Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (5 page)

“That’s terrific. I’m glad she
likes it,” Jenny said, adding, “It’s a blog.
The
Informationalist
is great, but it’s not real journalism, you know?”
The number of unique visitors to the blog was growing steadily, and she was
surprised that what had started as a lark had grown into something of an
underground sensation. Her friend Toby, who worked as a doorman at a swanky
hotel, sent her some photos of a shoving match between an NFL quarterback and
the paparazzi. She’d posted the photos with Toby’s description of what had
happened and added her own slightly sarcastic commentary. The blog was a hit. The
blog stats proved it, but she felt an edge of discomfort.
The Informationalist
was
tabloid news, “infotainment.” She wanted to be a respectable journalist with
serious articles below her byline. “So about GRS ...what do you know?”

Mort shrugged. Jenny stifled a
sigh. He was clearly more interested in discussing her writing career than GRS,
but if she was right, if the research she’d done pointed to what she thought it
pointed to...well, this might be the case that would hold his attention, maybe
spark his interest and help him shake off some of the hopelessness that seemed
to hang on him like an oversized coat. And the story could be her break, too.
She finished her soup then moved her bowl aside so she could spread a stack of
papers on the table.

“What are those?”

“Press releases from GRS.” Jenny
handed him one. “This is from February.”

He scanned it. “GRS to
revolutionize the e-waste sector. Yeah,” he said, his voice bored. “Hot topic
now, with the fast turnover of computers and cell phones. They want businesses
to outsource e-recycling to them. They guarantee a secure disposal and that
components will be broken down, using proper environmental precautions.
Appealing to everyone’s environmentally conscious side and all that.”

“Right,” Jenny said. “Until I
researched this, I had no idea that e-waste was shipped to China and India and
broken down by hand. And that toxins and pollutants can be released.”

Mort tilted his tall, red glass
for the last sip of his drink then looked toward the soda dispenser.

Jenny fanned out more press
releases. “They’ve announced partnerships with C-Tech Recycling, Trans-Global
Recycling, and Guahzouh Inc., a disposal company in China.” Mort edged toward
the end of the booth with his glass as she continued, “None of which have
actually happened. In fact, I can’t find records that the last two companies
even exist. C-Tech Recycling does exist, but it isn’t a partner with GRS.
C-Tech signed an agreement to receive recyclables from GRS for six months.”

He glanced at her. “Just six?”

“Yep.” She had him. She could see
it in the sharpness in his gaze. She dropped a sheaf of printouts at least half
an inch thick on top of the press releases. “These are message board posts at
investment websites. Beginning in January, there’s increasing chatter about
GRS. It’s an ‘innovative company,’ a ‘fast burner,’ and ‘investors should get
in quick.’ Some of the messages are copied verbatim from one message board to
another, always anonymously, of course. I have no way of figuring out if the
same person or group of people has been talking up GRS, but....”

Mort had been leafing through the
message board posts, but he stopped and looked at her. “And in return for all
this legwork, you’re expecting some inside info on the investigation. We have
people who do this, you know. You’ve probably duplicated their work already.”

“I have to do all this research
myself—to make sure. I’m not taking anyone’s word for anything, not even the
FBI’s. I’m writing this story, Mort,” she said firmly.

He sighed, stared at her for a moment.
“Off the record...”

“Of course.”

“None of this is for publication.
Not yet. The SEC has had some complaints.”

When he didn’t say anything else,
Jenny raised her eyebrows. “About...”

“Irregularities, possible stock
price manipulation, questionable investor information.” He glanced pointedly
down at the papers.

“Anything on the partners,” she
asked as she consulted her notebook for names. “Connor Freeman or Jack
Andrews?”

“Nothing I can say. We’ve
interviewed some local investors. Freeman and Andrews are next up.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mort.” It wasn’t a
lot, but Mort was on-board now and would keep her in the loop. “I have to get
back to work. I’ll call you.” She left him hunched over the papers, his empty
soda glass forgotten.

