by Jean Thomas
“Go on.”
“Well, he sent me this pepper shaker, a ceramic Hansel. There was a note with it. A very sweet note. How he was keeping the Gretel salt shaker for himself, and that way we’d always have a reminder of each other. I still have the Hansel at home.”
“And if he hung on to the Gretel all these years—Eve, that’s it! It’s got to be! Come on, let’s find a cab. You and I are going to use that condo key Peterman gave you.”
The afternoon was lengthening when the taxi set them down at the address printed on the tag attached to the key. The building, a high-rise, was in one of those affluent areas between Michigan Avenue and the lake. Though not as tall or as grand as its neighbors, it was impressive enough.
Charlie had lived well, Eve thought, gazing up at the building as she climbed out of the taxi. And why not? As Victor DeMarco’s accountant, he would have earned an enviable salary.
She hated to think that the man who had been her father, who had been so generous and loving to her through the years, had made his money working for a crime lord. Pointless of her to mind this so much now that he was dead, but she did.
As vigilant as always, Sam had kept a sharp eye through the rear window of the taxi on their way to the condo, making certain there was no suspicious vehicle tailing them. He was just as careful when they emerged from the cab, checking up and down the street before they headed for the entrance.
The building was the kind of place that should have had a doorman, but there was no one on duty. Nor did anyone challenge them when they crossed the lobby to the elevators.
According to the tag on the key, the condo was on the twentieth floor. Sam was silent while they waited for an elevator, and equally quiet as they rode up in the elevator that finally arrived.
Eve wondered if he was occupied with thoughts similar to her own. Like questioning the point of this errand. Things such as Charlie having used such an obscure method to tell her where a copy of the tax records could be located. Trusting her to get that copy to the FBI, if anything happened to him.
It was all so unlikely. Because if the FBI had thoroughly searched the condo, and they would have, they could have already found the copy in whatever form it existed. Or, if not the FBI, then DeMarco’s people.
No, she was wrong, Eve decided when they left the elevator. Sam wasn’t sharing any of her uncertainties. A quick glance at the resolute expression on his face told her he knew they were in the right place and why.
“This way,” he said, after comparing the number on the key she handed him against the numbered doors of the other condos on the floor.
They turned to the left, making their way along a wide, lushly carpeted corridor. Sam halted them in front of the last door.
“Let me have your bag.”
Turning the shoulder bag over to him, she watched him withdraw the pistol. Did he think it was possible someone could be lurking in there, waiting to ambush them? Evidently he did, because after returning the bag to her, he nodded toward the door across the hall marked Fire Exit.
“Wait over there while I check out the place,” he instructed her. “If you hear anything at all while I’m in there, you get yourself down those stairs to the lobby and out of here.”
Obeying him, she stationed herself at the Fire Exit door as he inserted the key into the lock and disappeared into the condo, the gun stretched out in front of him.
Eve heard no sound from inside the apartment as she waited for Sam to return, but he seemed to be taking an awfully long time. She was beginning to worry about that when he finally reappeared.
“All clear,” he reported.
“You were gone so long.”
“Took me a while to look for any possible bugs. I didn’t find any, and I know all the tricks for concealing them. All the same,” he added, spreading the door wide to admit her, “let’s keep our voices low while we’re in there.”
Eve preceded him into the apartment. She hadn’t anticipated what Charlie’s tastes might be. Maybe something traditional, even old-fashioned. The condo was nothing like that. Its furnishings were extremely modern. Glass-topped tables and highly polished wood, as if the unit had been purchased with everything already in place.
There was an atmosphere of silent abandonment. Eve was immediately aware of it. It saddened her, knowing that the condo’s owner would never come here again.
“Everything meticulous,” she murmured. “Nothing out of place. I could almost believe the place was never searched.”
“Yeah, the FBI team would have been careful about that,” Sam said, tucking the pistol into his belt after closing the door. “DeMarco’s boys, too, if they managed to get in here, and you can bet they did. Where do we start?”
“The kitchen, I should think. It’s the logical place to keep a salt shaker.”
Sam led the way through a dining area with tall windows that framed spectacular views of the lake. The kitchen, when they reached it, gleamed with stainless steel fixtures.
They had no need to look through cupboards for the Gretel shaker. The ceramic figure stood in the open on the back of the stove.
“As they say,” Sam said, picking up the shaker, “you want to conceal something, you hide it in plain sight.” He handed the Gretel to her. “Here, you do the honors.”
“The head screws off for refilling.” Eve demonstrated by twisting the head, into which holes had been punched for releasing the salt, until it came off into her hand. “Nothing but salt clear up to the top,” she reported after looking into the cavity.
“Pour it out on the counter.”
If Sam was expecting something buried in the salt, then he had to be disappointed. All that emerged when she tipped the container over was a pile of salt on the granite surface of the counter.
“Check the inside again.”
She did as he urged, this time with excitement. “Sam, there’s something wrapped in plastic wedged in the bottom! I need a knife to pry it out!”
