by Sara Rosett
She examined the blue slip of paper, which contained a string of ten numbers interspersed with dots. She flipped it over. A skull and crossbones sketch filled the other side.
Well, that was cryptic. Was Jack trying to tell her he was in trouble? She went back to the numbers and frowned. Maybe it was a phone number and Jack had thrown the dots in there to disguise it? But why wouldn’t he just write the phone number down the normal way with dashes? She tapped the number into her phone and got a recording telling her the number wasn’t in service.
She rubbed the paper between her fingers, feeling frustrated. Would it kill him to write her a note, using actual words? No room for misunderstanding there. She sighed. She’d been through this before. Last spring when her normal world disintegrated, there had been mysterious numbers and every thought she’d had about them had been wrong. She sifted through the possibilities for this string of numbers: bank account, lock combination, dates. Heck, they could even be GPS coordinates. How many digits did GPS locations have? She’d have to find out, Zoe decided. If the numbers were supposed to mean something to her, she was clueless. She tucked the paper into the box and headed to her car.
She was still thinking about the numbers on the blue paper when she arrived at the office suite. She waved to Al, the teen who worked for Sam part-time. “Is Sam in?” Zoe asked.
“Nope.” He always looked a little anemic, but today he looked as if he was on the verge of hospitalization. His black T-shirt with the words, “Anarchists Unite,” contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His long brown hair was parted down the middle of his head and drawn back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck showing off his single small hoop in one earlobe. Zoe had once spent a painful fifteen minutes in attempted chitchat with him while she waited for Sam to show up. Unable to get more than ten words out of Al, she’d said, “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” He’d solemnly replied, “I let my music speak for me.”
“I’m here to check the repairs,” she said. “Interesting shirt,” she called over her shoulder.
“It’s ironic,” Al said, deadpan.
“Okay.” She wasn’t sure if he was serious or joking. She entered the bathroom and nearly fainted. Could it be? The repair was actually finished? No, she wasn’t imagining things. The job was done. She gave the tiles a close inspection. They looked great. A chime sounded, indicating the front door had opened. Zoe stepped into the reception area. Sam closed the front door as he tossed a set of keys to Al and said, “Thanks.”
Al caught them. “Sure, man.”
“Good news,” Zoe said, and Sam turned to her quickly, clearly surprised to find her in the office. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was here to check the repair. After only four weeks—it’s done.”
“That is too bad,” Sam said. He had on a white oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up and a pair of jeans. He was still sporting the stubble look, but on him it didn’t come off as sloppy as if he’d simply put off shaving.
“Why is that bad?” Zoe asked. Had the repairman slacked off and she missed it?
Sam’s gaze was on a stack of messages he’d picked up. “That means no more unexpected visits from my landlady.” Head bent over the messages, he glanced up at her with a little smile.
Was he flirting with her? Zoe toyed with the set of keys Al had placed on the counter, fingering the leather fob imprinted with the letters O and B. “Oh. Well. I was just trying to stay on top of things.”
Sam put down the messages. “That’s good. To stay on top of...things.”
Were they even talking about repairs? Zoe felt a blush creeping into her cheeks as his smile widened. He was flirting with her. She was flattered. He was an attractive man, after all. But there was Jack, always in the back of her mind. Of course, Jack wasn’t here—hadn’t been here in months.
“Since the slow repairman is finally finished, I may have to resort to taking you out for a coffee to see you?” He put an inflection on the end of the sentence and raised his eyebrows slightly.
She almost said no, but then thought of her disappointment this morning when she realized Jack wasn’t about to walk in the door. No guarantees, she reminded herself. New perspective. “Sure.”
It was just coffee, after all.
––––––––
ZOE was thinking more about Sam than about the silver car when she drove home, but as soon as she turned into her neighborhood, she scanned the cars on her block. No silver car. It probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to give the silver car the slip this morning, Zoe thought. It certainly wouldn’t be hard to find her again. It wasn’t as if the driver didn’t know where she lived.
