Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Karen E. Olson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Karen E. Olson

  The Nicole Jones Series

  HIDDEN *

  SHADOWED *

  BETRAYED *

  The Annie Seymour Series

  SACRED COWS

  SECONDHAND SMOKE

  DEAD OF THE DAY

  SHOT GIRL

  The Tattoo Shop Mysteries Series

  THE MISSING INK

  PRETTY IN INK

  DRIVEN TO INK

  INK FLAMINGOS

  * available from Severn House

  VANISHED

  The Nicole Jones series

  Karen E. Olson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Karen E. Olson.

  The right of Karen E. Olson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8755-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-868-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-931-2 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  PROLOGUE

  The hacker known as Tracker moves along the sidewalk, a hoodie pulled up over his head, his eyes darting from side to side. He approaches an ATM and pauses for a second. Someone comes up behind him, and he whirls around, but it’s only a young woman, maybe in her twenties, a question in her eyes. He knows what she wants, so he steps aside. She nods, her card in her hand. He wants to warn her, but he knows this one is OK. Knows it because he’s got the skimmer in his pocket. His hand closes over it, feeling its smooth surface, the tiny motherboard on the other side.

  The woman takes her cash from the machine and tucks her card into her pocket. She turns and walks away; he’s invisible to her. While the sidewalk is bustling, no one pays attention as he approaches the machine. He hovers over it, shielding it. If anyone notices him, he merely looks as though he’s already swiped his card and is trying to figure out how many euros he needs. He could do it now. Right now. He’s done it before, but something is stopping him this time. Maybe because it’s two years later. Maybe because he’s had time to think about it. Maybe because of her.

  He shakes her out of his head as he makes his decision. In one swift move, he takes out the skimmer. He peels off the tape that covers the glue and affixes it to the machine. He surveys it for a second. No one will be able to tell. No one, unless he looks too closely, will see what he’s done.

  And the next person who puts his card into the ATM will be compromised.

  He tries not to think about what he’s doing, careful to stay shrouded as he moves away in the crowd. He doesn’t want to linger, see who uses the machine next. He’ll know.

  He saunters into a nearby hotel, shedding the hoodie in the men’s room, stuffing it into a trash can. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt and a pullover sweater underneath, and he smooths it down as he takes a look in the mirror. He ignores the worry lines around his eyes as he splashes a little water on his hands and wets his hair back. He pulls out a pair of sunglasses and puts them on. As he walks out of the men’s room, he stands up straighter, hands in his pockets. Confident.

  A café is to the left, just outside the hotel, and he takes a seat, putting his phone on the table in front of him. He orders a coffee. The air is cooler than he’d like, and he regrets losing the hoodie. His phone vibrates, and he glances at it before picking it up and responding with his own text. He probably shouldn’t stay, but he’s within sight of the ATM and he’s curious, against his better judgment. So far, no one has used it.

  The coffee comes, and he sips, relaxing slightly as though he is merely a tourist or a businessman enjoying a few moments of solitude.

  His phone vibrates again, interrupting. He looks over at the ATM. It’s a young couple, arms around each other. He picks up the phone and touches the icon for the app he’s developed just for this purpose. All of the young man’s credit card information has downloaded into the app. With just a touch, it will transfer to the server. There isn’t supposed to be anything in between the ATM machine and the server, but he’s set this up as a safeguard. He’s in control. He can decide what gets transferred and what doesn’t.

  He watches the young couple smiling at each other, and he’s envious of them. They stop in front of the fountain and snap a picture of themselves using a phone that’s not unlike his. He’s never been so close before, never seen the victims. They’ve always been names and numbers online, no pictures, no videos, no way to feel guilty.

  He goes to the menu o
n the app and hits another button. Again, another safeguard. He only hopes it works as he sends the information to the server.

  They brought him in because of what he could do.

  The hacker known as Tracker stands, tosses cash onto the table and moves away, disappearing into the crowd.

  ONE

  Four months later

  Sometimes I go to the library just to look at the bank of computers. I pretend to peruse the books, picking them up one by one, but always with an eye toward the machines that have defined me, that lure me with their promise.

  I don’t touch them. I don’t dare.

