by Sara Rosett
Sato moved closer to Jenny. He could see each individual eyelash that fringed her blue eyes. “This isn’t a two-way street. You have to answer my questions. I can arrest you, if you don’t.”
She placed a hand on his chest and pressed, moving him away as she sighed. “Always so touchy.” He was so surprised she’d touched him that he let her push him away. No one ever touched him when he was in his gruff tell-me-what-you-know-or-else mode.
She hopped off the barstool and went to the tread-desk. “Have you ever heard that expression you get more flies with honey than vinegar?” she asked as she typed. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but I’m concerned.” She swiveled the monitor toward him and pointed to a Facebook message from Zoe Hunter that read, Hey, Jenny. Something interesting has happened. Can you look into Darius Gray and let me know what you turn up? Appreciate it!
Zoe Hunter wanted information about Darius Gray. If she was involved with him...
“You see why I thought we could work together?” Jenny took a Bic pen with a blue lid from a jar near her monitor.
Sato’s phone beeped. “Sorry, but I have to take this.” He recognized the name on his caller ID, the analyst’s manager.
“Hi, Donna. So this got bumped up the food chain to you?”
“Yeah,” she answered between chomps on her gum. She’d exchanged her nicotine addiction for Big Red several years ago. “It’s another con. A con from beyond the grave, so to speak.”
“You always did have a flare for the dramatic. Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m in the middle of an interview.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Donna.”
She smacked her gum. “She’s got to be, if you want to get back to it. Okay. Okay. I’ll get right to it. You know the guy who set up the big fraud originally associated with this case?”
“Costa.”
“Yeah, him. He fixed it so the funds taken in through that scam would be routed through a couple of shell companies and then to a Vanuatu company, Verity Trustees, which cooperated with us in our inquiries. They sent the business filings, which lists Zoe Hunter as the owner. That was as far as our original investigation went, but considering that her name was right there for all to see, I looked deeper. I know there are some stupid people out there, but I doubt that someone who was careful enough to shift the money through four other shell companies without her name would be such an imbecile as to leave it in an account with her name front and center. It’s just sloppy.”
“Maybe she felt it was well-hidden after the other transfers.” A pop and whooshing sound came over the line. “You’re not blowing bubbles, are you?”
“I would never do that. So unprofessional.” More chomping. “No, I’m telling you I deal with this all the time, and people who want to hide assets don’t put their name on anything, anywhere, and they certainly wouldn’t set up a company in Vanuatu. A couple of years ago, sure, that would have worked, but not now.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s an island in the Pacific. It was once a tax haven, but they’ve changed their laws, and the mega-rich don’t find it as attractive now. So, we should have picked up on this the first time, but Costa had so many accounts that we were running down that this one got lost in the tangle of everything else. This file is like one of those weeds that you pull up, and the root system is three times as big as the plant.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t just an amateur mistake? Maybe she didn’t keep up with the news on tax havens and thought it was still a good place to go?”
“Nah. I have the emails that were exchanged to set up the account.”
“How did you get those?”
“They’re in the file. We were able to get the on-line computer back up of the guy who handled Costa’s financial transactions, his hacker-cum-financial advisor. If we didn’t have that, I couldn’t have made the connection. I searched for the account number, and the emails popped up. Only two emails, but they definitely link Costa with the account and spell out that Zoe Hunter is to be listed as the owner. It’s not supposed to work that way, but I bet a little payment on the side smoothed over any questions.”
“Okay. Thanks for this,” Sato said.
“One more thing. There’s only been one transaction since the initial deposit. Verity Trustees paid an invoice from The Flynn Gallery of Fine Art for an Impressionist painting. Twelve million dollars.”
Sato ran his hand over the back of his neck. “So now we’re looking for a painting?”
“Yep. I’ll send you what I have.” Another pop sounded, this one louder than the other.
“I looked them up, the gallery. Not my department, I know—but this case has sucked me in. I’m curious. I asked around. The art squad is checking the gallery.”
“Our art squad?”