––––––––

––––––––

––––––––

HALF an hour later, Special Agent
Gregg Sato, smelling so overpoweringly of flowers that Mort had to roll down
the window a few inches, turned the car into the parking lot of the business
complex where the office of GRS was located. “What the—”

Mort didn’t look up right away.
Sato tended to whine about everything from the traffic to the wrinkles the
seatbelt put in his suit coat. But when Sato didn’t follow up with a moan about
the parking situation, Mort glanced up from the pages he’d been reading then
let them drop into his lap. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Yellow police tape ringed one of
the buildings, and a police officer stood outside the tape, waving incoming
traffic toward the next set of offices. Two technicians were combing the small
island landscaped with ivy and low-growing bushes that jutted out into the
parking area in front of the sealed off building. When the police officer saw
their car, a brown four-door Chrysler with tinted windows and special plates,
he motioned them to a park beside a crime scene van.

“No idea, but I’m sure it’s not
good for our case,” Sato said.

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday 12:32 p.m.

––––––––

ZOE wished she had fled the office
when she had the chance. She was seated in a miniscule park area on a stone
bench at the center of the office complex. The day had begun cool, but as the
sun rose, the humidity began to build along with the temperature. It felt as if
the sun was steaming the moisture from yesterday’s rain out of the ground.
She’d long since taken off her suede jacket and now she pushed the sleeves of
the batik print cotton shirt above her elbows. She’d grabbed whatever she could
find in her closet this morning and hadn’t been thinking about dressing for the
heat of the day when she left the house in the pre-dawn hours.

She twisted around to watch
several guys in suits huddling at the edge of the park. Zoe had already
answered copious questions from the police officer who arrived on the scene
first. Shortly after his arrival, the parking lot had filled with a fire truck,
an ambulance, and more police cars. They separated her and Sharon, taking Zoe
into the small park area to answer questions. Sharon leaned against her
minivan.

Zoe sat nervously watching as the
quiet office park buzzed with activity. Zoe assumed the people photographing things
and gathering small items in bags were crime scene investigators, and two men
in suits had to be the police detectives. A scruffy man toting a large camera
climbed on the roof of a nearby building to film the scene until a police
officer made him stop. Soon, crime tape blocked off the office and encircled
Connor’s BMW. Zoe watched as Sharon finished talking with a suited man, climbed
in her van, and drove out of the parking lot, passing several vans with
television station logos positioned at the exit.

Zoe shifted on the bench. Her car
was only steps away. It wasn’t blocked off by the crime tape. She could slip
away right now. Zip out of the parking lot, just like Sharon had. No one was
watching her right now. She reached into the hip pocket of her jeans to slip
out her keys, but froze when she heard a deep voice behind her. “Got anything
for me?” It was Detective Martin. He’d been asking her questions in that bass
voice a few moments ago until he was called away. She twisted her head slightly
to look over her shoulder. He was on the other side of a hedge. She could just
see his pale yellow crew-cut and his eyebrows that sloped down to form the base
of a “v” at his nose. Zoe half stood, ready to make a break for her car.

A woman answered him, but the hedge
blocked her from Zoe’s view. Snippets of her words filtered through the
foliage, “...death ... yesterday around noon.”

Zoe sat back down as abruptly as
if someone had pushed her. Sharon’s stats showed that Jack had used his
computer at twelve-thirty. If Connor was dead at that time, why wouldn’t Jack
have called the police? Was it possible he hadn’t noticed? Zoe bit her lip. She
supposed it was possible Jack could have returned to the office and not noticed
Connor’s dead body. Possible, but not probable—that’s what the police would
think, Zoe was sure. And why would he leave and drive to Highway 375 with a
storm on the way? None of it made sense.

She dropped her keys into her lap
and rubbed her temples. She just wanted to go home. So much had happened in the
last day.

“So, Jack Andrews is your
ex-husband.”

Zoe looked up. There was a new guy
in a suit seated on the bench that was at a right angle to hers. This guy
didn’t look like the other law enforcement people she’d been talking to. They’d
looked like average folks. This guy looked like he should be staring out from a
billboard in Times Square. He was in his late twenties and had glossy black
hair, a tan complexion, and sharp black eyes. The cut of his charcoal suit over
his broad shoulders shouted designer. He smoothed down his chartreuse tie.
“Ma’am? Andrews is your ex?” he repeated, smirking a bit at her confused stare
as if he regularly had a befuddling effect on women.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Zoe
asked sharply. She was hot and tired and stressed. She didn’t need this guy’s
condensation. “I’d really like to go home. I’ve answered all these questions
with Detective Martin. Is he still around?”

