woman he was talking to, edging her out of the way. “I have a thing about animals,” Nola said. She glared at him and let him take a good long look at her black eyes with flecks of gold. Let him see the depth of the hole he was about to step into.

  In her pocket, she was still holding the green pencil she’d been sketching with. She eyed fourteen places to impale him, six of them deadly.

  This close to the man, she saw the hair-plug divots along his forehead, the edge of the contact lenses in his slowly widening eyes, and even the one stray thread sticking up at the collar of his designer wool overcoat.

  Over his shoulder, people in the coffee shop were starting to stare, including a Native American woman with a long black ponytail, dressed casually, sipping her latte and looking up from her newspaper.

  “Nn, nnn, nnnn,” the white dog continued to whimper.

  “Go potty, Crackerjack. That’s it. Go potty,” the man said, letting the dog drag him toward the tree, where Crackerjack quickly relieved himself.

  “Happy now?” the man asked.

  Nola ignored him, locking eyes with the man’s girlfriend. “You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat their dog.”

  Leaving them behind, Nola headed back to her car as she pulled out her phone and quickly redialed the number for Powell Insurance.

  Time to get some answers.

  49

  The Amazing Caesar had a throbbing pain in his hip. The doctors blamed it on the way he carried his weight, always leaning to one side as osteoporosis compressed his spine. They told him he should take it easy, whatever that meant. But as Caesar began dialing the phone number from the back of his magic shop, he was still leaning on his left side. At a certain age, you can’t change who you are.

  “Hello? You there?” Caesar asked into the phone as someone picked up.

  It was quiet on the other end, and Caesar could feel an unnerving silence seeping through the large room, a long rectangular space almost as big as the public part of the shop, though far less cluttered. There was an old oak desk, tall and short mismatched file cabinets, but really, most of the room was empty, facing the huge metal roll-up door that led to the alley. This wasn’t an office; it was a shipping and receiving area.

  “Everything
okay?” asked the man known as Houdini. He sounded annoyed, but there was something else in his voice—concern—and a real sense of charm. Like he was worried about Caesar.

  “Something came in today,” Caesar offered. “A package. For you.”

  Houdini went silent. “No one mentioned any shipments.”

  “I’m just relaying what’s here. And from the smell that’s leaking from it, I think you may have a problem.”

  “The smell?”

  “It actually smells. Bad,” Caesar insisted.

  Houdini knew what that meant. Counterfeit money had its own odor, from the printing. It made no sense. The government wouldn’t use phony money, which meant this was from someone else. So now Houdini was curious. “Any idea who sent it?” Houdini asked.

  “I just sign for deliveries. If you want, I can send it back.”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s good. I’ll be right over,” Houdini said. “You’ll stay late, yes?”

  “Sign outside says Closed, but I’m in back.”

  That’s all Houdini needed to hear. With a click, he was gone.

  Caesar hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, leaning to the left. Seven people were dead. This was his chance to make it right.

  “He’s on his way?” Zig asked behind Caesar.

  “You put meat in the trap, you’ll get the lion,” Caesar said. “Now you just have to figure out what to do with him.”

  50

  Homestead, Florida

  Ten years ago

  This was Nola when she was sixteen.

  “Get…over here,” Royall growled, grabbing Nola hard by the arm. Breakfast was finished, and she was in the kitchen, doing dishes. The water was running, Nola reaching back to shut the faucet even as Royall tugged her to the door. If it kept running, she’d pay for that too.

  “What’d I do?” Nola asked, replaying the last few hours. Saturday laundry had already started; yesterday’s shopping was done; she’d put all his change by his wallet, except for the few quarters she always stole. Was this about the quarters?