Elusive (On The Run Book #1)

by Sara Rosett

  “No,” she said, tapping the table forcibly. “I’m right. You might not want to believe it, but I’m right. Do you think I’d even bring this up unless I was sure? I know she’s a painful subject for you. I wouldn’t say a word unless I was sure.” Zoe leaned across the table and gripped his arm. “And Connor thought she was Francesca, too.” Zoe said, excitement quickening her words.

  She twisted around, pulled her messenger bag into her lap. “I thought this campo looked familiar. It was in the photos Connor mailed to me,” Zoe said as she spread them on the table. “They’re of this campo and the Street of Shops.” The colored awnings and the architecture of the buildings matched the blurry photos.

  Zoe picked up one. “And the blond woman...you can’t really tell who it is, but I think it’s Francesca. Connor was trying to document that she was alive, but his phone was too crappy to take high quality pictures.”

  Jack didn’t look convinced, so Zoe added, “And there’s the list in his journal. Remember the one that I thought was for some sort of costume or disguise? Hair dye or wig, contacts, and fake tan,” she said as she pulled the journal out and flipped to the page. “It was a disguise all right, but not for him. It’s Francesca’s disguise.”

  Jack took the journal from her, his movements impatient. She watched him scan down the list, then he stilled as he caught sight of the numbers on the last line. His whole demeanor had changed.

  “Thirteen, four, seventy-five and one, six, ten,” he said softly, not really speaking to her.

  “What is that? Do you know what it means?” Zoe asked. She’d studied those numbers and couldn’t come up with anything. “I thought they might be a lock combination or an account number. Do you recognize them?”

  “I do now,” he said, his voice low as he glanced from the journal to the photos. “April 13, 1975, Francesca’s birthday, and June 1, 2010, the day she died.” He quickly splayed the journal open and flicked through the pages. “It’s written in the European format: day, month, year.” As he reached the end of the journal, he said, “How would Connor know about her? And how would he connect all this to find her?” Jack dropped the journal, then propped his elbows on the table and rested his forehead in his hands. Zoe picked up the journal.

  “Well, from what we’ve learned about Connor in the last few days, we know that Connor was always looking for an angle, right? Somehow he must have found out about your old job. Did you ever mention it to him?”

  Jack slowly lifted his head. “A week ago I could have said, no. Never. But after everything that’s happened...I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was always very careful about what I said.”

  “I’ll say. I had no clue and I was married to you.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes. The only sounds were the animated discussion going on at another table between two Italians and the radio from inside the café playing American eighties pop tunes. Currently, The Police were singing about Every Breath You Take.

  “Did you have anything, old paperwork or anything, at the office that he might have seen? Anything on your computer?” He shook his head. “Any old friends...contacts?”

  “No, nothing—”

  They looked at each other and spoke at the same time. “Eddie.” Zoe’s tone was more accusing. Jack’s voice held a questioning note.

  “Did she know about Francesca? The whole story? Her death and everything?” Zoe asked.

  “Yes,” Jack said with a sick look on his face.

  “She must have told Connor what happened. He was in contact with her, right?”

  “No, I ordered the paperweights—” He stopped and closed his eyes for a second. “I introduced them, at a business expo in Vegas. Connor and I were there, and we ran into Eddie. She had a table with upscale promotion products. That’s where Connor first saw the paperweights.” He shook his head as if he were arguing with himself. “But Connor didn’t order the paperweights. I did. And we only needed one order. We didn’t have enough clients to need a second box.”

  “But Connor had a box in his apartment...” Zoe trailed off as she made the next connection. “Which came from Murano Glassworks through Eddie to Connor,” Jack said, heavily. “So they had some sort of smuggling thing on the side. Eddie must have told him outright about Francesca. Neat little triangle,” Jack said, severely. “Too bad I was at the center of it and had no idea.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Zoe said slowly, working it out. “It doesn’t fit with his notes about the disguise...why would he write that down if he knew the woman in the shop was Francesca? And why all the trips here? Why all the time watching the shop?”