“Coming up.”
He jerked open drawers, found a table knife and passed it to her. Eve inserted the blade into the shaker, dislodging its secret with the tip. What slid out into her waiting hand, even before she unwrapped it, revealed itself through the clear plastic.
“Bingo!” Sam said, seizing the flash drive.
“What now?” she wondered.
“We get this up on a computer, just to make certain it’s what it must be.”
“Charlie would have had one somewhere in the condo.”
“Not anymore. The FBI would have taken any computer away with them—that is, if DeMarco didn’t get to it first.”
“Then where—?”
“My apartment, my computer.”
The taxi, from which Sam had again watched the streets behind them to make sure they weren’t being followed, deposited them in front of a four-story building located on Chicago’s near North Side. It was a pleasant neighborhood, Eve thought, but there was no question of a doorman this time. This was not the high-rent district.
Unlike his wallet, ID and passport, Sam’s keys had been in a pocket of his trousers when the plane burned. One of those keys enabled him to let them into his third-floor apartment, which he checked out before admitting her.
In sharp contrast to Charlie’s condo, Sam’s apartment had the spare, careless look of a bachelor who didn’t mind what his home was like as long as it was comfortable and included a large-screen TV and an oversized lounge chair.
Eve followed him to his computer, which was mounted on his desk at one end of the living room, and stood over him while he powered up the machine and inserted the flash drive. Several files appeared on the screen. Each one was labeled with a specific span of years that, totaled, covered two decades.
Eve could see no other titles on the files, although she leaned over Sam’s shoulder to make certain she was missing nothing.
“Uh, would you mind not standing so close?”
She must have been breathing on the back of his ear, somethi
ng he would have once welcomed, regarding it as an invitation to more intimate activities. But that time was gone. Now her soft breath, stirring the curling tendrils of hair behind his ear, seemed to make him nothing but uneasy. And Eve sad.
“Sorry,” she murmured, moving back a few safe inches.
Sam began to open the files one after another, filling the screen.
“It’s all here, Eve. Twenty years of Victor DeMarco’s tax records.”
Not just the tax records, she noted, which might have been useless in themselves, but Charlie’s careful explanations of just how and where he had cheated on behalf of the mobster, hiding profits that must have saved DeMarco hundreds of thousands of dollars annually.
Sam was pleased. “There’s more than enough evidence here to convict DeMarco of tax fraud. Now,” he said, after closing the files and ejecting the flash drive, “I just have to decide where to hide this until that mole is out of the way.”
“It wasn’t discovered in Charlie’s salt shaker. Why not trust it in your own shaker?” she suggested. “Assuming you have one and that it’s large enough.”
“Perfect. I do, and I think it is.” He got up from the desk, but before he led the way into his kitchen he stopped at a front window overlooking the street below.
He’s making sure there’s no one out there watching the apartment, Eve thought, eyeing him as he stood to one side of the window and peered into the street. He must have been satisfied because he moved on into the kitchen, with Eve close behind him.
His salt shaker, unlike Charlie’s Gretel, was an ordinary one but just big enough to accommodate the flash drive. When it had been wrapped again in the plastic cover, squeezed down under the salt and the lid on the container replaced, Sam glanced at the clock on the stove.
“It’s too late for me to tackle my squad supervisor. Frank will have left the office by now. I’ll have to go into the bureau tomorrow. You hungry? We seem to have missed lunch.”
“I could eat.”
“Thing is, I don’t have anything in the fridge but beer. You up for a delivery pizza? I think we can risk that.”
“Fine.” She would have told him that, had he the necessary ingredients on hand, she could have made a pizza for them. But, given the barrier he was maintaining, it seemed too familiar a confidence.
Forty minutes later, seated across from each other at his kitchen table, with frosty cans of beer in front of them and the pizza between them, they satisfied their appetites with the slices gooey with cheese while Michael Bublé entertained them on Sam’s CD player.
At least we’re sharing this much, Eve thought. Except that while it might look cozy, it didn’t feel cozy. There was an underlying tension in the room that had as much to do with the intimacy of her presence in his apartment as it did with his perpetual caution about her safety. His visits to the front windows at regular intervals was evidence of that.
“You can’t go with me tomorrow,” he said after they’d finished the pizza. “They’d take you into custody. I don’t like the idea of leaving you, but you’ll have to stay here.”
Yes, she had already realized she would have to hide out until the mole was caught. Which meant spending the night in his apartment. Maybe several nights. A necessity she didn’t relish.
Did he recognize the temptations in that arrangement? Was that why he added a quick “There’s a spare bedroom you can have. Has its own bathroom, even clean sheets on the bed. I never use it.”
She nodded and rose from the table to clear away the remains of their meal. “I think I’ll have a bath before I turn in for the night.”
She left him with the impression she was casual about the whole thing when she was anything but. The bath should have relaxed her, but she couldn’t seem to get comfortable when she climbed into bed.