“No idea. I’m sure he’ll be along
soon,” he said as if Detective Martin were a dog that had wandered away but would
return home on its own. “You haven’t answered our questions, yet. I’m Special
Agent Greg Sato.” He pulled out a badge. “FBI”

“FBI?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he put
his badge away. “Now, you’re Zoe Hunter, correct?” He asked, his tone implying
she couldn’t handle anything more than simple sentences.

She sat up straight. Her pulse
thumped, and the spurt of irritation she felt at his self-satisfied expression
burned away some of the lethargy she’d been feeling. “Yes, I am. I don’t know
what happened to Connor. I found him like that this morning. And, before you
ask, he’s made plenty of people mad. I couldn’t even
begin
to give you a list. He
wasn’t the most accommodating person around, if you know what I mean. And as
for Jack,” she shrugged, “I can’t tell you. He’s missing.”

Sato’s dark eyebrows arched.
“Missing?”

“Yes. Missing.” His mildly amused
tone irritated her. “The Highway Patrol informed me last night. There is a
search going on for him right now.”

Sato, who’d been lounging back
with his arm draped over the bench, sat forward and glanced back at an older
guy with a lined face and a head of gray hair, who stood off to the side of the
small park. He leaned toward Detective Martin, who was talking, but he was
watching Zoe’s conversation. His suit jacket was off, his sleeves were rolled
up, and he was moving one hand down over his mouth in a contemplative gesture.
Sato looked at the older man inquiringly. He nodded his head, which Sato seemed
to take as confirmation of Zoe’s words.

Sato blinked and turned back to
her, his whole demeanor thrown off. He was no longer smooth and arrogant.
“We’ll discuss that...later.”

“Then I can go?” Zoe said, picking
up her keys again.

“No, not yet,” Sato said, with
more surety. “How many shares of GRS do you have?”

“None.”

He scoffed. “None?”

“Yes, zero. What does that have to
with anything?”

He pulled on his cuffs, and Zoe
could see the arrogance rising again. “You expect me to believe that you
haven’t jumped on the GRS bandwagon? Even if he is your ex, surely you got in
on it.” Zoe shook her head, and he said, “The stock has risen from a
dollar-nineteen to twenty-five dollars in the last few months, and you don’t
own
any
?”

“No. Not one share.” She could see
Sato still didn’t believe her, so she added, “My aunt is a very smart woman.
She’s the only one in my family who’s ever made money—and hung on to it. She
told me to invest in real estate. That’s what I do. Stocks are too volatile.”

“The housing market hasn’t been
exactly booming lately.”

“No, but you know what? Even if
prices go down, I still have those offices over there. If I wanted to sell
them, maybe I wouldn’t be able to sell them for what I could have a few years
ago, but they still have value. They’ll never be worth nothing. With stocks,”
she made a movement with her hand like she was throwing something away, “it can
all be gone in a day.”

“Interesting theory.” Irony laced
his words.

Zoe frowned. “Why are you asking
about GRS stock?”

“Routine inquires,” he said. “Did
you help Andrews with his business?

“No,” she said. “Office work is
not my thing.”

He tugged at his cuffs again as he
said, “Do you own a gun?”

“No.”

“How about your ex-husband?”

“No.”

The older man came over. He nodded
to Zoe and leaned down to speak quietly to Sato. Sato stared at him a moment,
then turned back to Zoe. “Where would your ex-husband go if he was in trouble?”

Zoe laughed. “Nowhere—he doesn’t
get in trouble. He’s a boy scout.”

“A relative? A friend? A vacation
home?” Sato persisted.

Zoe’s eyebrows knit together as
she realized he was serious. “What are you saying?”

He ignored her question. “Where
would he go?”

“He’d come home. He doesn’t have
anywhere else to go,” she said quietly.

“Any relatives nearby? A parent,
maybe?”

“No. His dad died years ago in a
car accident—drunk driver. His mom died the next year. He doesn’t really have
anyone else.”

“Old college roommate?”

“No,” Zoe said, shaking her head
and thinking for the first time that it was a little odd how disconnected Jack
had been when she’d met him. “He’s not really a ‘joiner,’ I guess you’d say. He
keeps more to himself.” She supposed she hadn’t noticed because she’d always
had plenty of friends.

