Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (19 page)

––––––––

Naples

Monday, 7:31 p.m.

––––––––

ZOE stood and moved swiftly
through the tables. She didn’t look back. She knew Jack would be right behind
her. “Parking garage?” Zoe asked as he fell into step with her. They circled
around the far side of the
piazza
,
moving in a different direction from Roy. “Did you leave anything at the
hotel?” Jack asked. He’d brought his backpack with him and it was on his
shoulder now. “The rolling bag is there, but there’s nothing in it except
clothes.”

“No...I have my messenger bag,” Zoe
said automatically, as she opened the flap and shifted its contents. “I have
every—” She stopped and locked on his gaze. “The spreadsheets. We left them on
the foot of your bed.”

Without a word, they took off at a
speed only a notch below running. Everyone seemed to be either on a leisurely
stroll, arms linked with a companion, as they walked their dogs or window-shopped.
They shifted and dodged until Jack grabbed her arm and pulled her into a narrow
street. “Short cut,” he said and Zoe could tell they were moving up a street
parallel to the one where their hotel was located—at least she thought that was
the way they were moving because of the steep grade.

Jack zigged to the left down a
short street and around a mass of mopeds, all parked at odd angles in a small
triangular area where three streets met. She caught up with him. “Where will we
go after the hotel?”

Jack opened his mouth, then
stopped and shook his head. “Not sure. Let’s get out of here clean first.”

“Here it is,” Zoe said,
recognizing the street from the dusty pink building on the corner with a
peeling Yoda poster. They turned and halted. A blue and white car with the word
Polizia
on the side
filled the street, leaving no room for a car to pass in the other direction.
Among the people mingling around the hotel entrance, Zoe spotted several
blue-uniformed men with white hats. She recognized one of the civilians, the
young man with curly black hair and liquid dark eyes who’d been on duty as the
desk clerk when they’d left this morning. He caught sight of her, and Zoe
stared at him unable to look away. “No, no, no,” she whispered as she reached
out blindly and touched Jack’s arm. The clerk raised his arm, pointed their
direction. White hats spun toward them.

Zoe turned and fled back the way
they’d come. She heard Jack’s breathing behind her, but she didn’t spare a
second to look as they took the turn to the steep street that would take them
down to the
Via Chiaia
and the pedestrian crowds there. They hit the corner and Zoe lengthened her
stride, glad for the flat ground and even paving stones. She concentrated on
weaving through the crowds, sliding left and right.

Ahead of them, a terrier on a
leash leapt daintily out of a small doorway within a doorway, his leash
stretching out across the pedestrian walkway at knee level as his owner
lingered inside the midget-sized cut-away doorway in the imposing sixteen-foot
double doors of the building.

Zoe veered left around the dog,
who perked up his ears at her pounding footsteps. Jack hurdled the leash.
Several white hats bobbed in his wake. The dog bounded after Jack, his barks
echoing up the narrow space between the tall buildings. With a quick glance
behind her, Zoe saw the dog reach the end of its leash with an abrupt yank. It
immediately reversed course and made for the pursuing policemen, yapping away.
Two of them got tangled in the leash and went down hard, the dog skipping away,
then circling back to bark and lick. The wails of distinctly European emergency
sirens filled the air.

Two policemen still pounded behind
them, shouting words Zoe didn’t understand. It was fully dark now, but she
could see the end of the pedestrian area ahead where the street opened up into
an intersection with traffic swishing by, headlights cutting through the night.

Zoe and Jack shot out of the
pedestrian street, sending a waiter, who had been walking along the street
holding a covered circular tray with several drinks, spinning like a top. They
burst into an intersection with traffic circling the roundabout, which enclosed
a fountain at the center of the intersection. Zoe saw pulsating blue lights
atop several approaching cars straight ahead. Jack’s hand closed around her
wrist and pulled her to the left. “This way.”

They ran, angling their shoulders,
pushing through the crowds. Suddenly, Jack ducked off the main street and they
were in a small market area with vendors hawking jackets and jewelry under
plastic awnings. The shouts weren’t that far away as they slipped into another
narrow alley, then zigged and zagged through the labyrinth-like maze of
streets.

They followed one street until it
curved abruptly into a dead end with several apartment buildings and a pile of
trash overflowing several dumpsters that were as tall as Zoe.

“Damn,” Jack said, turning back.
“We’re going to have to stay with the larger streets. I don’t know my way
around well enough to get through these small roads.”