  I’ve done it before. Stayed away. But it was easier the first time, before my relapse. The withdrawal is all too real. My hands shake; my heart beats so fast I can barely breathe. Beads of sweat form at my temple, and I dab at them, my face flush. I close my eyes and see the code, pinpoint the back doors, navigate my way inside in my head. None of it is real.

  I want to find him online. I want to see what’s happened to him. However, there’s no guarantee that I’d find him there. We went our separate ways; I have a price on my head. I can’t afford the risk of exposing myself. While the Internet offers anonymity, it’s a false promise. Anyone can be revealed. Anyone can be found.

  No, the best way to protect myself is to stay offline. I have no Internet footprint. No social media. No chat-room screen names. No bank account. No phone number.

  Only one person knows how to reach me, and he’s in as much danger as I am.

  Someday I might be able to come out of hiding.

  But someone will have to die first.

  I sip wine from a small plastic cup, standing in the corner of the gallery, hoping no one will talk to me. Maybe if I act as though I’m merely someone in off the street, they’ll leave me alone. No such luck, though, as I see Randy heading my way, his hand under the elbow of an elegant elderly woman with a mass of white curls swept up in the back and held in place with a blue porcelain comb. Her cocktail dress matches the comb; her long fingers are adorned with diamonds.

  I won’t be able to escape.

  A wide smile spreads across Randy’s face. ‘Tina,’ he says with his usual drawl. ‘I’d like you to meet Madeline Whittier.’

  I force a smile and hope that it’s warm, holding out my free hand. Madeline Whittier takes it limply in hers. ‘So you are Tina Jones,’ she says, her eyes narrowing at me, searching my face for something that I can’t make out.

  I nod.

  ‘I’ve been admiring your work,’ she says. ‘I especially love the beach scenes.’

  I glance up at the watercolors across the room: long streaks of blues and pinks and oranges, sunrises, sunsets, the pier, surfers dotting the waves. They are an assault of colors that are a mix of reality and my imagination.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘You look so familiar, my dear.’

  A small panic rises in my chest. I look like my father, and she looks like she could have been one of his clients – one of the people he conned out of money way back when. But I force the anxiety back down. I have shed the name ‘Adler’ in favor of something more neutral in the hope that I can keep my anonymity. Randy is convinced he can ‘make a local celebrity’ out of me: someone who is not a local but who taps into local emotions. I admire his ambitions and it’s incredibly flattering, but the threat of exposure frightens me, so I play it down and say that sort of thing is not for me, which frustrates him. I agreed to come to this event with the caveat that I am allowed to keep my privacy otherwise. He does not know where I live, and he pays me in cash.

  I am not sure how someone like me manages to attract people like Randy: generous, kind people who seem to only see the good in others. I am the least likely to garner such trust, but I am my own worst enemy. While I want to sequester myself, hide away in a corner, these people find me and feel compelled to draw me out. And I allow myself to be drawn. Just so far, however.

  I found my way to Charleston, South Carolina, six months ago. I cannot stay too far away from the ocean, and it’s a charming, relaxed, easy-going kind of place with plentiful art galleries eager to discover a new artist. I had depleted much of my cash before I arrived here, so I found an art supply store on Calhoun Street and made sure to befriend the staff, which eventually led me to Randy Patterson, who is connected to everyone in the art scene in the city. He’s lived here twenty-five years, since following his husband to his hometown. Randy’s gallery is sought-after by local artists, but when I stumbled on it in the weeks after my arrival, I had no idea who he was. I saw a tall, slender man with a splash of white hair who could be anywhere between forty and sixty-five. He welcomed me in and admired my watercolors over a glass of bourbon. When I lived on Block Island, I was partial to oils, but I had more time there. As a perfectionist, I am embarrassed that I choose watercolors for how quickly I can produce a number of pieces, but money – or lack thereof – is a motivator. I have no idea how long I’ll stay here, so I have so far not been tempted to try my hand at oils or even acrylics again, although Randy has been encouraging me.

  Madeline Whittier gestures toward one of the watercolors of a salt marsh with her glass of wine, sloshing it slightly. Randy and I pretend not to notice. ‘Beautiful.’ She steps closer to it, studying it. Randy raises his eyebrows at me, a signal that he’s certain he’ll make a sale.

