Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (6 page)

Sato frowned, but transferred his
hand to the steering wheel. They watched her turn the corner at the far end of
the block, the dog flopping around her feet like an energetic mop. “We should
have stopped her before she got into his car.”

Mort flipped to a new page in the
file he held in his lap. “It would have tipped her off. Besides, we don’t have
a search warrant for it.” Without looking up he said, “Don’t be sour—just
because she didn’t fall for you.”

“You think she’s clean?” Sato
demanded. “You buy that innocent act?”

“Didn’t say that,” Mort said,
easily. He stared through the windshield. “I don’t know what I think yet.” For
so long, he’d felt as if a deep, black cloud had engulfed him, overshadowing
everything. He walked around with the constant feeling that something was about
to go wrong, something was off, which was crazy. The worst thing in the world
had already happened—he’d lost his child, watched her fade away as the disease
took over her body, and he’d been powerless to do anything to help her. And now
he couldn’t do anything to ease Kathy’s pain or his own. It couldn’t get worse.
But that ominous feeling left a miasma over everything, dulling and diluting
life.

Today, watching Sato talk to the
Hunter woman, he’d felt a spark of curiosity. Was she telling the truth? Was
she as naïve as she had seemed when she looked at Sato with those wide hazel
eyes? Probably not. She’d been savvy enough not to fall under Sato’s spell when
he turned on the charm.
That
had been entertaining. But there was something there...her denials had a ring of
truth, he just wasn’t sure if they were completely true or only partially true.

Mort’s phone rang. He identified
himself, listened, and then hung up and immediately began redialing.

Sato twisted toward him. “What?”

“That 911 call with the sighting
of someone in Deep Creek? Well...” he paused to punch in an extension.

“Yeah?” Sato said impatiently.

Mort considered making Sato wait
until after he left a message—tormenting Sato did make the time go by
faster—but he decided he better not push it. For the year they’d been partners,
Mort had pretty much let Sato lead their investigations. He was clearly annoyed
that Mort wasn’t playing his usual backseat role. “It was made from a cell
number—looks like a burner. In any case, it’s no longer in service.”

“What about the name of the good
Samaritan who called it in?”

“Didn’t have time to give
it—connection was lost before dispatch was able to get it.”

“That’s a little too convenient,
isn’t it?”

For once, Mort agreed with his
partner.

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 5:10 p.m.

––––––––

ZOE stood uncertainly in the
kitchen. She had six new phone messages, thirteen e-mails, and a stack of mail
to open. She put the snail mail down on the island and picked up Jack’s phone.
Nothing. No messages. Zoe sat down on the barstool with a thump.

She had moved through the rest of
her day as if nothing had happened. She’d shut off her mind, ignoring the
questions that were playing in a never-ending loop, and set about taking care
of the things that had to be done. She’d made the changes to the spreadsheet
that her client requested. A quick trip around the block with her neighbor’s
dog had completed her dog-walking gig for the week. All her jobs were finished,
and she had nothing on her schedule except the new travel book, which wouldn’t
arrive until next week. She was reluctant to come out of her Zen-like focus,
but she knew she had to. She cut open the envelopes with her butterfly letter
opener and separated the junk.

She paused over the last letter,
which had a check enclosed in the envelope. It was from Kiki Compton, the
accountant who rented the other office. Kiki never paid her rent by check. She
always sent an electronic transfer. Zoe realized she hadn’t seen Kiki today
then remembered she was away on her annual spring vacation.

The typed paragraph was formal
notice that Kiki wouldn’t be renewing her lease when it expired at the end of
next month. A note scrawled in blue felt-tip marker at the bottom read, “Sorry
to drop this on you, but Joe got a new job in Houston, and we’re moving as soon
as school is out. You’ve been a wonderful landlady, and I hate to go, but it’s
an opportunity we can’t pass up.”

Zoe leaned against the counter as
it dawned on her that she would have two empty offices to rent in the next few
weeks. The rent was a large chunk of her income, and a hefty portion of it went
to make her half of the house payment. And Jack wasn’t around to make the other
half of that payment, either. What would she do? Apply for that job at the
county? She frowned at the thought.

She shook her head and
straightened up, mentally scolding herself for even thinking of her finances at
a time like this. Connor was dead and Jack...she forced herself to think about
what she’d been avoiding for the last several hours. Jack was gone, too, she
thought, remembering the solemn faces of the Highway Patrol officers who’d
brought her the news about Jack.

There had been no news from the
search team, and she’d heard on the radio on the way home that afternoon that
cadaver dogs were now part of the search. She knew what that meant—the chance
of finding him alive was very slim.

