Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (7 page)

But she knew she’d heard someone
upstairs.

This was too weird.

And scary.

Zoe liked to live life on the fly,
so to speak, but this was too far over her comfort line. A quick circuit of the
upstairs—the other bedroom, bath, and hall closet—revealed nothing out of
place. Of course Zoe hadn’t been upstairs in a long time, but nothing looked
disturbed or was obviously missing. There wasn’t that much upstairs to attract
someone—a thief?—aside from rolls of money and they had been well hidden.

Zoe returned to the master bedroom
and stared at the fat cylinders of money lined up side by side on the desk,
thinking fleetingly of calling the police. She quickly shook her head at
herself. None of the windows were unlocked, and she couldn’t name anything
specific that was missing—except for her ex-husband, of course. And, oh yeah,
his business partner had been murdered. Nope. Definitely not calling the police
to report hearing someone upstairs yesterday.

Back in the bathroom, she took
another look around, but didn’t find anything except soap, deodorant, razors,
shaving cream, and Jack’s citrusy cologne. As she leaned against the bathroom
counter and crossed her arms, the paper in her back pocket crinkled, reminding
her she should call Eddie. She fished the paper out of her pocket along with
Jack’s phone and dialed.

A masculine voice answered,
“Murano Glassworks, how may I help you?”

She took a deep breath, already
dreading breaking the news of Jack’s situation to his only relative. “May I
speak to Eddie, please?”

“She’s not available. Can I take a
message?”

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 6:04 p.m.

––––––––

THERE were a few beats of silence,
then Zoe said, “Ah—did you say
she
?”

“Yes. Eddie is out, but she will
call you back...your name?”

“
She
...” Zoe muttered under her breath. Jack’s
cousin was a guy. At least Zoe thought he was a guy. Had Jack ever actually
said
Eddie was a guy?

“Pardon?”

“Oh, sorry. Yes, I’ll leave a
message,” Zoe said. She gave her first name and cell phone number, then stood
there for a few moments in bewilderment after she hung up. A rhythmic pounding
sounded from downstairs, Helen’s distinctive knock. Zoe glanced at her watch
and hurried downstairs. It was a little after six. Helen must have stopped by
on her way home from work to check on her, Zoe thought.

“Meals on Wheels,” Helen announced
as she stepped in the door, a takeout bag from La Cuisina in her hands.

“Is that their spaghetti?” Zoe
asked. She hadn’t even thought about food all day, but with the scents of
garlic, oregano, and warm bread wafting through the kitchen, she realized she
was starving.

“Yes, it is,” Helen said as she
unloaded large cartons, a long loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine.

“You really should start charging
for delivery, you know.” Zoe gave her friend a quick hug on her way to get
glasses and plates.

“Don’t worry; I’ll take my fee in
cupcakes.”

Zoe paused with her hands on the
stack of plates. “What about Tucker?”

“Working late. He’s got a big
case,” Helen said, then pointed to another bag. “There’s more for him.” She
pulled open the silverware drawer and asked, “Any word?”

“No. Nothing. The radio news said
they are using cadaver dogs.”

“Oh. That’s...” she trailed off, a
look of sympathy in her eyes.

“I know. Not good.”

“And Connor. That’s unbelievable,”
Helen said.

“Well, not really. He wasn’t a
nice guy.”

Helen handed silverware to Zoe.
“So you think the two things are unrelated?”

Zoe broke off a piece of the
crusty bread then spoke slowly, “I don’t know. Connor was such a jerk that I
could see him pushing someone to the brink and then getting himself shot, but
Jack...I don’t think I really knew Jack at all.”

By the time they’d consumed the
last noodle and all that remained of the bread were crumbs, Zoe had told Helen
everything that happened.

Helen took a gulp of the wine,
then said, “So you’re saying Jack was a secret millionaire?”

Zoe picked up her empty plate and
Helen’s as she said, “No, I don’t think so. It’s probably just some mix up at
the bank, but the cash upstairs...that bothers me. I didn’t think Jack was the
type of person to hide cash around the house, and now I find out his cousin
Eddie is a girl, not a guy...it’s just strange.”

“Did he talk about Eddie a lot?”

“No, only a time or two and, now
that I think about it, I don’t think he ever said Eddie was a guy. I assumed
that was the case because of the name. But why wouldn’t he correct me when I
got it wrong? I’m sure I said something like,
tell him I said hello
, before he left on one of
his trips. And once, I said I wished I’d been able to meet him.”

“What did Jack say to that?” Helen
asked as she helped me transfer the dishes to the dishwasher.