“Yep.” Sato made a mental note to get in touch with the Art Crime Team, thanked Donna, and hung up.
Donna seemed sure that Zoe wasn’t involved in the money transfers, but he still wanted to talk with her. Did Zoe know the paperwork had been manipulated to link her to the account? Was that why she disappeared? Why had she asked Jenny about Darius Gray? Was he involved? And how did Lucinda McDaniel fit into all this? He had to find Zoe Hunter.
Jenny twisted the cap as she leaned against the treadmill railing. “I can help you.”
“No, you just gave me all your information,” Sato corrected.
She laughed. “No, I mean Zoe trusts me. I got the feeling last time she talked to me that she wasn’t too fond of you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to sell her out to you, but I might be able to convince her to work with you, or talk to you, or whatever it is that you want with her.”
Sato frowned. He didn’t like being in anyone’s debt. It was cleaner that way. No entanglements, no owing anyone a favor, but he had to find Zoe Hunter, not to mention Jack Andrews.
“So let me get this straight. You’re saying if I tell you about Darius Gray, you’ll help me find Zoe Hunter?”
Jenny had placed the pen in her mouth and was biting down on the lid. She pulled the pen out. “She’s missing?”
Sato automatically assessed the concern in Jenny’s voice. He thought it was genuine. “Neighbors haven’t seen her in days. No activity at her house for over twenty-four hours. And her best friend hasn’t heard from her, which is unusual.”
Jenny imprinted her teeth on the pen lid. “Oh, that’s not good. If she’s mixed up with this Darius Gray guy...well, she wouldn’t be the first person associated with him to just disappear.”
***
“THE airport or Anna’s hotel,” Zoe said, weighing their options as they fed their tickets into the machine and pushed through the metro turnstile.
The first minutes after the alarm had gone off had been painful, but a quick shower had done amazing things for her alertness, and now that there was the promise of coffee, Zoe thought she might survive. It hadn’t taken long for her to toss her small pile of clothes in the suitcase and check out of the hotel.
Jack, pulling their single rolling suitcase, pointed to the Concorde metro station on the map. “This one is the closest to her hotel. It will be easier to spot her there than the airport.” The Metro ride was short, only a few stops, and then they were climbing to street level. Zoe paused at the top of the stairs, her gaze skimming over the small cars, motor scooters, and bicycles whizzing by the row of stately stone buildings lining the street, looking for a street sign so they could orient themselves.
“Zoe, over here.” Jack tugged on her elbow, guiding her along a curved stone wall to an immense oval with two fountains on each end and a large stone obelisk in the center, the rising sun glinting off the golden pyramid at its peak.
“The Place de la Concorde,” Zoe breathed.
“Come on, we’ve got time for a quick look.” Jack grabbed her hand, and they darted across the road through the growing string of cars merging. A mist of water brushed over them as they circled the fountain.
Water sheeted down from a large bowl, cascading in front of stern-faced
statues. Near the rim of the lower pool, water sprites held fish that spouted water into arcs back toward the center of the fountain.
Traffic was picking up, crowding the edge of the oval. Car horns hooted and motor scooters accelerated, buzzing through the gaps in the stalled traffic, but Zoe barely noticed as she turned to the obelisk. “I read about this on the plane,” Zoe said, walking toward it, her gaze fixed on the deeply cut hieroglyphics that marched up the sides of the granite and the glittering gold inlay on the square base. “It’s the Luxor Obelisk. The hieroglyphics are about Ramses II and Ramses III. It was a gift from Egypt to France.”
“Quite a gift,” Jack said. “Bet the shipping was outrageous.”
“It was,” she said with a smile. “Those gold inlays on the side describe how it was moved here.”
She turned in a slow circle, her smile fading. “Before the obelisk, the guillotine stood here during the Revolution. This is where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were beheaded.” She felt a shiver run over her as she imagined the spacious area filled with an angry crowd, crying for blood.
“The obelisk is a definite improvement,” Jack said.