As she cruised down her street, she did see a familiar car, a brown four-door sedan with special plates. “Oh, no,” Zoe groaned, wanting to slip past her driveway and keep moving, but they’d seen her. She’d spotted the tall guy in the driver’s seat with the dark hair. That would be Special Agent Sato. He made eye contact with her as she closed the distance, and she bet that he was putting his car in DRIVE in case Zoe decided not to stop. There had been that little incident when she slipped out from under his nose last time. She was sure he wasn’t about to let it happen again. The front fender of his car edged into the street as if to block her.
Zoe sighed and pulled into her driveway. She parked and walked back from the garage, knowing that she wouldn’t have seriously attempted to escape Sato. It would have been entertaining, but she was sure this was another of the occasional visits the FBI paid her. They liked to keep in touch. At least Sato’s partner Mort—he’d asked her to call him that, but it still felt weird—was nice and didn’t have her penciled in as “guilty.”
She met them at the mailbox. Sato nodded at her, hand skimming down his fuchsia silk tie. “Afternoon, Ms. Hunter. We have a few questions for you.”
“All right,” she said, hoping she appeared calm and unruffled. On the inside, her thoughts were racing. Sato had once insinuated that Jack might not be dead, that he might have conveniently disappeared. Had they somehow found out about the ring? Maybe the guy in the silver car had been from the FBI? But how could they know about the ring? She’d lost the guy in the silver car before she got to the airport. She knew Sato and Mort weren’t at the airport themselves. They were quite a pair and would have stood out, even among the crowds.
Sato moved impatiently toward the house, looking like a bad-tempered menswear model who’d stepped out of a Giorgio Armani ad. Mort, on the other hand, with his unruly thatch of gray hair, barrel-chest, and wrinkled gray dress shirt, had a more neutral expression. Zoe wondered again how they managed to work together. They seemed to be opposites not only in appearance, but also in personality. Sato was smooth with slicked back black hair, suave innuendo, and designer suits while Mort was rumpled and comfortably straightforward.
Zoe asked, “What is this about?”
“Let’s talk inside, if you don’t mind,” Mort said, and Zoe noticed a trace of formality in Mort’s tone that wasn’t usually there. It worried her.
She led them through the garage and into the kitchen where she flicked on the lights, dumped her stuff on the counter beside the sink, and gestured for them to take a seat at the barstools at the island. Sato pulled out a barstool, but Mort wandered to the other side of the kitchen and leaned against the counter, eyeing the missing drywall above his head.
“Something to drink?” she asked, reaching for glasses, which gave her something to do with her jittery hands. Even if they did know about the ring, there was no actual connection to Jack, Zoe reminded herself. She suspected it was from him, but she had no proof. “I’ve got ice tea or water.”
Sato shook his head, but Mort accepted a glass of water. Zoe filled one for herself, then dragged one barstool around to the other side of the large island and sat down opposite Sato.
“Where’s the money?” Sato asked.
The question was so different from what she expected. “What money?”
“The money that
was in the GRS business account, the money that was obtained by fraudulent means.”
“The money in the frozen account?” Zoe asked, glad that the question was about Jack’s old business account and not about his whereabouts or if he’d contacted her. “In the account, I assume.”
“Is that the way you want to play it? Total denial?” Sato removed a notepad and gold pen from his jacket.
Zoe had taken a sip of her water. She set her glass down slowly. His accusing tone set off alarm bells. “What are you saying? That it’s not there? It’s missing...again?”
“Yes,” Sato said.
Zoe glanced at Mort, who was sipping his water and studying her from across the room with what looked like a trace of disappointment in his gaze.
“Well, I had nothing to do with it. I have no idea where it is. How can that be anyway? I thought you said the account was frozen.”
“It was.” Sato tapped his pen on the blank page as he stared at her, waiting for a response.