Zoe looked at the gap in the
drywall of the kitchen ceiling. “Something about it being better if I didn’t
because Eddie was the eccentric of the family, the modern-day equivalent of the
crazy aunt in the attic. I thought he was joking.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll call you
back and explain. Maybe there are two people named Eddie who work there.”

“Helen, I don’t think—” Zoe broke
off as the doorbell sounded. She grabbed a towel and dried her hands on the way
to the door with Helen following close on her heels.

Zoe checked the peephole. “It’s
the two officers who came to tell me about Jack,” Zoe said, her heart suddenly
pounding double time. Did they have news?

She opened the door and Officer
Isles nodded to both of them. “Evenin’, ma’am. We don’t have any news, but we’d
like to ask you a few questions, Ms. Hunter.”

“Of course,” Zoe said releasing a
breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Once they were seated in the
uncomfortable front room, Officer Isles asked, “Were you aware your
ex-husband’s company was about to be investigated by the SEC and the FBI?”

The question was so different from
what she’d expected. “What?”

He repeated the question and Zoe
realized that both officers’ looks of compassion had been replaced by something
else, something harder and more guarded.

“No. GRS is doing great. Sharon,
their secretary, told me today that their stock is up, and they have gotten
some really good press. Things are going really well, apparently.”

“So how much involvement did you
have in the day-to-day running of the company?” Officer Isles asked as his
partner’s gaze bored into Zoe.

“None. I had nothing to do with
GRS. That was all Jack and Connor.”

“That would be Connor Freeman?
Your ex-husband’s business partner, correct?” Officer Isles asked.

Zoe nodded and wondered if her
face looked as strained as Helen’s. She had that look she used to get in school
when she’d step on Zoe’s foot to keep her from making a smart remark to the
teacher.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Not much,” Zoe said, then
shrugged. “I didn’t really like him. He was rude and thought insulting humor
was funny for some reason...” she trailed off when she realized that Helen looked
as if she’d been punched in the gut. She was doing something weird with her
eyebrows, a look that Zoe hadn’t seen since sixth grade when their history
teacher caught them passing notes during class.

“So you didn’t like Mr. Freeman?”

Zoe’s heart rate kicked up
another notch.
Stupid. Stupid
.
Here she was thinking they were still investigating Jack’s disappearance, but
this conversation was about more than that. She licked her lips and forced
herself to slow down before she answered. It wouldn’t do her any good to
backpedal or try to change her answer now. “No, I didn’t really like him. I don’t
know of anyone who did, actually.”

“Then why was your husband in
business with him?”

“Ex-husband,” Zoe said firmly.
“Connor had the start-up money. Jack had the concept. Necessary evil and all
that.” Helen widened her eyes, and Zoe had the distinct feeling that she was
stifling a groan. “That’s what Jack said, anyway. All that happened before we
were married, so I only know what Jack told me.”

“And have you ever known your
ex-husband to lie to you, Ms. Hunter?”

Zoe glanced from Officer Isle’s
impassive face to his partner, who was still engaged in staring her down. Had
Jack lied to her? She didn’t know. He’d never mentioned a couple million
dollars squirreled away in his bank account, but it looked as if the money only
appeared there yesterday, and the bank was trying to contact him about a
transaction, which indicated that wasn’t the normal situation in his bank
account. But Eddie...what Helen said could be right. There could be two Eddies at
Murano Glassworks. “No, Officer Isles,” Zoe said, raising her chin just a bit.
It was true. She didn’t know—
for
sure
—that Jack had never lied to her.

A little of the tension went out
of Helen’s posture, and Zoe thought she must have answered that one correctly.
Before Officer Isles shot another question to her, Zoe asked, “What’s the
situation with the search? Any news?”

Officer Isles shifted on the couch
and sighed in a way that conveyed his disappointment with Zoe. “Ms. Hunter,
over a hundred people have been involved in the search for Mr. Andrews. The
only things that have been found are his suit jacket and a shoe. Divers were
called in this afternoon to search the riverbed and the lake. They found
nothing. Cadaver dogs were used as well. Again, nothing.”

Zoe swallowed and tried to think
of something to say. Helen spoke for the first time. “Is that unusual? At this
point? It’s only been one day.”

Officer Isles tilted his head from
side to side slightly. “There is no typical timeline in a disappearance, but
considering the topography and the fact that the water level in the creek has
receded rapidly...I’d say we would normally have a resolution in a case like this
within twenty-four hours. But when you add in the fact that the missing
person’s business was facing investigation as well as the fact that the
business partner was murdered on the same day...well, this isn’t the typical
missing person case.”