“I agree.” Zoe shifted around and gazed up the tree-lined Champs-Élysées where she could see the sturdy Arc de Triomphe in the distance. Moving in a slow circle, she turned until she was facing the opposite direction, looking at the Tuileries Gardens that led to the Louvre. She caught Jack’s hand. “Thank you for bringing me here. Have you been to Paris before?” She’d meant to ask him when they arrived, but she’d been too busy soaking up the sights herself, and she’d forgotten. Jack had traveled quite a bit more than she had. “Or is it one of those places you can’t talk about?”
“No, the places I can’t talk about aren’t nearly as nice as this. This is my first trip to Paris. I’m glad we could see it together.”
“Me, too.” The words popped out before she had time to think about them, but she realized they were true. There was no one else she’d rather see Paris with.
“Come on, let’s find some coffee,” Jack said. “There’s got to be a place around here with a decent chocolate croissant and espresso.”
Jack led them to a side street off the Champs-Élysées and nodded at a hotel with twisting topiaries on either side of wide double glass doors. “Anna’s hotel.” The bit of the interior lobby that Zoe could see through the doors was all veined marble and plush red carpets. They settled at a café across the street at a table in the back row under the shadow of a burgundy awning and ordered espressos.
After devouring her light, flakey, and still warm chocolate croissant, Zoe finished off her coffee then sat back in her chair with a sigh. “So good. Now, about Anna. What’s your idea for keeping up with her once she gets to Naples?”
Jack brushed golden pastry flecks from his mouth. Usually he had the clean-cut look going on with a smoothly shaven face and his dark slightly wavy hair trimmed short around his ears and the back of his neck, but today he’d skipped shaving, and the stubble gave him a slightly rakish air. “Your phone.”
Zoe raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “My phone doesn’t have any fancy stuff on it. It’s about as basic as they come.” A no-frills phone was one of the ways Zoe made sure her rather erratic, and often minuscule, monthly income covered the bills. She hit second-hand stores for clothes, happily wore Helen’s designer cast-offs, and didn’t subscribe to cable.
“You can get texts, right?” Jack had pulled his phone from his pocket and held out his hand for Zoe’s phone.
“Yes, and take pictures, but that’s about all.” She dug it out of her messenger bag, but stopped with her hand poised above his open palm. “You’re not going to go MacGyver on me and dismantle it to make some sort of tracking device are you? I really need all the numbers in here. It may be simple, but it works. That contact list is my life.”
He grinned, his teeth contrasting against his dark stubble. “No worries. No mullet, nothing MacGyver-ish. You’ll get your phone back.”
“In one functioning piece?”
“Yes. I promise.”
Zoe gave him a sidelong look, but dropped the phone into his hand. His phone had all the bells and whistles. He tapped out a text on his phone, sending a message to Zoe’s phone. Her phone chimed.
“That’s probably the most expensive text I’ve ever gotten. International roaming can’t be cheap.”
He typed a reply on her phone. “It will be worth it.” He clicked through the touchscreen on his phone then handed it to Zoe. “Watch that screen. Let’s see if this works. Back in a minute.” He tucked Zoe’s phone in his pocket as he stood.
As he strolled away from the café and turned onto the Champs-Élysées, Zoe switched between watching Jack and the screen of the phone, which showed a map of Paris, zoomed in on their current location. A small red dot mirrored Jack’s movements as he walked down the street. When he turned the corner and went out of Zoe’s sight, the dot moved down the famous boulevard for a few millimeters, then reversed course. After a few minutes, Jack reappeared holding a small bag. The red dot stopped moving when he settled into the chair across the café table from her.
“Impressive,” Zoe said.
“It worked?”
“Yep. What’s the range on this?”
“Unlimited as long as both phones are turned on and can connect to a cell signal.”
“So now we just have to get it into Anna’s possession without her knowing. That means we have to get close to her. Or, one of us does. I vote for you.”
Jack removed two hats from the bag, one a large brimmed straw hat, the other a men’s driving cap in a hound’s-tooth check of brown, tan, and red. “Your choice,” he said with a straight face.