  I shift a little and set my plastic cup on a small table next to me. I don’t like this part of it, the schmoozing. That’s Randy’s job, and he is so good at it that he doesn’t need me. I begin to excuse myself, but he gives a quick shake of his head. Madeline Whittier turns just at that moment, but she doesn’t notice. What she does do, however, is give me a wide smile. I notice that the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but it could be more because she’s clearly had some work done to smooth out her lines and not because she doesn’t want to be warm.

  ‘Where are you from, Ms Jones?’ she asks.

  I tense up.

  Randy intervenes. ‘Tina’s from Portland,’ he offers.

  She nods. ‘I love Portland,’ she says, ‘although I love Seattle more.’

  I chose Portland because everyone thinks I’m either from Oregon or Maine. I never correct them; I’ve never been to either city. I run the risk of someone actually asking me something specific about one or the other, but so far no one has. I merely nod back. Rarely do Randy’s clients really want to know anything about me. They just want to know that they’ve bought something beautiful that perhaps their friends haven’t discovered yet.

  ‘You do look familiar,’ she says again, leaning toward me to study my face. ‘You’re sure we’ve never met before?’

  ‘No.’ I can hear the tightness in my tone.

  ‘Wouldn’t that watercolor look magnificent on your porch, Madeline?’ Randy interrupts, and I am grateful to him as he prepares to make his sale.

  I excuse myself, heading toward the restroom in the back.

  My heart is still pounding, and I pause for a second as I glance inside Randy’s office, which is next to the small lavatory. A laptop is perched on the desk.

  I hesitate in the doorway, unable to tear my eyes away from it. My need is palpable. In a few keystrokes, I could find out if Madeline Whittier was one of my father’s clients, if she will be able to identify me.

  I should walk away.

  In a split second, I make a decision. I step inside the office and approach the laptop, my fingers tingling. I don’t even try to stop myself; I touch one of the keys and the screen comes to life. I tell myself I’m not doing anything to show my hand as I glance back to make sure no one is coming. Randy has not set his laptop up with a password, which is something I would normally point out as dangerous, but he can’t know.

  I again tell myself I’m not doing anything that can be traced back to me. That I am completely anonymous.

  I put Madeline’s name and ‘Charleston’ into the search engine and scroll through the results. I don’t dare put in my father’s name,
but if she was one of his victims, it will probably show up. I’m not exactly fooling myself. Trying to find out about her is just an excuse. A reason to break my fast.

  I don’t find anything except some society pages from the local newspaper. I am about to erase the search history when I see one last headline that catches my eye. I click on the story and what I find startles me enough that I gasp out loud.

  While I still don’t know if Madeline Whittier was one of my father’s clients, I do discover that a young man named Ryan Whittier, a student at Charleston College, vanished in Paris four months ago. The last time he was seen was at an ATM near a hotel on rue de Rivoli, not far from the Place de la Concorde. The camera that was trained on the machine captured a stranger installing a skimmer on it just moments before Ryan Whittier took out three hundred euros. While police are quoted as saying there was no indication that Ryan Whittier’s disappearance was linked to the stranger or his actions, they are looking for him because he may have seen something that could help them find Ryan.

  The article includes a still shot of him, taken by the ATM camera. The stranger’s hoodie had fallen down slightly, and from the angle the photograph was taken, it would be hard for anyone to identify him. At least anyone who doesn’t know him. But I know who he is.

  He’s FBI Special Agent Zeke Chapman.

  TWO

  I skim the story a second time. This was four months ago. Zeke was in Paris. Is he still there? I have no way of knowing. I don’t have time to dwell on that, though; someone’s coming. I quickly delete the search history – I can’t completely erase my presence but there’s nothing really incriminating here – close the laptop and move away from the desk, pretending to be intrigued by a small still life in oil.

  ‘Oh, here you are,’ Randy says, pursing his lips and shaking his head. ‘You are too much of a recluse. I really need to get you out more.’

  I give him a small smile, trying to remember how to breathe. ‘I don’t need to get out more,’ I say, but I’m distracted. What was Zeke doing, putting a skimmer on an ATM? Did they ever find him? My fingers itch to get back online, to see if there is an updated story that has more information. It has been four months and since I am more than familiar with trails that grow cold, I am realistic. But at the same time, a surge of adrenaline rushes through me. I have missed him, and I had no idea just how much until I saw that grainy picture.