Zoe didn’t want to go backward,
but she
really
didn’t want to hide in the garbage pile, either. They retraced their steps as
best they could through the snaking streets. With every corner, Zoe braced
herself, expecting to find the
Polizia
,
but they only came across moped drivers with death wishes and people who seemed
to be interested in getting to the local café for a pre-dinner drink.

Zoe heard the sound of traffic
and saw bright lights, signaling they were close to a major street. They
emerged onto the same busy street they’d been on a few moments ago, the
Via Toledo
, Zoe saw, locating
an Italian street sign, a stucco plaque on one of the buildings with the street
name carved into it.

A siren grew louder as a blue car
with flashing blue lights crept down the street. The officer in the window
scanned faces on the street. Zoe instinctively turned away, saw a table at one
of the sidewalk cafés was open, and dropped into the chair, pulling Jack down
into the chair beside her. She felt too exposed, too vulnerable, standing up.
At least here they were hidden behind layers of other diners at the café.

“Good idea to stop running,” Jack
said, placing his backpack under the table at his feet. He hunched over the
table, one hand propped on his cheek, shielding his face from the street. Zoe
found the hair clip in her messenger bag and secured her hair in a lose knot on
her head, then shoved her bag under the table. “It seemed better than walking
along the main road,” she said choppily, her breath coming out in rough gasps.
She pulled off her jacket and stuffed it in the messenger bag, ducking down as
the waiter came and Jack ordered two coffees. Short of buying new clothes,
she’d done all she could to change her appearance.

“Caffeine is the last thing I need
right now,” Zoe said. Her fingers were visibly trembling. She splayed them on
the cool metal of the table. Two uniformed police officers trotted by, their
gaze sifting through the pedestrians strolling along the street. Zoe watched
Jack, not wanting to look their way. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder,
and then said, “They’re gone,” before taking a sip of his coffee that had
arrived.

Zoe brought the cup to her lips,
but couldn’t manage a drink. Another siren approached as she set the cup in its
saucer. “
Carabinieri
,”
Zoe breathed, taking in the dark blue car.

“They probably have nothing to do
with us. Probably going to dinner,” Jack said. “They’re notorious for that
here—using their sirens just to get through traffic when there’s no emergency
at all.”

Two more dark cars marked
Carabinieri
pulled to a stop
at the curb. Four men in their distinctive dark blue uniforms with red stripes
down the outside of the pant leg, emerged and fanned out, two men on each side
of the street.

“Or maybe it does have something
to do with us,” Zoe said.

Jack kept his eyes on his small
coffee cup as one of the
Carabinieri
,
hands clasped together behind his back, strolled along the front row of café
tables. Zoe developed an interest in her fingernails. She noticed in a
disassociated way that she could really use a manicure. Jack leaned over,
gripped her hand tightly and said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He slipped away before she could
protest or gather her messenger bag and follow him. Out of the corner of her
eye, she watched the dark pants with the red stripe move methodically through
the crowd. She took a sip of her coffee, and then set it down quickly. Her
heart rate was already equal to a hummingbird’s—there was no way she needed to
up it anymore. A second
Carabinieri
officer joined the first one. They settled into the middle of the small enclave
of shops and restaurants, watching the constantly moving crowds. Every time
their gaze ranged around to the café tables, she tensed, ready to sprint.
Where was Jack?
She couldn’t
believe he’d gone off and left her.
When
would he be back?
A thought struck her and she almost growled.
He better come back. If he’d pulled
another disappearing act...

She was busy cataloguing the
various tortures she’d put him through when he sat down across from her. He
slapped some change on the table. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where were you?”

He looked up, perplexed at the
fierceness of her tone. “I went to buy bus tickets,” he said, nodding his head
at the
Tabacchi
, a
small shop that sold cigarettes, bus tickets, and phone cards.

Zoe set him an exasperated look.
“Why didn’t you say so? I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“You thought I’d left you?”

“It has happened before.”

“Touché,” Jack said. “Sorry that I
didn’t explain, but time is critical here.”

“Okay,” Zoe said. “I get it. Just
don’t do it again.”

“Fine. There’s our bus,” Jack
said. “Let’s walk calmly to it.”

It turns out they could have
jogged across the sidewalk area and shoved their way into the bus—all the
Neapolitans did. They sauntered so casually by the
Carabinieri
that they almost didn’t get inside
the bus. Zoe managed to slip under a man’s elbow and Jack muscled his way in
behind her. The doors closed and Zoe looked down at her feet as the bus lurched
away from the curb under the watchful gaze of the
Carabinieri
.