“I see,” Zoe said quietly.

“In fact,” Officer Isles continued
as if she hadn’t spoken, “because this is such an unusual case, we’d like your
permission to look around...see if we can find anything that will help the
investigation.”

Zoe thought of the two rolls of
money and the broken lamp upstairs. That would look odd, if nothing else. She
flicked through possible answers. She didn’t want them looking around her
house. Things had shifted. They weren’t viewing her sympathetically anymore.
Instead, they viewed her suspiciously and Zoe didn’t want to risk them finding
anything that would look as though she was somehow involved in whatever was
going on. After all, if Jack had hidden rolls of money upstairs, who knew what
else he’d hidden around the house. Zoe wouldn’t have any proof that she didn’t
know about the money...or anything else they found.

“No.” The two officers and Zoe
swiveled toward Helen, who’d stood up as she spoke. She looked a little
flustered. She was turning one of her bracelets around and around her wrist,
but she swallowed and said, “I mean, unless you have a search warrant?” She
raised her eyebrows.

“We can get one.” It was the first
time the other officer had spoken. He had a mulish look on his face.

“Then I suggest you do that,”
Helen said.

“Your friend doesn’t have the
right to push you around,” Officer Isles said to Zoe.

She stood up, too. “Oh, I think
she’s right. Her husband is an attorney.”

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 7:02 p.m.

––––––––

MORT Vazarri used his elbow to
open the door to a bedroom at Connor Freeman’s home in an exclusive
neighborhood. Sato was downstairs at the foot of the curving staircase, working
his smile for all it was worth as he talked with Chloe, a good-looking brunette
crime scene technician. Sato liked to work the people angle in their cases.
Mort knew the value of working contacts and dissecting interviews, but he’d
always preferred objects to people. Physical things could tell you a lot about
a person. Their medicine cabinet, trash, books, magazines, and mail showed how
people really lived no matter what they said.

Objects were more reliable than
people, too. Get three eyewitnesses together and you’re likely to get three
conflicting stories. Things like pill bottles and paper documents were hard
evidence and couldn’t be discredited nearly as easily as witnesses.
Interviewing suspects...well, every tiny detail had to be checked and rechecked.
People lied. Their stuff didn’t.

Of course, there would be no
interview with Jack Andrews...at least not right away. All they had at the moment
was an unproductive interview with Andrew’s ex-wife and the remnants of
Connor’s life. What would his place tell them?

Not a heck of a lot.

Mort’s gaze ran over the empty
room, which was almost exactly like another bedroom down the hall. He moved to
the last bedroom. At least this one looked lived in. A Mission-style double
bed, two nightstands, and matching dresser, all in cherry wood, filled the
room. A black and white comforter and a sliver lamp with a black shade were the
only decorative touches. There was a clock on the nightstand, along with a
glass with an inch of water. The connecting bathroom was white throughout.
Several black towels lay crumpled in the corner near a clothes hamper. A razor
with a dried blob of shaving cream rested on the counter. The closet and
drawers contained a jumble of clothes—well-cut suits, expensive ties, and a few
casual shirts and jeans. Was Freeman messy or was something else going on here,
Mort wondered as he nudged some of the clothes aside to check the back and
sides of the drawers.

His wife would recognize the
brands, but Mort knew quality when he saw it. Connor Freeman had spent more on
one shirt than Mort had spent last weekend when he took Kathy out for a nice
dinner at Outback. Other than a few sticky notes, a couple of receipts, and a
discarded wrapper for a bar of soap in the trash, Mort didn’t find anything
interesting. Even the medicine cabinet was a bust—Tylenol, toothpaste,
deodorant, razors, and a couple of Band-Aids.

Mort met up with Sato in the great
room, an expanse of open space that combined a family room, a gourmet kitchen
with a huge granite-topped island, and a dining room area with a pool table
under an ornate chandelier with little lampshades. Twin leather couches formed
an “L” around a massive flat-screen television in the family room portion.
“This whole set up has the personality of a hotel room,” Mort said to Sato. “No
pictures on the walls, no snap shots on the fridge.”

“Too much house and not enough
life here,” Sato said, and Mort raised his eyebrows.

“Single guy doesn’t need this much
space,” Sato said, raising one shoulder. “Just saying.” Sato lived in a
one-bedroom condo within walking distance of several Dallas hotspots and his
twenty-four hour gym. Mort opened the stainless steel double fridge, which
contained Chinese takeout, pizza, a bottle of wine, and a questionable lump
that might be cheese. There were ten glasses and some silverware in the sink, crusted
over with remnants of food.