  Zoe shook her head, “No, I think he figured it out. I bet Eddie told him what happened, how the assignment went bad and how Francesca died, but then something happened that drew his attention to the woman in the shop. Maybe Eddie let something else slip that made him suspicious that Francesca wasn’t really dead. Or maybe he overheard something. Whatever happened, he started digging around on his own to see what he could find about Francesca. He had her date of birth and death. He was researching her,” Zoe said, tapping the journal. “And he was watching the woman in the shop, taking notes and pictures. He must have sent me those photos as a backup. I was connected to him, but not in an obvious way. It wouldn’t be like sending a copy to his e-mail or his home. I can really see him doing it, Jack. He wouldn’t let an opportunity to make some money go by. Maybe he was going to use it to blackmail you...or her. She’d be the better target,” Zoe said.

  “And he ends up with a bullet in the head,” Jack said somberly.

  “That would explain why they wanted to kill you, too. If they suspected Connor had told you about her. If you knew Francesca was alive...”

  Jack nodded. “Besides being a tidy way to explain Connor’s murder, it would make sure I didn’t threaten her.”

  Zoe was still thinking about Francesca and her staged death. “How would she do it?” Zoe asked, frowning. “It must have been risky. How would you fake your own death and start a new life somewhere else?”

  “I never did see her body,” Jack said. “They pulled her body—a body—out of one of the lakes near Naples. She was identified with dental records. As far as why?” Jack shrugged, doing a good imitation of the hotel clerk’s Gallic shrug. “Her husband was...a hard man. Her life wasn’t easy. He would never have considered divorce.”

  Jack zeroed in on movement at the glass shop. “Got to go,” Jack said and squeezed her hand as he stood, his gaze fixed on the street where Stubby Guy was walking away from the glass store in the opposite direction of the campo.

  “You’re going to tail him again?”

  “This is the best break we’ve had. The more information we have on both of them, the better off we’ll be. Stay here,” he said, then slipped though the tables.

  “Stay here,” Zoe muttered to herself, irritated. He sounded like a dog trainer. What was next? Fetch? She swiped the box off the table and slipped it into the plastic bag. She wasn’t going to stay put. She couldn’t stay at the same seat for hours on end. That wasn’t blending in. She knew Italians lingered over their food, but she’d only had a bottle of water. Better to stroll the campo, window shop, and then settle down at the other café across the square. She could keep an eye out for Jack from there.

  She sidestepped through the tables and went to gaze into the window of a shop with a display of leather-bound notebooks and hand-made Venetian paper. She squinted in the light and reached for her sunglasses, but realized she had left them on the table. Zoe turned to go retrieve them, but a woman bumped into her, throwing her off balance.

  The woman exclaimed, “Boun giorno,” and clasped her shoulders, pulling her in for the traditional Italian greeting of a kiss on each cheek. Zoe tried to pull away, but the woman held her arms in a tight grip just above the elbows.

  “Finally. I thought he would never leave,” the woman said as she linked her arm through Zoe’s, cinching them tightly together. She spoke in pe
rfect English, the syllables drawn out with the leisurely pace of a Southern accent. It took Zoe a second to work it out. It was a wig, she realized. Looking out at her from under the sleek black bob, it was Eddie’s brown eyes fringed with her impossibly long lashes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  EDDIE gestured with her pointy chin at the campo. “Don’t get any ideas about yelling to anyone,” she said, and Zoe felt something poke her in the ribs under the arm that Eddie had plastered to her side. “Yes, that is a knife,” Eddie said conversationally.

  “So many complications with guns—noisy, bulky, so difficult to travel with,” Eddie continued. “Knives, on the other hand,” Eddie put some pressure on the knife and Zoe felt a hot needle-like prick skewer into her side as Eddie said, “are quiet and quick. If you make a sound, I’ll stab you. In through your ribs, puncture your lung, and then a twist up to your heart in seconds. I’ll be gone, and you’ll be past saving before anyone even realizes what happened,” Eddie said. “Understand?”