––––––––

––––––––

––––––––

THEY got off the bus at the train
station, along with almost every other bus rider. They moved down a long row of
buses to a glass-fronted building with a McDonald’s sign blazing in one corner.
Once inside, they made for the ticket counters. “I wish we could use a credit
card,” Zoe said biting her lip as she looked at the automatic ticket dispensing
machines without lines. Their line was moving at approximately one millimeter
every ten minutes. “At this rate we won’t get out of here until tomorrow
morning,” she said, shoving her hands into her pockets so that Jack wouldn’t
see her trembling fingers.

“Nothing we can do about it,” he
said calmly, so calmly that Zoe wanted to punch him. How did he do it? Sprint
through a city with the police chasing him one minute, then the next minute, he
stood calmly, looking unconcerned, bored even?

“So what do you think happened
back there with Roy and at the hotel?” Zoe asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know about Roy. Maybe he
heard something through one of his friends. At least he gave us some warning or
we’d be sitting in an Italian jail cell right now asking to talk to the
Consulate. Not a place I want to be.”

“Me either,” Zoe said and shifted
her feet half a baby-step forward. “So that only leaves....”

“Nico,” Jack said with an unhappy
sigh. “I shouldn’t have contacted him. It was risky.”

“Well, can’t change it now. Now we
just have to get out of here.” Zoe rocked on her heels, still antsy but trying
to fight it. “Look, a new line,” she said and took off to the window that had
just opened. She slid into place and looked into the bored attendant’s face.

“
Si
?” he said.

She looked over her shoulder at
Jack, who was ambling across to the new line, probably trying not to attract
attention by moving too quickly. Where were they going? She’d been so glad to
get to the train station she hadn’t thought past getting out of Naples.

She took a deep breath, hoping
that they had enough euros. “
Venezia
,”
she said.

––––––––

Italy

Monday, 11:47 p.m.

––––––––

ZOE awoke with a start, jerking up
on her elbow and looking around. Murky darkness. Rhythmic Movement. Right.
Train, she realized, taking in the thin light coming in around the curtains
across the panels and door that opened into the corridor that ran the length of
the train. She rotated her neck, which seemed to have a permanently contracted
muscle from sleeping in a half-sitting, half-slumped position. Despite the
dimness, she could see that the opposite seat was empty. The woman who’d begun
the journey with them in Naples must have gotten off at one of the stops. There
had been a confusing train change at some station in the middle of the night.
Zoe couldn’t even remember where it was. She and Jack had stumbled from one
train to another, and she’d pretty much collapsed into unconsciousness,
relieved there hadn’t been a party of
Carabinieri
on the platform.

A hasty check for their bags
showed Jack was using them as a pillow. He’d reclined on the seat beside her,
head toward the outside window, legs sprawled out, taking up most of the room.
He shifted, reached out and pulled her head onto his chest. She stiffened, then
relaxed. It was so much more comfortable than trying to sleep sitting up. She
shifted her chin up and down, burrowing into a more comfortable position. Ten
seconds and she was out.

She wasn’t sure how much time had
gone by when she blinked her eyes open. It was still dark. She didn’t move for
fear of waking Jack. His chest moved with his even breathing under her cheek.
She probably could have stood up and sung a complete rendition of the
Copacabana
and his eyelids
wouldn’t have even fluttered, but she should stay still, she reasoned. It had
nothing to do with how incredibly safe she felt. She snorted, thinking that was
about the most absurd thought she could have.

They weren’t safe. The police on
two continents were pursuing them, not to mention the FBI. They’d been shot at,
and they still hadn’t figured out a way to make it stop or even discovered who
was behind it. She was about as far from safe as she could be.

“What’s funny?” Jack asked without
moving.

“Nothing. You’re sleeping. You
didn’t hear anything.”

He murmured an agreement. She
couldn’t drift off to sleep, but stayed curled up on his chest, watching the
occasional lights outside the train flick by, throwing brief strips of
illumination through the chinks in the curtains.

A long time later, Jack said, “I
think you’d be smart to go to the police when we get to Venice. We could come
up with a little act at the train station where there are plenty of witnesses.
Make it look like I kidnapped you.” His voice wasn’t groggy, and he spoke in a
conversational tone. “Don’t say anything yet. I appreciate that you’ve hung
with me and helped me try to sort this out, but this doesn’t involve you.”

She heaved a sigh into the fibers
of his sweater. “Do we have to do this again?”

“It’s the best thing—”

“So we are having this
conversation again,” she said, speaking over his words. Without moving from her
position curled on his chest, she said, “Right. Okay, let’s take it from the
top. Even if I go to the police with some story about how you coerced me into
going with you from Las Vegas to Europe—and anyone who knows me would know I’d
never fight anyone who wanted to take me to Europe—but, let’s say I go with
that story. One, I’d be in Italian custody. Not a place I want to be,” Zoe
said. “Two, once they found out who I was and who you were, I don’t think
they’d let me go easily.”

