When Chase checked her watch again, she realized she’d been at it forty-five minutes and should be getting some rest. She put the pad on the nightstand and turned off the light, but sleep was elusive. Something nagged at the edge of her consciousness. It took a full ten minutes of tossing and turning before it hit her.
She fumbled for the light and reached for her pad. How could she have missed it? Emily, her Demon’s dream girl, looked just like Heather.
Chapter Ten
Mouchamps, France
November 18
Gwenn Etienne carried the tea set onto her second-floor terrace just as her good friend Agnes emerged from her aging Citröen on the gravel drive below. “Up here,” she called, waving.
“Be right up.”
Gwenn had summoned Agnes to relay the latest update on her new neighbor. The best gossip in the village and she was front-row center, right where she liked to be. Among all her friends, Agnes was best positioned to help her in her quest to find out more about the mysterious newcomer, so she’d be first to hear about the overnight developments.
“Good morning.” Agnes greeted her with kisses on both cheeks. “Something new on Monsieur Elusive this morning?”
Gwenn poured their Earl Grey. “Indeed. I was up late last night because Cosette was sick, poor darling.” She petted the aging cat sleeping beneath her chair. “She’s fine now. Must have caught another mouse in the pantry.”
“And while you were up, you saw…” Agnes prompted her as she glanced across the wide rows of Gwenn’s prized grapevines to the cottage in question.
Gwenn sipped her tea thoughtfully to prolong the suspense. So little happened in their village that any unpredictable element was welcome. “It was after three in the morning when Cosette became… indisposed,” she said. “I happened to look out my window.” She took another sip. Agnes knew she’d reach for her binoculars at virtually any opportunity to spy on her neighbor, but she had to maintain her veneer of respectability. “All of the lights over there were blazing. And he came outside to empty his trash. Who does that at that hour, except someone who must go to great lengths to avoid being seen?”
She’d been surprised when she’d noticed the first sign of occupancy at the cottage more than two weeks earlier. No one had lived there for many years and she wasn’t even sure it was habitable, but after two straight nights of seeing lights turn on and off, she decided to investigate. Armed with a fresh-baked apple tart, she walked over and knocked, but the new tenant refused to come to the door. The next day, a second attempt with ratatouille met with the same result, and she was certain someone was home both times because smoke poured from the chimney.
Her curiosity piqued, she began to watch the cottage in earnest, certain that the homeowner would emerge at some point to go into the village, or do repairs, or take care of the horrific tangle of weeds and overgrowth that choked the walk and garden. The place was an eyesore.
But she had seen no sign of anyone until the day a village lad delivered groceries to the cottage on his bicycle. Gwenn trained her binoculars on the front door, holding her breath, as the boy ascended the front steps. To her disappointment, he didn’t even knock; he just set down the crate of food and departed. She waited impatiently as five full minutes passed—then the door opened and she got her first fleeting glimpse of her neighbor as he retrieved the food and disappeared back inside.
A man, middle-aged, no one she recognized, and suspiciously furtive. He glanced about as he picked up the groceries, as though concerned about being seen. She hadn’t glimpsed him again until last night. “Any luck with Franco?” she asked Agnes, referring to the village’s sole real-estate broker.
“I dropped by yesterday,” Agnes said. “He said he didn’t handle the sale of the cottage, so it must have been purchased before he came to town. That would make it six or seven years ago, at least.”
“Someone at the town hall must know who owns it, from the tax records and such,” Gwenn mused. “Who do we know there?” We implied the entirety of the eight women who made up their weekly sewing circle.
Agnes sipped her tea thoughtfully. “I’ll ask around.”
“I was thinking…” Gwenn offered her a cucumber sandwich. “Do you think Claude might pay him a visit?” Agnes’s nephew had just been installed as the newest member of the village police department. Gwenn considered Claude too timid and malleable to do the job properly, but those qualities were to their advantage. Claude would do anything to please his aunt.
“I’ll try to persuade him.” Agnes gazed over at the cottage. “I’ll tell him you’re concerned about your safety, living alone and not knowing what kind of man your neighbor is.”
* * *
Cassady listened intently as Andor Rózsa moved about in the rooms above her head. Several areas of the floor that separated them creaked as he walked over them, and by memorizing each nuance, and the sounds of water in the pipes, she’d begun to learn his routine. More important, she thought she now had an idea of where they were—an old, private home—and she had found a way to discern the rough time of day.
His bedroom must be in the corner to her left, because his steps retreated there just before the house went silent for long hours. The bathroom was next to it, judging from the brief whoosh of water through the pipes there a few times a day. The kitchen had to be near the stairs, because he lingered there just prior to her food delivery.
It wasn’t much, and it got her no closer to finding a way to escape, but any bit of knowledge about her situation gave her hope.
Judging from what she now knew about his routine, she expected him any minute with her oatmeal and water. Her once rabid hunger had abated to a hollow ache as the days passed, but her thirst was insatiable. Though she’d re-hydrated herself by drinking more than half the water he’d given her to wash with, the sweat pouring off her made the reprieve all too temporary.