On the far side of the wide room,
sat a large desk with a rich leather inlay. Mort headed for the desk, “Now this
is more like it.” He rubbed his hands together, surprised to feel a little kick
of anticipation. The desk was messy. This was where Freeman had spent his time.

A few steps from the desk, he
stopped abruptly. “This has been searched.” Up close, he could see that empty
drawers hung open. Their contents had been stacked haphazardly on the desk top.

Sato joined him, pulling on
gloves. “You get her phone number?” Mort asked, glancing at the brunette crime
scene tech who’d waved at Sato before leaving through the front door.

“Of course.”

“In case you have any follow-up
questions,” Mort said.

“Follow-up is crucial. You know
that,” Sato said.

“Right. Anything else useful come
out of your chat?” Mort asked.

The smile dropped off Sato’s face.
“Yeah, neighbor says she saw the garage closing around three o’clock
yesterday.”

“Did she recognize the car?”

“Didn’t see it, just heard the
door going down as she was walking her dog and glanced over as it closed.”

“And the M.E. put the time of
death between twelve-thirty and one-thirty,” Mort said thoughtfully.

Sato and Mort exchanged glances.
“Desk first, then garage. My money is on the desk.”

As he examined papers, Sato said,
“So, who do you think? The partner’s ex-wife? Maybe she had something going on
with Freeman?”

“Love triangle gone bad?” Mort
said, squinting at the tiny print on a document. “Possible. ‘Course, if we can
find what the person was looking for or find an obvious gap in the files, then
we’ll have something concrete to go on.”

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 7:30 p.m.

––––––––

“SO what do you think I should do
with this?” Zoe held up the rolls of money.

Helen shifted her lips to the side
as she considered. “Well, Tucker says you’ve got two options.” Before Zoe
closed the door behind the two officers, Helen had already been calling her
husband. “One: you go with the ‘my life is an open book play’—give them access
to everything and tell them you knew nothing about anything Jack had going on.”

“Tried that, at least the second
part, and it didn’t go over too well.”

“I know. Option Two, which Tucker
says is your safest move, is to stall them as long as you can. And get a good
attorney. Tucker’s calling a friend who does criminal law.”

Zoe clinched her fist around the
wad of bills. “I don’t have the money for that.”

Helen tilted her head toward the
computer. “Looks like Jack has plenty of money.”

Zoe’s shoulders sagged. “That’s
not Jack’s money. It’s some computer error or something. Besides, I can’t draw
money out of his account. We haven’t had a joint account in ages.”

Helen shrugged. “Just saying. I
don’t think you should worry about paying an attorney right now.”

Zoe closed her eyes. She didn’t
have a choice. “I’ve got to find out what’s going on. Who knows what they might
find, and then they could assume I knew about it...”

Helen nodded, her big brown eyes
expressing her sympathy. “Sounds about right.”

Zoe plunked the rolls of money
down on the dresser. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. The broken lamp goes
downstairs—not in the trash, in the extra room, I think. The trash would look
suspicious. Anything we find goes here,” Zoe said, slapping her hand down on
the dresser. She dug in her pockets, pulled out a rubber band. As she pulled
her hair back into a ponytail, she said, “And now we take this room apart.”

They worked for three hours, going
over every inch of the room. Helen took the desk and copied Jack’s laptop files
onto a memory drive, saying “In case they take it before we can look at
everything.”

Those words made Zoe hurry more as
she went through every drawer, shaking out each piece of clothing. Helen
clicked away on the mouse, reading files as Zoe moved through the room,
checking the bed, the nightstand, the desk, the closet, even the small fridge.
She looked everywhere she could think of—the underside of the drawers, between
the mattress and box spring, under the bed, behind the pictures, in the back
reaches of the bathroom cabinets. She found nothing but clothes, dust, and a
few odds and ends—faded dry cleaning receipts in the back corner of the closet,
used pens and stray paperclips in the desk, and ketchup and mayonnaise packets
in the fridge.

It was after ten when Helen closed
the last file and leaned back in the chair, rubbing her eyes. “Nothing on here
but business stuff, and none of it looks as though anything strange was going
on at GRS. It all sounds very straightforward and typical.”

Zoe shoved the fridge back into
place against the wall and said, “Just like this room. It’s just a bedroom.”
She threw her arms out then let them drop back to her sides in frustration.

“That is a good thing,” Helen
reminded her.

“I know, but I wonder if I’ve made
it worse. When Officer Isles comes back with his search warrant, he may not
find anything, but my fingerprints—and yours—will be all over this room.”