Sato handed her a business card.
“If you hear from him, it is very important—urgent—that you contact us.”

“What are you saying? The Highway
Patrol thinks he’d dead. How could I hear from him? Do you know something—”

He stood up quickly, and cut her
off. “Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.”

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 3:05 p.m.

––––––––

ZOE called Helen on her way home
and apologized for skipping out.

“Oh stop,” Helen said. “Your life
is a tad crazy right now. You’re forgiven.”

It took almost the whole drive for
Zoe to tell her about Connor and the aftermath with the police. After a beat of
silence, Helen said, “That’s terrible, but you know, I’m not that surprised.
Dang, here comes my supervisor. Got to go. I’ll call you back.”

Zoe finished the drive
automatically, moving through the familiar routine without thinking about it.
The gnawing unease that had been with her since last night had grown into full-blown
anxiety that made her sick to her stomach. The sight of Jack’s beat-up Honda
sitting at the curb jerked her out of her daze. For half a second, she thought
maybe—

Then she remembered. The tow truck
guy. She’d given him this address. She parked in the garage then walked back
down the driveway to pluck the envelope from under the windshield wiper. It
contained a note that their auto service would be billed for the tow.

Zoe was leaning against the
passenger side door of the Honda when the generic brown car with two men in the
front seat rolled to a stop behind her neighbor’s MINI Cooper parked on the
other side of the street a few houses away.

She stood for a few moments,
looking down into Jack’s car. Was it only this morning that she’d looked into
the car, wondering about Jack? So much had happened and she only had more
questions. Zoe sighed in frustration. She wanted to know what had happened to
Jack.

The police or highway patrol or
whoever she’d spoken to this morning—she was a little fuzzy on who exactly had
been in charge—had obviously released Jack’s car and allowed the tow truck
driver to return it to his home instead of impounding it, but from all those
questions that Sato had asked, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before the
FBI might want to look at it, too. The gnawing in her stomach kicked up another
notch.

As she opened the car door, her
neighbor with the blonde pageboy who always wore yoga pants and tank tops drove
by in her MINI. She tooted the horn and waved. Zoe waved back. She had no idea
what the woman’s name was, but they waved to each other when their paths
crossed. Zoe glanced at the four-door brown car that had been parked behind her
neighbor, but didn’t think anything of it because she was focused on picking up
the phone and the rest of the things that had fallen on the floorboard.

She sat down in the passenger seat
with the door open. She hit the display on Jack’s phone. He’d made several
calls yesterday morning. Nothing since noon yesterday. He had one missed call
between then and now. There was also a voice message from the same number as
the missed call. She tried to log into his voicemail, but didn’t know his code,
so she dialed the number.

“Dental Associates, how may I help
you?”

“Sorry, wrong number,” Zoe said
and hung up. She looked through the rest of the phone’s screens, but couldn’t
find anything that she thought was important, so she turned her attention to
the car.

From the floorboard, she picked up
three napkins and some playing cards. She went through the console and the
glove compartment, but apart from a few gas receipts, sunglasses, and the
normal detritus of maps and phone chargers, she didn’t find anything that
helped her figure out what had happened yesterday. She sighed and moved over to
the driver’s seat to pull the car into the garage, using the spare key that was
still on her key ring. She turned off the car, then picked up the sunglasses by
one earpiece and twirled them around. They had reflective lenses and she never
could see his eyes when he wore them. Feeling at a loss, she stuck them on top
of her head, which, for some reason, made her feel slightly better. She
gathered the phone and bits of paper and went inside.

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 3:50 p.m.

––––––––

FORTY-FIVE minutes later, Mort
elbowed Sato. “There she is.”

Sato struggled up from his
slouched position and blinked rapidly, trying not to look as though he’d
drifted off.

It was easy to recognize Zoe
Hunter, even from a distance, because of her red hair. She walked briskly down
the driveway, stopped at the mailbox, which was located near the street in a
bed of geraniums, and deposited several letters. Then she crossed to the house
directly opposite hers, where she unlocked the front door and disappeared
inside. Sato looked at Mort.

Mort shrugged. Sato’s hand inched
up to the ignition key, but before he could start the car, Zoe emerged with a
small white dog on a leash. She set off down the street with the dog pulling at
her arm. Mort said, “She won’t go far. If we follow her, we’ll stand out.
Better to wait here.”