  Zoe managed to nod, her pulse thumping. The knife tip was still in her side. With each step, little jabs of pain radiated out from it. Eddie. Here with a knife. Zoe tried to work her mind around that fact, but her brain didn’t seem to be working very well. The street looked fuzzy. Zoe felt light-headed.

  “Don’t worry,” Eddie said as she turned them in the direction of the glass shop. “It’s just a small puncture. A bit like a shot, don’t you think? It’s only so you know I’m serious.”

  Zoe swallowed hard and forced herself to concentrate on breathing evenly in and out a few times. Her vision cleared, and she scanned the faces of the people they passed as they walked, but each person was in their own world and didn’t make eye contact. “Don’t be nervous,” Eddie said, strolling along at a slow pace. “I’m not going to kill you—unless you do something stupid like yell. I’d like to kill you because you’ve been such a headache. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Eddie’s annoyed, almost petulant tone cut through Zoe’s fear, leveling it off. The jolt of fright still had her pulse pounding, but the sheer panic she’d felt receded. “Pressing appointment? Another friend to betray?” Zoe asked as they turned onto the Street of Shops, and Eddie steered them toward the door to Murano Glassworks. Eddie looked at her scornfully but didn’t reply.

  Zoe tensed, thinking she would twist away when Eddie reached out to open the door, but a customer exited seconds before they reached the door, and Eddie deftly swept them through the open door and locked it behind them before Zoe could attempt to break away.

  Once again, the shop was empty. The bells tinkled overhead, their cheery sound an odd contrast to the mix of fright and anger buzzing through Zoe. “How does Francesca manage to stay in business, if she’s never in the shop? Oh that’s right, glass isn’t really her business...or yours either.” Zoe gave a tentative tug, trying to pull away, and Eddie gouged the knife in a bit deeper, sending a pulse of pain through her side. Zoe sucked in a breath. Okay, she wasn’t going to make a break for it here, not with these thick walls, and Eddie looked like she actually hoped that Zoe would try and run away so she could go for her full-throttle with the knife.

  Eddie ignored her and marched them between the glass displays. Zoe’s hip tagged a shelf and a glass bowl fell, shattering behind them, but Eddie plowed on around the counter and through a door to a hallway.

  “Don’t feel like talking any more?” Zoe licked her lips, which had gone dry and tried to get her breathing back to a normal pace. “You were so talkative before.”

  “Shut up,” Eddie said, and Zoe could tell she was speaking through gritted teeth. The hallway was gloomy and even though her eyes hadn’t fully adjusted, Zoe could make out more dark wood paneling, intricate stucco decorations of angels in flight over two heavy doorways, and another more massive Venetian glass chandelier. Eddie shoved her toward the back corner of the hall, away from the ornate doorways, and it was only as she got closer that Zoe realized there was a door fitted into the paneling. It wasn’t latched because Eddie shoved it with her shoulder, and it creaked open, releasing a musty, damp scent.

  Eddie loosened her grip on Zoe’s arm and transferred the knife to her back as they marched down a short set of stone steps set against a brick wall into a room that must have once been an interior dock for goods arriving at the palazzo. A strip of opaque water filled the center of the room. A small flat-bottomed boat with low sides bobbed gently in the water. At one end, sunlight glinted off the water undulating below two high wooden doors that were bolted closed over the entrance to the canal. The bright light was such a contrast to the darkness of the rest of the room that it hurt Zoe’s eyes, leaving a bright imprint when she looked away. The stairs didn’t have a handrail, and Zoe found herself leaning toward the rough brick of the wall that snagged her sleeve as they descended.