She cleared her throat and blinked
rapidly. Stay busy, she lectured herself. Keep moving. She cleared away the
mail then poured herself a glass of ginger ale. The fizzy bubbles tickled her
nose, and she debated adding a splash of something stronger to the drink, but
instead she turned away from the kitchen. She was already sad enough.

She paused at the bottom of the
stairs, looking up thoughtfully, going back over what the FBI guy had asked. If
they’d called in cadaver dogs, then why had that guy, Sato, asked her where
Jack would go if he were in trouble? That suave FBI guy had been jerking me
around, Zoe thought. She watched enough police shows to know that investigators
sometimes manipulated suspects and witnesses.

And
why hadn’t they asked more questions about Connor?
Not that Zoe
would have been able to help them. She wouldn’t have been able to tell them who
to call to notify of his death. She knew he wasn’t married, but beyond that
info, she didn’t know anything about his personal life. Once she’d discovered
what a jerk he was, she’d pretty much steered clear of him.

The words “notify them of his
death,” so formal and dismal, seemed to ring in her ears. She supposed she
really should call her mom and tell her what had happened. No, she decided,
definitely not. Her mom would be on a plane in hours, the travel schedule
conveniently sent to any and all bottom-feeding paparazzi who might be
interested in snagging some camera time with her at the airport. No, something
like this would bring out the absolute worst in Donna. Good thing she was
closed away at that spa for her serenity treatment.

At least, Jack’s parents had
already passed on. How awful would that be—to get a call with the news that
your son had died? She shuddered at the thought.

Then she remembered Eddie. She
rubbed her hand over her eyes. Jack’s cousin Eddie was the lone family member
who Jack kept in touch with. She supposed Jack had other distant relatives, but
he’d only ever mentioned Eddie. She should call him. Not should, she had to.
Eddie should know. Her mom was optional, but Eddie was all the family that Jack
had. She really wished Jack had introduced her to him when they were in Vegas.
Of course, they’d been a little busy getting married on the spur of the moment.

Zoe set down her glass on the hall
table and pulled Jack’s phone from her back pocket and scrolled through the
names in the contact list. She didn’t find an entry for Eddie. After picking up
her glass, Zoe walked up the stairs slowly, feeling odd. It had been months—a
year maybe?—since she’d been on the second floor of the house. She went in the
master bedroom and looked around. It looked plainer, more streamlined, without
the gauzy mosquito netting she’d had draped over the brass four-poster bed.
She’d taken the comforter, a patchwork of rich fabrics in ruby, caramel,
amethyst, and turquoise that had covered their bed.

During one of their arguments,
Jack had declared that he hated it. It was now on the bed downstairs in her
room. She shook her head. Why had they been arguing about the
comforter
? Now there was a
dark blue comforter trimmed in chocolate brown on the bed. It looked good in a
masculine, understated way, and she wondered when he’d bought it. The rest of
the room was unchanged—black contemporary dresser and treadmill angled toward
the small TV in the corner. The only additions Zoe could see were a small black
desk and a mini-refrigerator that was humming away in one corner.

Through the two windows that
looked out over the front of the house, the leaves of the large cottonwood
tree, vibrantly green with new growth, swayed in the faint breeze. Zoe had
always loved the view—it was the one thing she missed about the room. She walked
to one window and pushed the curtain to one side so she could see better. She
looked out at the dancing leaves and smiled faintly, thinking of all the times
she had fallen asleep listening to the wind whistle through the leaves. She
missed that sound. The only thing that lulled her to sleep downstairs was the
clatter of the loose screen on her window.

Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw that brown car she’d noticed earlier, pulling away from the curb. It moved
down the street, slowed in front of her house, then sped up again once it
passed her house. That was odd, Zoe thought. She looked back to the house where
the brown car had been parked. A young couple lived there. They both drove tiny
compacts. Maybe they had company? She didn’t know her neighbors intimately, but
she did know that no one else in the neighborhood drove that kind of car. She
moved to the desk, feeling uneasy.

“Let it go,” she muttered. She set
her ginger ale on a coaster, plopped into the rolling desk chair, and slid over
to the refrigerator. It contained small cartons of orange juice and milk and a
few white take-out boxes. A box of Raisin Bran Crunch sat on top of the
refrigerator beside a stack of plastic bowls and cups. A four-cup coffee pot
was wedged on top of the fridge next to a hot plate.

She swiveled the chair back and
forth, contemplating the clean desktop. Jack’s laptop and a desk lamp were the
only two things on the desk. The laptop was in hibernation mode. A few clicks
brought it to life. His mail program wasn’t password protected and she logged
into it and ran a search for Eddie. A few e-mails popped up with the address
“[email protected].”