“Why are you looking at me like that? I don’t know anything about high finance stuff. I can’t unfreeze bank accounts and move funds around.” He didn’t look convinced, and Zoe’s heart began to pump. “I could barely get my own online banking account set up. Here,” she said and pulled her laptop across the island. “You can check my bank account—”
Sato interrupted her as he consulted a page in his notepad. “We already have. Four-hundred-eighty-two dollars and nineteen cents.”
“See. That’s certainly not twelve million dollars.”
“What other bank accounts do you have? Anything offshore?”
If the situation hadn’t been so absurd, Zoe would have laughed, but she couldn’t. She was trying too hard to calm her racing heartbeat. “Do I look like the kind of person who has a bank account on some tropical island? These are not designer clothes—well, except for the boots, and they’re hand-me-downs from my friend. Would I have that,” she asked, pointing to the hole in the ceiling, “if I had twelve million dollars?” Sato and Mort exchanged a glance. Mort raised his eyebrows and gave a little nod, like he agreed. Satos’ face didn’t change.
“So you’re saying you don’t know how the money was moved, and you don’t have it,” Sato asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.
“Yes, exactly.” Zoe took a quick gulp of her water, feeling a bit better as it seemed at least Mort was leaning toward believing her. “So you’re saying that you don’t have any idea where it is? Can’t you track it?” she asked quickly before Sato could ask her any more questions.
Sato flipped his notepad closed and stood up. “We’ll know soon enough.”
“That’s great. Then you can call off your guy in the silver car.” They must have sent someone over to watch her house as soon as they found out about the missing money, Zoe thought.
“What guy in the silver car?” Sato asked.
Chapter Five
––––––––
“THE one who followed me,” Zoe said. “He was with you, right? You sent someone to watch me until you could get here.”
Mort stepped forward and placed his empty glass on the island. “The car was silver, you said?”
“Yes. He followed me home from the grocery store then parked on the street and watched the house.”
“Probably coincidence.” Sato transferred Mort’s glass to the sink, clearly ready to leave.
“Pretty odd that he’d follow me to the airport today, too.”
Sato went back on full alert. “You went to the airport?”
“Yes. My mom had a layover, and I met her for lunch.” Zoe forced herself to keep her hands resting on the island even though she had the urge to touch the gold chain around her neck.
“Did he follow you all the way to the airport and back home again?” Sato asked.
“No. I lost him in traffic on the Tollway.”
One corner of Mort’s mouth turned up. “He probably didn’t realize what an...evasive driver you are.”
Zoe knew he was thinking of the time she’d given them the slip. Sato had been driving. “Evasive driving is a skill you have to have to survive in Dallas,” Zoe said, and Sato made a rumbling sound.
“It was a man? Are you sure?” Mort asked easily, ignoring Sato.
“Yes. In fact—” Zoe retrieved the camera from the hall where she’d left it. “I took a picture.” She felt Sato’s gaze intensify and she said quickly, “It seemed...weird. And, after everything that happened last time, I wanted a record, just in case I had to prove what I saw.” She swiveled the screen on the camera toward Mort. He put on a pair of half-glasses, studied it, and then passed it to Sato. “It was a guy. I could tell by the build. And he had blond hair. That’s really all I could tell.”
Sato fiddled with the camera, zooming in on the image of the car. “Too blurry to see the plate, but email it to me and I’ll send it to our tech...”
He trailed off as Zoe took the camera and moved to the next picture, a close-up of the license plate. Mort took out his phone, adjusted his glasses, and began tapping away.
“You’re sure he wasn’t from your office?” Zoe asked again.
“Yes. Probably a coincidence,” Sato said. “A neighbor going in the same direction as you.”
“No one on this block has a car like that,” Zoe said.
Sato moved to the door. “Someone probably got a new car.”
Mort held up his hand. “Let’s just wait a minute, see if Henry texts me.”
Sato clearly didn’t want to stay another minute. Zoe didn’t want them to, either. Her palms went sweaty at the thought of trying to make small talk with these guys.
