by Sara Rosett
Zoe nodded, then glanced at the computer out of the corner of her eye. “Should I?”
Jack frowned. “What?”
“You know...Google us?”
“God, no. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is.”
“But it’s better to know.”
“Fine, just don’t type in our names.” Zoe bit her lip, then spun back to the computer and typed.
“Who’s that?” Jack asked, peering over her shoulder.
“Oh, so you do want to see after all?”
“You’re a pain, did you know that?” Jack said, but Zoe could tell from his voice that he was smiling.
“It’s a reporter. She’s the one who told me about the search warrant.”
Zoe expected some links to the newspaper to come up with Jenny Singletarry’s name, but to her surprise, there were many more links to a blog called The Informationalist. It was a blend of hard news, commentary, celebrity news, and Dallas event listings. The video of them in Las Vegas topped the news column.
A quick scan of the Italian media sites confirmed Jenny Singletarry’s summary at the end of the article, which stated that investigators had no new leads, and the couple was still at large.
“At large,” Zoe said as they emerged on to the pedestrian shopping street filled with window displays of high-end designer goods. “It makes us sound like criminals.”
“They think we are.” Jack led them under a crumbling barrel-vault arch with angels and horses adorning the stucco, down through a short street lined with low-branched trees, and around another corner back into a street packed with taxis. “Where are we going?”
“There’s someone I need to talk to.” They entered the parking garage where they’d left the car. Keeping up with Jack, avoiding pedestrians, and not being run down by speeding mopeds had brought her attention back to the city. “It’s too much to take in,” Zoe said as she climbed into the tiny car. “Too much to see.”
“That’s Naples for you. Barely controlled chaos. About three million people squashed into this city.” Jack merged into traffic, and Zoe sucked in her breath as they bounced along the rough pavers.
“That wasn’t even an opening,” she said as the car shot through a gap between two cars.
“Plenty of room,” Jack said as he touched the horn and a car that had been drifting into their lane shifted away. “At least, in Naples it is.”
Another car slid in front of them and Zoe said, “There wasn’t an inch to spare!”
“Yep.” Jack shifted gears and deftly maneuvered the car in front of a bus. “Like a live-action Mario Cart game, isn’t it?” Several mopeds whined by them, lacing in and out of the gaps. Zoe did a double take and saw a dog on the foot platform of one of the mopeds. Ears flapping and tongue lolling, the mutt’s head was tucked between the front of the scooter and the driver’s leg.
Jack yielded briefly at a red light before zipping through the intersection along with the rest of the cars in the street. The buildings and their coatings of graffiti blurred as their speed picked up. “No one really pays attention to red lights here. Or lane lines.” He laid on the horn again as another car veered toward them as they circled a roundabout.
“The Smart Travel guidebooks warn tourists about the traffic in Naples, but this is ...crazy,” Zoe said, instinctively flinching to the side as a tour bus closed in on her side of the car as it attempted to merge into the traffic circle. Brake lights flared and all the cars came to a dead stop. “Look at that bus,” Zoe said. “The driver is practically in the seat with me.”
“He won’t hit us,” Jack said calmly, watching for a gap in the cars that had begun to inch along. “They hardly ever actually hit you. Scrape you, yes. Hit you, no. Come on, you should love it here—all this chaotic activity, this impulsive, passionate motion.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss Dallas traffic,” Zoe said and fought off the urge to stamp on the non-existent brake pedal as another teeny car breezed blithely into the miniscule gap between their front bumper and the next car.
“Good thing it’s not rush hour, then,” Jack said and spun the wheel, turning onto a less crowded street. People on the sidewalk, signs in Italian, piles of trash around garbage bins, and street vendors selling purses and gold jewelry flashed by. They followed the twisty maze of bumpy streets until the tires gripped smooth asphalt and Jack said, “There, we’re on the freeway. You can open your eyes now.”
“I didn’t close my eyes. Well, not much. I think I need to provide some detailed feedback for the next Italy edition,” Zoe said. “It focuses on the quaint and beautiful. You know, crumbling butter-colored villas, ancient ruins, scenic vineyards.”