“This is quite the gloomy
analysis,” Jack cut in.

“Now, best case scenario. The
Italian officials take me in, ask a few cursory questions, and somehow I’m able
to get back to the States. I don’t know how I would do that—I guess I could use
a credit card for an airline ticket, but I don’t think my balance could handle
that. But forget that tiny detail because, otherwise, I’m stuck in Italy living
off scraps of pizza crusts the tourists throw away. Let’s say I get back to the
States. I go home. The first visitor I’ll have will be the FBI. Those two guys
aren’t going to let up. They want to know where the money went and then—even
worse—there’s Connor’s murder. They think I had something to do with that as
well. So, to sum up, I can stay here with you and see if we can figure out why
all this is happening and who’s behind it, or I can possibly, maybe, if I’m
lucky, return home and become a suspect in a fraud
and
a murder investigation.”

“Always looking on the bright
side, aren’t you?” Jack said. “When you put it that way, my plan sounds
terrible.”

“Because it is,” Zoe said, feeling
his chest move as he chuckled.

There was a pause, then he said,
his voice serious, “I appreciate that you’re boxed in as far as options go, but
remember, my track record isn’t that great. Sticking with me may not increase
your odds. I screwed up, and Francesca got killed.”

“How is her death your fault?” Zoe
asked. “How were you supposed to know she was in danger? Did she suspect?”

“She was worried, nothing specific
or verifiable. She thought she was followed to our last meeting. I should have
brought her in right then.”

“Really? What if she was wrong?
Then she would really have been ‘blown.’ That’s the right word, isn’t it? If
that had happened, you would have lost ...what did you call her? An asset?”

Jack rubbed his hand over his
mouth, and then reluctantly said, “No I wasn’t supposed to bring her in with
only her intuition that something was wrong. I followed protocol, but that
doesn’t matter in the end. She’s dead. Then, I went all in with GRS. I put
everything into the business because I didn’t want to mess things up again. Now
I’m a failure twice over. Three times, actually, if we’re counting personal and
professional things, since my marriage failed, too. So, you see, staying with
me might not be your smartest move.”

Zoe pushed herself up and looked
into his face. “You can’t control everything. Even Roy said Francesca’s death
wasn’t your fault. Yes, I overheard what he said to you. Someone talked. You
couldn’t control that. And GRS...well, you certainly didn’t murder Connor or
dupe your investors.”

She leaned back to get a better
look at his face in the low light. “You didn’t murder him, did you?”

His bark of laughter filled the
small compartment. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. For the record, no, I
did not.”

“I didn’t think you did—really—no,
really,” Zoe said.

“That’s comforting. Remind me to
call you as a character witness at my trial.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “Really. When
everything first happened, I defended you. The Jack I knew would never do
something like that, but then...I realized there was a lot I didn’t know about
you. When I found the money and the passports, it was obvious you weren’t
exactly a self-employed businessman who was once a federal worker. Deep down, I
didn’t think you’d hurt Connor, but with all the strange revelations about your
past—well, I had to ask,” she said.

She felt the motion of the train
change and sat up to reach over Jack and sweep the curtain away from the
window. A flat, dark expanse stretched out under the black sky, but it wasn’t
land as she’d thought at first glance. Tiny sparkles of light flickered on the
undulating surface. It was water.

“We’re here,” she said.

––––––––

Venice

Tuesday, 6:32 a.m.

––––––––

THEY stepped out of the train
station into the milky light of sunrise and walked down a set of stairs to an
open
piazza
-like
area paved in cobblestones and lit with Victorian lights, each with three
lights positioned like a trident. “So what are we going to do so that we don’t
end up eating discarded pizza crusts?” Jack asked. “Although, I do like the
crust, one of my favorite parts. Wouldn’t be so bad,” he added philosophically.

It was overcast and drizzling and
much colder than Zoe expected. She hugged her jacket closer and said, “The
Street of Shops, I suppose.”

“Too bad it’s such a dreary day.”

“Are you kidding? It’s beautiful.
We’re in
Venice
.”

The Grand Canal, murky and
green-tinged, flowed in front of them. She hurried over to the edge of the open
terraced area where the water slapped against the foundation. A sleek boat cut
through the canal, waves fanning out behind it in a V-shape. An imposing church
with columns, an ornate pediment, and a dome tinted mint-green dominated the
far side of the canal. Tightly-packed buildings stretched out on each side of
it in shades of cream, white, tan, red, and even lime, each with unique architecture:
Moorish windows, arched colonnades, and curving wrought-iron balconies. At the
waterline, boats bobbed among the tall poles, some just weathered wood, others
painted and in bright curving stripes, marking the various docking points.