Fortunately, Mort’s phone dinged with a message, and he read aloud, “That car, a silver Camry, is registered to a Martha Baumkirchner. Lives in Farmers Branch.” Zoe couldn’t help shooting a triumphant glance at Sato as Mort did some more tapping.
“Could it have been stolen?” Zoe asked. She was surprised that Mort had done the search and told her the results.
“It’s possible.” Mort folded his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket.
“We’ll look into it,” Sato said, grudgingly, already on his way out the door.
“Call us, if you see it again,” Mort said, leaving his card with her.
––––––––
“So what’s your take?” Sato asked as their car doors slammed closed.
Mort snapped his seatbelt. “She seemed to be telling the truth. She’s not living like she’s got millions stashed away. The ceiling needs a repair. Her laptop is older than mine, and her car certainly isn’t new. Bank balance is low.”
Sato pulled away from the curb. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s smart enough to know not to flaunt it. Sure, her bank balance is under five hundred bucks, but maybe she’s got the money stashed in some other account, and she’s charging up her credit cards.”
Mort pulled the thick file out that he’d brought with him. “I checked. Three cards. Zero balance on two. Seventy-four dollars on the other as of yesterday.” Mort liked tangible evidence: facts and figures, the hard details that couldn’t be argued away or discounted by slick lawyers.
Sato, on the other hand, gravitated to the intangibles: relationships, undercurrents, and motivations. “But there was something, something about the mention of the airport that bothered her. Did you notice her tense up? Wonder what happened at DFW.”
“We can check with the airport, see if she’s on the their CCTV,” Mort said.
––––––––
AS soon as they were gone, Zoe locked the door then sagged against it. The money was gone. She rubbed her hand across her forehead. The silver car worried her—she had been followed, no matter what Sato thought—but the missing money was even more troubling. Banking errors didn’t happen twice, at least not involving twelve million dollars.
With the strange guy following her, the ring showing up, and the money disappearing, it felt as if the situation was heating up again. It had cooled d
own for a few months, but now things were simmering.
The whole money aspect was beyond her. She didn’t have any clue about how to move funds around or figure out who had done it. She was sure the FBI was tracking the money. However, she did have something new to put in her file.
She pushed away from the door and moved to the shelves at the end of the island. She reached behind the row of cookbooks and removed a file folder. In the first months after her return from Italy, she’d researched everything she could find related to Jack’s situation. The file contained her clippings from the local newspaper as well as from her Internet searches, everything she could find related to the “Italy Incident,” as she had begun to call it. She had articles on Jack, on the scam that had taken in Jack and hundreds of other people, on the investigation, and on Victor Costa. Interestingly, articles about Costa, a powerful player in the Camorra, the Naples mafia, made up the bulk of the file.
Jack had never met him. But during the time Jack had worked for the State Department at the Consulate in Naples, Jack had recruited Victor’s wife as a source. An asset, Jack had called her. Things went horribly wrong, and Francesca was killed after it was discovered she was informing on her husband. At least, that’s what Jack thought had happened. Jack and Zoe hadn’t worked out a few extra details until they untied all the convoluted knots in Venice.
Initially, when everything went wrong last spring, Jack suspected Costa was at the heart of it, but several people Jack trusted told him that Costa was in hiding and that he’d essentially retired. Despite the pursuit of several different police forces, including Interpol, Costa hadn’t been found. Clearly, not for lack of trying, as the Google news alerts showed. The mention of his name had become more frequent in the last few months.
Zoe settled on the barstool and flipped open the file. She taped the blue slip of paper to the interior of the folder. Unless Jack had suddenly decided to take up pirating, the skull and crossbones had to mean danger. She ran her finger across the tape, considering what the numbers could be, since they weren’t a phone number. A code of some sort? But if it were a code, there would have to be a key, a way to decipher it. The paper and the ring had been the only things in the box.