Rózsa’s heavy steps descended the stairs, and the bolt was thrown back. As always, he avoided eye contact.
Cassady didn’t move as he set down the daily ration of oatmeal and water. “Can you please empty the bucket again? The smell is making me sick.”
Though he glanced toward the makeshift toilet, he was apparently not in a mood to accommodate her today, because he left again without a word and secured the door with a resounding clang of metal.
With a sigh, Cassady reached for the oatmeal and chewed each bite slowly to make it last. Her clothes fit loosely now, and her energy level was at an all-time low. Without proper nourishment soon, she’d have difficulty following through with any escape attempt, even if an opportunity presented itself.
She took a sip of water and held it in her mouth a long while before swallowing. Then she put the glass aside. By rationing herself to a small amount only when her thirst became intolerable, Cassady had learned to bridge the gap between her daily refills with the least discomfort possible.
But it was Jack who really sustained her. Whenever her spirits ebbed, she closed her eyes and relived some memory of their precious year together and, at least for a little while, was able to escape her nightmare.
* * *
Southwestern Colorado
Montgomery Pierce stared out the window of his office at the campus below, so preoccupied with worry he didn’t realize Joanne had joined him until he felt her caress his back.
“You tossed and turned all night,” she said in a worried tone, “and you barely touched your breakfast. You can’t keep going like this. You know what the doctor said.”
He turned to her and put his hand against her cheek. “I love that you worry so, honey. But I’m fine. I’m taking my medication.” Joanne had been monitoring him closely the last year, since the EOO doc diagnosed a sudden dizzy spell as a worrying result of high blood pressure.
A knock at the door announced David Arthur’s arrival. Dressed in his customary fatigues, he looked vaguely annoyed at being summoned two hours before dawn. “I hope this is important. I was up late with the
seniors.” Every month, Arthur conducted night-time training maneuvers for the graduating class, in the massive Weminuche Wilderness Area adjacent to the EOO campus.
“Reno has an update for us,” Monty replied. “He should be here momentarily.”
Reno arrived with several printouts, which he distributed before taking his seat. The dark puffiness under his eyes from lack of sleep made him look as though he’d gone a round or two with a boxer, and Monty noticed his hands were trembling, no doubt the byproduct of too much sugar and caffeine. “I’ve recovered some of the files Rózsa deleted from his computer,” he said. “The guy’s a pro at moving money around. I found still another bank account of his—this one in Asia, under the name of a bogus furniture company. Regular deposits were going into the account right up until the lab exploded. It’s empty now—Rózsa’s transferred the cash somewhere else—but, it gives us a clue about one of his key financers. All the deposits came from a Manhattan bank account.”
He had their full attention. Even David perked up. “Manhattan?”
Reno held up a hand. “No, it’s not the same account that Chase and Phantom are tracking. But it is from the same bank, which has to be a hell of a coincidence. Now, the name on this new account is another furniture company—Dragon Imports Unlimited. Also bogus—can’t find a record of it anywhere. And here’s where it really gets interesting. The amounts and dates of the transfers match these invoice orders I found on another of Rózsa’s deleted files.” He pointed to the stapled sheets he was referencing. Monty looked at the first page, dated 6/6/2010.
2 couches $30,000
4 chairs $20,000
2 credenzas $50,000
———————————
Total due: $100,000
The second invoice, dated 4/12/2010, was similar.
2 couches $30,000
5 chairs $25,000
1 credenza $25,000
8 side tables $56,000
———————————
Total due: $136,000
There were several more similar pages. “So Rózsa’s been supplying something regularly to this New York entity,” Monty said, leafing through the manifests.
Reno nodded. “For at least two years. I would think the obvious conclusion is he’s been selling his formulas.”
The room went silent as they considered the dire implications. Monty flashed back to the news reports that dominated the airwaves just a month ago, chronicling the global pandemic Rózsa had unleashed. Could a secret US lab now be manufacturing another of the madman’s lethal viruses? The development added even more urgency to their mission. “How long before you can track down the real account holder?” he asked.
“No telling, I’m afraid. US bank records are tough at best to access, and this account has so many protective layers, it’s going to take time. The dummy furniture company is a front for a dummy LLC, and so on.” Reno cleared his throat. “But I do have some positive news. Chase and Phantom reported that five people were at the brownstone the night the transfer occurred. We’ve already been able to eliminate three of them as suspects. That leaves one call girl and her john as possibilities.”
Monty studied the next set of stapled printouts. A full-color photo of Heather Snyder’s New York driver’s license was stapled on top. Beneath it several pages contained her employment history, academic record, bank-account information, cell-phone records, and so on.
“She works at a fashion-design house by day and hooks at night,” Reno summarized. “Has a brother who’s very ill with kidney disease, and she’s paying his bills while he waits for a transplant. Her legit income doesn’t come close to covering it, and I can’t track how much she’s making as a call girl, so she could conceivably have saved up the fifty grand that got sent to Rózsa from her IP address. Phantom says her john—goes by the name Dario—is also a reasonable bet. Snyder sees him every few days, so they hope to be able to ID him soon.”