The mattress wasn’t responsible for the restless night she spent. The man in the next room was. She was far too conscious of his being on the other side of the wall away from her.
She kept picturing him in his own bed. Somehow she didn’t think Sam would be clad in pajamas, and wondered if he slept in the nude, as he had back at the cabin. An image of him lying there like that, all hard muscle and warm, musky skin, had her damning her treacherous imagination.
The maddening thing in the end wasn’t his body, arousing as it was. It was having fallen in love with the man who had surfaced without a memory to haunt him. The Sam McDonough who could be funny and sensitive and strong, embodying all the best qualities of his sex.
If that decent, caring man had existed before Lily’s death, then he must still be there under all the dark anguish. But for all her efforts, all her yearning, she couldn’t manage to reach him.
When Eve finally did fall asleep, she paid the price by being troubled by a series of erotic dreams. All of them with her naked and eager in Sam’s arms.
Chapter 13
Sam wanted his meeting with his squad supervisor to be as businesslike as possible. Which was why he was dressed in the dark suit, which seemed to be the standard uniform of an FBI special agent, when he rapped on Eve’s door the next morning.
What she wore when she finally answered his knock came close to robbing him of his self-control. He must have left one of his old shirts in the closet of the guest bedroom, and she had borrowed it to sleep in. And, unless she had panties and a bra on underneath, and he preferred to think she didn’t, this was all she was wearing as she stood framed there in the doorway.
He caught his breath at the sexy sight of her, bare legs extending their shapely length from the hem of the shirt, hair tousled, face flushed from sleep.
Damn!
Looking like that, she reignited what had taken all his willpower last night to extinguish. The flaming urge to leave his bed, charge into her room and slide into bed beside her.
Now he had to manage a steady “I’ve got coffee made, and I found some frozen waffles in the freezer. Until I can shop for groceries, that’s all we have for breakfast.”
“Give me ten minutes,” was all she said before closing the door on him.
Sam was relieved when she appeared in the kitchen in the trim slacks and top she had bought at one of the discount stores along their route. She was still desirable, even fully dressed.
“I’ve been thinking about leaving you here alone,” he said over the coffee and waffles. “It’s no good. If anyone should come looking for you, this is the first place they’ll try.”
They hadn’t so far. He’d been faithful about periodically checking the street. All the same…
Eve shook her head. “There isn’t enough money left for anything like a hotel room.”
“Not necessary. I’ve got the perfect hideaway for you. The apartment across the hall. I have the key to it on my ring.”
“How did that happen?” she asked, reaching for the coffeepot to refill her mug.
“The guy who lives there is overseas for a couple of months. He left a key with me in case of emergency. I don’t think he was figuring on exactly this kind of emergency, but I’m going to think of it as one.”
When their simple breakfast had been cleared away, Sam escorted Eve across the hall and into the other apartment. It had the same layout as his. Except, he admitted to himself, it was a lot better furnished.
“Will you be all right here?” he asked her after he had looked over the rooms. Just to be sure.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. I guess I don’t need to tell you to keep the door locked. And if anyone should come knocking, which they won’t, not to answer it. Same for the phone. And, uh, stay away from the windows. Better not turn on the TV or radio, either.” He glanced around the living room. Unlike his own apartment, there were plenty of books in evidence. “Maybe you can find one of these books to read.”
“Uh-huh.”
He gazed at her standing there, her bag still over her shoulder. She isn’t happy about this, he thought. He wasn’t, either, but what else could he do?
“I’ll leave the pistol here with you.” He laid the gun on the coffee table.
“I hope you don’t expect me to use it.”
“If I thought there was any chance of that, I wouldn’t leave you here on your own. It’s just a precaution. Also, I don’t want to show up with it at the bureau. They kind of frown on a special agent carrying a weapon that hasn’t been officially issued to him.”
“Understood.”
“Look, don’t worry if I’m not back for a few hours. I don’t how long this thing with Kowsloski is going to take. When I do get away, I’ll need to stop at my bank to withdraw some cash, after which I’ll shop for groceries.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess not.”
“Then you’d better go.”
He went, but not until he heard the sound of Eve locking the door behind him did Sam head for the elevator. On his way down, he made a mental note to swing by Union Station sometime this morning to collect those coats from the locker.
His Mustang was parked where he had left it in one of the coveted spots near the entrance to his building. His long absence had cost him a busted headlight, which he had unhappily noticed when the cab had dropped them off yesterday at the front of the building. Right now it was the least of his concerns.
Just before climbing behind the wheel of the Mustang, he glanced up at one of the windows of his neighbor’s apartment. Eve was up there out of sight. He told himself he had no reason to worry about her.
Hell, McDonough, she isn’t a child. She’s a capable woman able to take care of herself. She doesn’t need you hovering over her.
It was a good argument. Now he just had to convince himself to believe it.
The Chicago division of the FBI was located on Roosevelt Road in a tall building that was more glass than solid walls.
Sam plugged the Mustang into a slot in the adjoining parking lot, locked it and strode toward the entrance.