“Oh, we should have worn gloves,
shouldn’t we? Didn’t think of that,” Helen said, her eyebrows knitted together
in a frown. “Should we wipe everything down?”

“Wouldn’t that look worse? No
fingerprints at all? Besides, we opened all the files on his computer...they’ll
be able to tell we poked around. Yeah, we’re not exactly good at this stealthy
search thing.”

Helen’s phone buzzed. “It’s Tucker,”
she said before answering.

After a short conversation, she
hung up and said, “He’s got a lawyer for you.”

Zoe didn’t want to think about a
lawyer. Instead, she said, “You should go home.”

“And you should come with me. I
don’t think you should stay here.”

Zoe smiled at her friend. “I knew
you were going to say that. It’s sweet of you, but I’m staying here.”

Helen stood up and stretched. “I
knew you were going to say that, too.”

“Right. So don’t even bother
arguing with me. It will only get you home later. I’m staying. I want to look
around the extra bedroom and hall closet before I call it a night.”

Zoe was able to get Helen to leave
only after Helen made three more attempts to talk her into going to her house
for the night. Zoe watched Helen back out of the driveway with Tucker’s dinner
and extra cupcakes, then she checked all the locks downstairs before returning
upstairs.

In the extra bedroom, she did the
same sweep as she had done in Jack’s room, but it didn’t take nearly as long
because there wasn’t much in the spare bedroom. Now the extra bedroom
downstairs—the flea market room, she called it—that would take some time. She
stifled a gigantic yawn and looked through the hall bathroom and the linen
closet, again finding only what you’d expect in those places. She returned to
Jack’s room, flopped down onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling fan, which
was turning lazily overhead.

She’d done everything she could,
short of ripping up the carpet or checking behind the vent and outlet covers,
which seemed a little extreme. Another yawn set her jawbone cracking. She
supposed it was a good thing that she hadn’t found anything. It meant that in a
cursory search the police wouldn’t find anything either. She watched the slow
spin of the fan blades, and her thoughts drifted to the flea market room...she
really should go down there and look around, just to make sure. But there was
so much stuff she felt overwhelmed.

She didn’t realize she had drifted
off until a jolt ran through her body, jerking her from the dregs of a deep
sleep. It took her a second to work out where she was.

Jack’s
room?
Then it all came rushing back. Jack missing. Connor dead.
Search warrants and rolls of money.

Yeah, all problems still present
and accounted for. She stretched. Reluctant to move, she watched the fan blades
rotate above her. Then she blinked and focused on the ceiling fan.

She wasn’t sure what brought back
the memory. Maybe it was because she was lying there staring at the ceiling
fan, still groggy from sleep. Or maybe it was a fragment of a forgotten dream
that kicked up an old memory. Whatever the reason, she suddenly remembered that
one time she came into this room and found Jack on a ladder with his head
tucked up to the ceiling, the fan blades in an awkward embrace around his chest.
For a second, when Zoe walked in the room she thought he looked startled, but
then he’d smiled and asked how her meeting went. This was back in the early
days of their marriage. In fact, it had happened shortly after they moved in,
probably within the first few weeks. Jack had said the ceiling fan rattled and
he was adjusting it.

She struggled onto her elbows and
tilted her head back to study the ceiling fan. She hadn’t remembered it ever
rattling, and his expression when he first saw her...he’d looked almost...guilty.

She surged up and stood on the
bed, but ducked down so the blades didn’t knock her in the forehead. She pulled
the chain to turn off the fan. The blades whispered over her fingers a few more
turns until she stopped the rotation with her palm. Her head was slightly below
the level of the housing that covered the fan’s motor. A light layer of dust
coated the metal. She patted and tapped the exterior, but it was solid. Nothing
was loose.

She hopped down off the bed. Ten
minutes later, she was on Jack’s ladder unscrewing the housing around the
motor. It was warm near the ceiling, and she felt beads of sweat on her
forehead. She removed the cover and poked gently inside the fan. Wires. Lots of
wires.

Zoe wiped her forehead with the
back of her hand and set to work, replacing the cover, feeling a bit
silly—silly to think that if Jack had hidden something else in this house that
she’d be able to find it. There were a million hiding places, and just because
he’d been surprised to see her that day didn’t mean anything. Neither did the
fact that she’d seen him on a ladder “working” on a seemingly functioning fan.
She gave the screw a final turn and was about to step down when her gaze ran up
the short rod that dropped from the ceiling and held the fan suspended a foot
or so from the ceiling. At the top of the rod there was a small cone-shaped
cover attached to the ceiling.