Feeling a bit weird and intrusive,
she clicked on the most recent e-mail, which was over a year old. It was short,
only one line. Eddie confirmed that he would meet Jack in the lobby of The
Venetian. GRS business had taken Jack to Vegas a few times, and she supposed he
and Eddie had gotten together then.

Eddie’s contact information,
including a phone number and store location—inside the Venetian Hotel in Las
Vegas—was listed in an automatic signature at the bottom of the e-mail. Zoe
printed it out, absently folding it and sticking it in her back pocket with the
phone as she looked at the e-mail that had arrived since yesterday. Most of
them were junk e-mails announcing sales. She’d been hoping there would be
something from Connor that would help explain what had happened, so she went
back through the e-mail, but found nothing except the normal day-to-day
communication of people running a business.

She sighed and hit the button to
check for new mail, more out of frustration than anything else. A new message
popped up from Star Bank. Zoe clicked on it. It was from the local bank
manager. They were urgently trying to reach Jack regarding a transaction that
took place yesterday. The phone number they had on file was out-of-service, and
they wanted Jack to contact them right away.

Zoe hoped he wasn’t overdrawn
because there was no way she could cover his account and hers, too. She chewed
her bottom lip for a moment, undecided. Then she opened a web browser page.
She’d just check his bank account and see what had happened. There were a
couple of places she knew Jack jotted down login information for his online
accounts. She checked his desk drawer. No helpful scraps of paper. She lifted
the lamp with her left hand.

“Bingo.” She tilted the lamp so
she could read the sticky note attached to the bottom and typed in the numbers.

She was lowering the lamp back to
the desk when Jack’s bank account loaded and the screen filled with numbers.
She lost her grip, and the lamp banged down to the desk with a crack. She
hardly noticed because all her attention was focused on the computer. The bank
balance was huge. Enormous, in fact.
So
many zeros
.

Where did Jack get that much
money? And if he had that much money, why did he make his portion of the
mortgage payment five days late last month? Heck, with that balance he could
pay off the house. The majority of the money had been deposited yesterday.
Before the deposit, the account balance was six hundred dollars and ninety-two
cents. Now that looked more normal, Zoe thought. What was going on? She clicked
on the deposit to get the details on where it came from, but she only got an
error.

She swiveled the chair back and
forth, lost in thought. Had Jack been lying to her about money? She stared at
the bank balance, counting the zeros to make sure she was actually seeing what
she thought she was seeing. Yep, she was. Twelve million dollars. Twelve
million
dollars.

What would it be like to have that
much money? There would be no worries about paying the bills—any bills—that was
for sure. For just a second, she thought about transferring a couple hundred
dollars into her checking account, but almost instantly, she shook her head—she
couldn’t do it. It would be a stupid thing to do and flat out wrong. Besides,
it had to be a mistake—one of those crazy computer things that happen once in a
blue moon. There was no way Jack had twelve million dollars.

She quickly closed the lid of the
laptop and stood up. Another thing to add to her list—call the bank. Too late
to do it today. Would they even talk to her? It wasn’t her account, after all.
Even though she also banked there, she doubted they would give her any
information about Jack’s account.

She reached for the lamp that was
now in two pieces. The base had completely broken off from the stand. There was
no way to fix it, she realized, as she examined the break. There was something
in the base, some sort of paper.

She could just see the edge of it
through the hole where the stand attached to the base. She put down the stand
and tried to work the paper out of the base with her finger, but the hole was
too small. She flipped the base over and examined the bottom. Jack’s login paper
was attached to the thick felt glued on the base. She pried a corner away and a
fat roll of twenties encircled with a rubber band fell into her hand and
another thumped onto the desk. She stared at them for moment, then ran her
finger over the edge of the bills.

They were
all
twenties. She had no idea
how much money she was holding, but it had to be several hundred dollars.

“Whoa,” Zoe whispered. Had she
ever actually touched this much money? She rubbed her finger across the edge of
the bills again and slowly turned in a circle, trying to take in the room with
a different perspective. Had she known Jack at all? He had never been one to
hide money—at least, she didn’t think he’d been like that. As her gaze ran over
the master bath, she stopped, and focused on the shiny silver towel rack, just
visible through the doorway.

Slowly, she put the lamp base down
on the desk with the two rolls of money beside it. She walked to the bath
doorway, her head tilted to the side. The towel racks were bare. She flipped
the hamper open. Empty. No used towel tossed casually over the shower door
either. Zoe thought back to yesterday. Jack had dumped his load of dirty towels
in the laundry room on his way to work. She’d seen them. They’d sat there all
day, unwashed. The only towels in this bathroom were neatly folded and put away
in the cabinet under the sink.

The hairs on her arms prickled as
she remembered the footsteps she’d heard yesterday. Jack hadn’t been upstairs
showering—no one had showered here yesterday afternoon.