“We’re in Venice,” she breathed.
“I can’t believe it. We are in Venice.”

“You look a little dazed.” He
pulled her back a step from the edge.

“Do you know how many guidebooks
I’ve edited about Venice? Four! Two general Italy guidebooks, one Northern
Italy, and one specifically on Venice. And I’m here. We have to see San Marco
and the Basillica and the Doge’s Palace—you’ll like that. It was a prison, not
just a palace...There’s the
vaporetto
stop,” Zoe said, noticing the people streaming out of the train station to a
small metal building with gangplanks attached to large boats. “Let’s go,” she
said, striding off.

“I think I’ve created a monster,”
Jack murmured under his breath as he hurried to catch up with her.

After boarding the
vaporetto
, a Venice version
of a city bus, they cruised the Grand Canal, Zoe nearly hanging over the
railing to take in the sites. She saw a boat labeled
Servicio Postal
, which she
took to mean a mail boat. An ambulance boat floated by at a sedate pace, then
there were several barge-type boats, some loaded with cardboard boxes, others
with crates overflowing with produce. The sleek black gondolas were scarce at
this early hour—because of the lack of rolling suitcases and cameras among the
people moving around the city, Zoe guessed most of them were commuting to work.

The views of the
palazzos
fronting the Grand
Canal were spectacular, even in their crumbling state. All that salt water
seemed to do a number on the stucco surfaces and most of the buildings looked a
bit ragged around the edges with flaking patches. There was an abundance of
graffiti, too. Not on the scale she’d seen in Naples where no building seemed
to escape the ugly scribblings, but it was evident in Venice, too. While Zoe
soaked up the atmosphere of elegant decay, Jack searched the map they’d picked
up at the tourist office in the train station.

As they disembarked at the
San Victor
stop, a blue and
white
Polizia Municipale
boat whipped by, abruptly reminding her of reality. She was in Venice, but she
was far from a tourist. They passed the colonnaded walkway of the Doge’s
Palace, a curious mixture of ornate archways, intricate cutouts, and restrained
geometric brick patterns. Jack headed for the two towering granite columns, the
one on the right topped with a winged lion and the other with a statue of a
man. Behind the columns, the small
piazzetta
opened into the larger piazza of San Marco with its solid, square bell tower
dominating the skyline.

“What’s the significance of the
statues, do you think?” Jack asked, his head tilting to take in the figures at
the top of the columns.

“The one on the right is the Lion
of St. Mark, a symbol of the city. The one on the left was the city’s saint
until some merchants confiscated the bones of St. Mark in Alexandria. That guy
got bumped.” Jack switched his gaze to her and she shrugged. “There was a
sidebar about them in one of the guidebooks.”

“At least he still has the top
spot on the column,” Jack said and resumed walking.

Zoe caught his arm and steered him
to the side. “Bad luck to walk between them,” she explained. “It was the site
of executions and other...grisly stuff.”

“Superstitious?” Jack asked.

“I figure we don’t need any more
bad luck coming our way. Where to?” Zoe asked when they came to the bell tower,
her gaze sweeping from the horses atop the lavish entrance of St. Mark’s
Basilica to the cafés positioned at the opposite end of the
piazza
, their chairs stacked
neatly away at this early hour.

“No sightseeing?”

“No,” Zoe said with a sigh. “We
have work to do. Besides,” she grinned as she said, “everything is closed right
now.”

They delved into the winding
streets behind the
piazza
and walked until they found an open café where the juice was fresh squeezed,
and the small brightly colored fruit tarts mixed with flaky pastries filling
the display case looked like some sort of incredible, beautiful modern art.
Despite the stunning perfection the food presented, Zoe had no compunctions
about gobbling it up.

“How are we doing on money?” Zoe
asked, dusting away pastry flakes. She’d noticed when Jack paid for the food
that his stash of euros was pretty thin.

“We’re getting low—about sixty. I
can probably find somewhere to pawn my watch, if we need to,” he said.

Zoe fingered the chain around her
neck. Below her neckline, the ring hung heavy against her chest. “There’s my
ring, too,” Zoe said. When the divorce was final, she tried to return it to
him, but he wouldn’t take it.

Jack’s gaze slipped to the chain
at her neck, drifted lower for a second, then lazily moved back up to her face.
“Let’s not go to extremes yet.”