“That’s Tuscany,” Jack said with a smile. “Naples is a little more...gritty.”
There wasn’t as much traffic on the freeway, and Zoe looked out at the city, which spread from the sea to the side of a mountain rising in the distance, its gentle slope swirling out like the folds of a vintage 1950s woman’s skirt. As they sped toward it, Zoe studied the top of the mountain, which looked as if it had been sliced off at an angle. “Mt. Vesuvius,” she breathed.
“I thought you’d want to see it.”
Jack periodically checked the mirrors, but didn’t seem to see anything that worried him. He took an exit slowly, maneuvered through more tiny streets, until they came to a parking area near a grouping of shops and a small train station. “Come on. Nico should be around here somewhere,” Jack said as he slammed the car door.
“Who’s Nico?”
“An old friend.”
They strolled by vendors selling fruit, orange juice, lemon juice, pizza, and Panini sandwiches from tented kiosks. Tourists in bright jackets and sensible shoes with cameras slung around their necks thronged around an ugly modern building labeled Scavi de Pompeii. “You brought me to Pompeii,” she breathed, grabbing his arm.
“If you go to Naples, you’ve got to see Pompeii,” Jack said.
She smiled at him and, for a second, she flashed back to that crazy night with the dark sky as a backdrop to the flashing lights of Vegas. It all came back to her in a rush, the press of his hand on the small of her back as they moved through the crowds, the wind stinging her face as they rocketed through the air, the cascade of water dancing in synch with music at the fountains.
“It was a good drive. It let me make sure no one was following us. And it got us out of Naples. I’d rather not stay in one spot too long.” His matter-of-fact tone was like a spray of cold water on Zoe’s cozy memories.
He handed her some euros. “You get our tickets. I’ll meet you by the gate.” His gaze was fixed over Zoe’s shoulder. He crossed the courtyard area to the group of men selling guidebooks. He approached a young guy with short, dark hair combed up into a spike that ran down the center of his head. He wore a tight royal blue jacket over a white shirt with jeans, which managed to both sag at his waist, but fit skin-tight around his legs like the legs on her tightest pair of skinny jeans. He had mirrored sunglasses and flashed a white grin when he spotted Jack.
Zoe got the tickets, refusing to think about money. She was at Pompeii, and she wasn’t going to pass up a chance to see it.
Jack rejoined Zoe, and they moved quickly through the gates, then passed the guides hawking their individual tour services. “You found him? Nico?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. He’ll be along shortly,” Jack said, unfolding the map that came with the tickets. He waved toward the tall stone archway, the entrance to Pompeii. “Have at it.”
Dallas
Monday, 11:45 a.m.
MORT looked up from the file and rubbed his eyes. Sato dropped a bag onto the conference table, then flopped into the chair. “Man, I don’t know why you’re reading that thing again.”
Mort grunted and turned a page.
Sato shrugged out of his suit coat, tossed it over the back of another chair, then removed a foot-long sandwich from the bag, placed it beside his can of Sprite, then slid the other sandwich
across the table toward Mort. “Tuna. No cheese.”
“Thanks. Didn’t go to the mall for lunch?”
“No.”
Mort sniffed. No flowery scent wreathed his partner. “How’s Althea?”
“Don’t know.” Sato unwrapped his sandwich. “Haven’t seen her in a couple of days.” His phone vibrated, and Mort saw the readout on the screen—Chloe, the crime scene technician. Mort smiled as Sato grabbed the phone, then lolled back in the chair to have a conversation that wasn’t related to the case at all.
Mort made a mental note to buy Jenny some Twizzlers. She was right about Sato moving on to a new girlfriend. She’d called that one. Mort chewed on his sandwich. He still couldn’t believe Jenny had pulled that Vegas lead out of thin air. It almost made up for tipping off a witness who’d fled.
Sato hung-up with a satisfied smile on his face. “So, find anything new?” he asked.