“Good work, Reno,” Monty said. “Keep us posted, and let me know if you need additional help. You should get some rest soon.” Although it wasn’t unusual for ops to go days without sleep, Reno would push himself until he dropped to find Lynx. Monty hoped Jaclyn didn’t do likewise.
Chapter Eleven
hase woke at six and, half an hour later, was ready to leave. She’d been restless all night, unable to stop rehashing her conversation with Heather and the woman’s resemblance to Emily. Chase had met plenty of call girls and never questioned their reasons or judged their decision to sell their body, simply because she didn’t care. She wanted a few hours of uncomplicated entertainment, not sad stories about broken homes, illegitimate children who needed to be fed, or abusive parents. All the woman had to be was attractive and, even though she practiced safe sex, healthy.
Something about Heather, though, bothered her. Not because she was too beautiful to sell herself—plenty of stunning women did the same—but because so much about her didn’t make sense. Heather possessed an air of class and undeniable innocence that didn’t correspond with her lifestyle. Still not a reason she should care, though, Chase thought.
Still mystified as to why Heather was getting to her, Chase checked her watch. Reno should have sufficient information now to get them started. She was tempted to make the call immediately, but she’d never hear the end of it from Jack, who’d somehow deluded herself into thinking Operation Phoenix was her show. Not that Chase cared, but she planned to give Jack a chance.
She left her room and knocked on Jack’s door. “Be at the car in five, or I leave without you,” she announced, smiling inwardly as she headed for the car. She was almost there when she reached into her jacket for the keys.
“Don’t bother,” Jack said, rolling down the driver’s window.
“When did you—”
“I’m a criminal, remember?”
“Last night in the hall.”
Jack smiled and sipped from a Styrofoam cup. “Get in, Ms. Daisy, we’re losing daylight.”
Chase suppressed a smile as she rounded the rental. The sun was still only a faint pink glow on the horizon. She was barely in the passenger seat when Jack dialed Reno’s number. Chase was surprised Jack had waited for her to make the call.
“What do you have?” Jack asked.
“Phantom?” Reno sounded surprised, no doubt expecting Chase, who had communicated with him so far.
Jack’s distaste for the code name was obvious. The muscles in her jaw twitched and she gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Call me Jack.”
“That’s against protocol, I can’t—”
“Screw the protocol and call me Jack.”
Reno hesitated. “Okay,” he finally said. “Cross Massimo off. The transfer wasn’t made from his computer, and his school records indicate he’s marginal in the brainpower department.”
“What did you find on Heather?” Chase asked. “Sans slurping sounds,” she added ominously.
Reno sighed. “Boy, the two of you are a delight to work with. Maybe we can all vacation together some time.” When neither replied, he said, “Okay. Heather Snyder. Parents deceased. Only sibling, Adam Snyder, chronically ill brother with kidney failure. She visits him twice a week on average at an acute-care facility in the Bronx. His bills are sky-high.”
“Explains the escort service,” Chase said.
“Still doesn’t explain how a call girl came up with fifty grand,” Jack said.
“In my opinion,” Reno went on, “the call girl is a viable suspect. Her day job doesn’t pay much, and she was a straight-A student. We have no proof she’s not involved or oblivious to what’s happened. Could be that she was holding the cash for Rózsa as a sort of emergency fund. Maybe he was her main man before he disappeared, and when the shit hit the fan and his accounts were depleted, he contacted her to send him the money.”
“Why not have her arrested for conspiracy and withholding information?” Jack asked.
“We have no proof. She’d be out in twenty-f
our hours and could tip off Rózsa. Or her john, if he’s the guy and she knows what’s going on,” Chase replied. “Arrange a surveillance van,” she told Reno. “And park it as close to her residence as possible.”
“Got it.” He quickly briefed them on the other New York bank account he was tracking. “Anything else?”
“No,” both replied.
“A thank you would be nice,” Reno finally said.
“Send me Snyder’s details. Residence and work,” Chase replied, and Jack disconnected the call.
“Why does he always have to sound like a fresh-faced farm girl?” Jack frowned. “It’s not healthy to be that happy.”
“Huh?” Chase was still trying to digest Heather’s possible involvement. Just then, Reno’s text arrived with her home and work addresses and other pertinent information.
“What’s the matter, princess?” Jack asked. “Not awake yet?”
“Drive,” Chase said. “I just received the addresses.”
“I say we start at her home. See if we can find anything relevant there. Her laptop, and maybe an appointment book. She should be at work till five.”
“Let’s go,” Chase replied, as she plugged the street into the GPS. Could she really be that off about Heather? Why did she want to believe she wasn’t? “We start surveilling the brownstone tonight. My money is still on the mystery man.”
“Getting into her home to hook up cams and mics will take some time.”
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