“Funny.” Zoe reached for the straw hat. “I’m tempted to take the driving hat, since you offered. You’re lucky I have too much hair to fit under it.” Her hair was her most identifiable feature, and if she could keep it covered, she’d feel slightly better. She gathered her hair into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic band she had in her messenger bag, then twisted it up on top of her head and pulled the hat down, trying to tuck in every stray wisp. It wasn’t bright enough to need sunglasses, but she had a pair in her bag, a knock-off of the classic black Ray-Bans, so she put those on, too.
Jack had positioned his cap and had settled a pair of aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “What do you think?”
“You look like something out of a PBS period drama. All you need is a long scarf and a pair of goggles for your drive to the country house. I don’t look nearly as swanky as you.”
“You look great.” Jack reached out and tucked a stray curl under the cap. Zoe felt herself flush.
Across the street, the hotel doors whished open, and Anna strode outside. The red wig was gone. Anna’s own short dark hair, glossy black, swung as she strode to the line of taxis waiting in front of the hotel, her black pencil skirt hugging her legs as her Louboutin’s clacked across the pavement. She’d exchanged the camel colored coat for a hip-length khaki explorer style jacket with lots of pockets, which was belted tight around her small waist. She pulled a fuchsia hard-sided rolling suitcase behind her.
Zoe’s heart began to pound even though Anna was focused only on the taxi driver. Zoe licked her lips. “Time to go.” She picked up the phones.
Jack threw a few euros on the table and grabbed their suitcase handle. Zoe squeezed the plastic of the phones in her now sweaty palms. “Now’s not a good time to try and plant the phone.”
“No, she’s too isolated. We’ll do it either at the airport here or when we land in Naples.”
They crossed the street, passing within inches of Anna as they moved to the next taxi in line. They were so close that Zoe could hear Anna give her destination to the driver, Orly.
In their cab, Jack leaned forward and pointed to Anna’s cab. “Follow it to Orly.”
Their driver hit t
he meter and pulled into traffic behind the other cab.
***
SATO rubbed his eyes then contemplated his closet—a wonder of dark wood shelving, drawers, and designer suits hanging on rods with at least an inch of space between the wooden hangers. He really should check to see what the weather was like in Italy, but he was too tired. It was after two in the morning, and he had to get a few hours of sleep before his fifteen-hour flight.
He’d spent all evening and half the night running down everything he could find on Darius Gray. Sato had discovered that Gray’s name cut through red tape like a pair of freshly sharpened scissors. The Bureau wanted Gray. They’d had him once, and he’d gotten off, so they were happy to agree to Sato’s suggestion that he liaison with Italian officials and search for Zoe, who could lead them to Gray. Zoe’s next-door neighbor had identified a photograph of one of Gray’s men, Oscar Watkins a.k.a. Oscar Brown a.k.a. Owen Brown, as a man she had seen hanging around Zoe’s house. For the last ten years, Oscar had worked exclusively for Gray as a sort of chief of staff. If Oscar was involved with Zoe’s disappearance, Gray was involved as well.
Even the FBI’s Art Crime Team was on board. He had a feeling it was their endorsement that had smoothed the way for him to go to Italy. They’d contacted their counterparts in Italy and notified Interpol. Gray was a customer of the shady Flynn Gallery of Fine Art, which specialized in black market art transfers, and since Zoe had apparently purchased a very expensive work of art from them, the Art Crime Team was all for investigating her and any link she could provide them to Gray.
He grabbed several shirts and ties and added them to his suitcase. Italy. He shook his head as he picked up shoes. He’d seen a lot of things in his job, but that one had surprised him. When Jack Andrews’ credit card statements came in, he’d expected them to show hotels and restaurants, either in the surrounding area or one of the neighboring states, not Paris and Italy.
The charges indicated he and Zoe were together. They’d paid for two rooms in Paris and now both of them were scheduled on a flight to Naples. What were they doing? Were they pawns in some bigger game, or were they partners with Gray? He’d done everything he could from here. He hoped he’d find the answers in Italy. He set his alarm, rubbed his eyes again, and dropped into bed.