“Not really.” Mort picked up a piece of paper. “I don’t see how two people can be so elusive. There’s nothing. No credit card charges, no bank withdrawals. How are they surviving? Who’s hiding them? They can’t have disappeared into thin air.” Sato shrugged, and Mort let out a gusty sigh before going on. “Got the info on what Andrews and the redhead did in Vegas on their last trip.” After Jenny came up with the Vegas lead, he’d put out the order to run down everything on their prior trip. “Late night dinner at the Bellagio, visits to a few clubs, then—get this—they rode roller coasters on The Strip.”
“Coasters?” Sato said, “Not exactly a typical date night.”
“Right. But nothing about these two is typical, is it? Anyway, credit cards show an early morning breakfast at an IHOP a few blocks off The Strip, then a trip up the Eiffel Tower later that morning.” Sato nodded his head, approvingly. A trip up the Eiffel Tower was more like it. “Then a stop at a jewelry counter for a 1.23 carat square princess-cut diamond ring, and on to the wedding chapel. No charges after that.”
Sato laughed. “I bet not.”
“That’s it, except for room service and a charge at an airport restaurant.” Mort tapped the thick file on Connor Freeman. “Got in a few more things on Freeman last night, too.”
“More fraud?”
Mort nodded as he ate a bite of his sandwich. “Utah this time. Had a con going up there involving seniors and new siding. Went through neighborhoods posing as a city inspector and told people they weren’t in compliance with a new city code. Threated a fine if they didn’t get it fixed within a month. His partner came around a few days later, set up repair jobs, took deposits, then skipped town with the money.”
Sato stood and used a thick marker to add the scam to the list on the whiteboard at the side of the room as Mort called out the dates and specifics. Their investigation had focused on Jack Andrews in the beginning because it was the logical place to start, but as the information began to roll in, they found that Connor Freeman had many more brushes with the law. Sato capped the pen, then stood there tapping it against the palm of his hand. “So what have we got?”
He stepped away from the whiteboard. “Connor Freeman grew up in Vegas with his single mom, stayed there, even after she moved on. Had a couple of breaking-and-entering charges on his record. We’ve got several complaints against him in Vegas, a few in surrounding states. And on the other side, Andrews looks like a boy scout. Not even a parking ticket on his record.”
“Let’s stay on Freeman. All the jobs were low profile cons,” Mort said.
“Nothing of this magnitude,” Sato agreed, swirling the pen in the direction of the stacks of paper that had accumulated on the conference room table, all related to their current case.
Mort leaned back in his chair. “Local, short term, and not very imaginative. In other words, small time. How did he go from small time cons to such an elaborate job?”
“And why the change in territory? Why Dallas?” Sato asked. “Maybe he met someone who hooked him up?” Sato speculated.
“With enough cash to fund GRS as a start-up and set him up in here in the huge house?” Mort looked doubtful.
“Yeah, unlikely,” Sato agreed. “Maybe Freeman had been planning this con all along? Saving up from the small cons to fund his big one, the one that would be big enough to fund his retirement,” Sato said, making quotes in the air when he said the word retirement.
“You ever known a thrifty con man?” Mort asked.
Sato shook his head. “Then what? How did they get together?”
Mort selected a file from the stack and flipped it open. “Their secretary states Jack Andrews had the idea for a green tech recycling business that would outsource the recyclables from large companies in an environmentally-conscious way. He went to Vegas for a trade show, met Connor Freeman, who agreed to back the company as long as he became a partner.”
Sato had returned to the table and was eating his sandwich. He opened a bag of Sun Chips. “So maybe Jack Andrews was the patsy?” Sato said the words slowly, trying out the idea.
“It’s feasible,” Mort said. “He caught on to the scam and took Freeman out, then took the money?”
“Possible. Any word on the money trail?”
“Nope. The tech guys are working on tracking it—everything is electronic now—but they haven’t got anything yet,” Mort said, waving off the bag of chips Sato had tilted toward him.
A woman opened the conference room door and leaned in, “Mort, the Frisco Police have a man in custody who says he knows something about the Freeman case.”
SAMMY Dovitz had turned eighteen four months ago and sat alone in the small room on the other side of the two-way glass, hands clasped calmly despite the handcuffs on his wrists, but his left heel jittered below the table. If Mort had seen him on the street, he wouldn’t have pegged him as a thief. He was a clean-cut kid with short blond-brown hair, big dark eyes, and slightly uneven teeth. A chain link pattern was tattooed slightly above his collarbone and he wore a diamond stud in one earlobe.
“Caught him leaving a house near the Sweetbriar Mall with two laptops. He had jewelry, two hunting rifles, and other electronics in his car.” The officer handed a file to Sato, who passed it on to Mort. “Picked him up a few months ago, same situation, he got probation, on account of his age—first offense—but I don’t think it’ll be so easy for him this time, and it seems there’s a certain person in prison he’s anxious to avoid. He’s hoping to cut a deal.”
“Let’s see what he has to say,” Sato said and pushed through the door. The officer held the door open for Mort to follow.
“Thanks, but I’m good here,” he said, waving the officer off.
The door closed, and Mort skimmed the file then turned up the audio, catching Sato in mid-sentence. “...that’s it. I can’t promise you anything. I have to hear what you have to say.”
Sammy stared at Sato for a long moment, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Okay, last week on Monday my friend Rick calls me. He’s got someone who needs help with a job. Something easy. ‘Cake,’ he says.” Mort watched the kid’s face change. His air of forced unconcern broke and he laughed. “Worst job ever is more like it.”
“So you took the job,” Sato prompted.
Sammy’s shoulder moved up a few millimeters. “I say sure, put me in touch, but this guy, he doesn’t want to talk on the phone. I’m supposed to meet him at the Mobil station on Hickory by the Denny’s at six in the morning on Tuesday.” He reached up to rub his neck, but the handcuffs caught his hand and he stopped mid-motion. Sato didn’t interrupt, which Mort thought was a good thing. “So I show up. There’s an old, short guy waiting out by the air pump. He gives me an address, says there’s a handgun in the attic crawlspace above the upstairs master bath. Get it and bring it to him at the next address he’ll give me.”
“Where was the first address?”
“Vinewood. Two story on Red Fern Way. I can show you,” he said.
“Later,” Sato said, motioning for him to continue. Mort could see Sammy’s whole leg bo
uncing, tremors from the movement running all the way up the kid’s collar. “So I did it. There was a—” he checked his language with a quick glance at Sato, “a woman home. No one told me there’d be someone home. She must have been one of those home office people because all she did was sit in her kitchen and type. I kept thinking she’d leave, but she didn’t. Rick kept calling me. Telling me to get it done, that the old dude was gonna freak if I didn’t get that gun. So I broke in, got the gun, and got outta there.”
“The woman didn’t know you were there? She didn’t hear you?”
Sammy looked offended. “Course not.” He opened his mouth to say something, then quickly shut it. Mort grinned, sure that the kid was going to say he was good, a professional.
“So you got the gun,” Sato said, “Then what?”
“I go to the next address, some office complex. Rick isn’t there, but the old dude is. I hand off the gun. I’m ready to leave—only the guy won’t pay me. Says he’s got to do something first. Tells me to wait in the parking lot in his car and tell him if a guy in a blue Accord drives up. So I do it.” He threw one hand up. The cuff yanked on his wrist. “I wasn’t leaving without payment. So he goes into the office and comes out a couple of minutes later.”
“Anyone show up?”
“Not that I could tell. It started raining, and I could barely see through the windshield. Anyway, as soon as he gets back in the car, a blue Honda parks beside us and the old guy tenses up and watches the driver. A tall guy—young, too. Around twenty-five or so with dark hair.” Sammy swallowed. “The old guy got a look on his face...it was weird, man, the way he watched him. Creeped me out. So I tell him I want my money, but he says one more thing—help him knock out the guy who just went in the office. He had some story about how there was a ton of cash in the safe, but it was a special lock, and only that guy who went inside had it. Just knock him out and he’d split the cash with me.”
Sammy paused, shook his head a fraction. “Anyway, I believed him. I thought he was going to stiff me on the job and the thought of more money—well, I did it. He went in the front, and I went in the back window. When I got in there, they were struggling. I hit the man with the dark hair on the back of the head with the fire extinguisher. Knocked him out cold.” He stopped, leaned over the table, his hands curling into fists. “That’s when I saw the other man.”