  The air was cooler and thick with moisture. Dim, uncovered light bulbs hung from a high ceiling over a stone floor that ran on each side of the swath of water. Mirroring sets of steps on each side of the floor disappeared down into the water. The water slapped gently against the bottom steps, which were covered with a vibrant green moss that surged languidly back and forth with the movement of the water. At the far end of the stone flooring, cardboard boxes were stacked several deep on wooden pallets. A battered metal desk, which seemed to be turning slowly orange with rust, was set against one wall near the stairs. A mess of papers, folders, tape, small boxes, and a bottle of hand gel were scattered across the desktop under a lamp. An old-fashioned wooden desk chair was slowly rotating in front of the desk, as if someone had stood up from it only seconds ago.

  Eddie whipped the chair around and shoved Zoe into it. “If I’d had my way, you wouldn’t have left Vegas,” she said, spitting her words out with such intensity that the wig tilted forward on her head. She jerked it off and tossed it on the desk, then ran her fingers through her pixie cut. “You or Jack. It was the perfect opportunity—” Her fine, blond hair stood on end around her head, which combined with her furious expression, gave her a crazed look.

  “Now, Eddie, do not work yourself up.” The Italian-accented voice came from the area with the boxes. Zoe didn’t want to look away from Eddie. She heard the sharp click of shoes on the stone, then a set of high-heeled boots came into view at the corner of her vision. Zoe swiveled in the chair a millimeter. Francesca held a large cardboard box in one hand and a roll of tape in the other.

  “This will be better, you will see. There will be no trace, no blood...” she said, her gaze straying to Zoe as she spoke.

  Zoe swallowed. It was her blood they were talking about. Francesca was eyeing her in an assessing way as if she wasn’t a person, but merely a composite of various parts—blood, hair, flesh—all things to be contained and removed without leaving a trace of her presence.

  “Too late for that,” Zoe said, touching her side. Her fingertips came away red. A drop of blood slid off the tip of one finger and plopped onto the arm of the chair.

  “No, no, no!” Francesca dropped the box on the floor. Her hand shot out, and she grabbed Zoe’s wrist, cranking it backward away from the chair. Her grip was tighter than Eddie’s had been. Francesca shot an exasperated look at Eddie and sent a stream of Italian her way, gesturing animatedly with her other hand that held the tape. She switched to English. “Now I will have to get rid of the chair. Get me a towel.” Francesca flung the tape onto the desk with a disgusted expression, then waved at Eddie to get moving.

  A faint smile curled up the corners of Eddie’s mouth. “Told you she was trouble.” She disappeared up the stairs. Zoe eyed Francesca while they waited. Francesca didn’t make eye contact or loosen her grip. Zoe’s fingertips began to tingle. She rotated her wrist. Francesca squeezed and cut her a warning glance. “Do not make this difficult. You will regret it.”

  Zoe believed her. Francesca spoke quietly, but a fierce determination underlined her words. It almost made Zoe wish it were Eddie—knife and all—who was holding
her arm. Eddie was so furious that she was about to lose it. A few more goading comments might have done it. No chance of that with Francesca. Even in the middle of her yelling fit, she had been rigidly controlled, aware of exactly where Zoe was and everything around her.

  Eddie trotted down the steps and tossed a towel in Francesca’s direction. She caught it, wiped the blood off the chair, wiped Zoe’s fingers as if she were a child who’d been caught making mud pies then pressed it to the small dark circle of blood at Zoe’s side. Francesca folded Zoe’s arm at the elbow and pressed it into the folded towel to hold it in place. Zoe flinched as the pressure hit the wound. Francesca didn’t blink.

  She stepped back, studying the floor around the chair and the stairs in a methodical way and, apparently finding them clear of any blood, nodded her head in satisfaction. She vigorously pumped the hand gel into her palm, then massaged it into her hands. She returned to Zoe and took the plastic bag with the paperweight that she was still clutching from her hand. Then she worked the messenger bag off Zoe’s shoulder carefully—obviously not out of concern for Zoe. She was only making sure she didn’t have more blood to clean up later.

  Francesca opened the plastic bag, then held it out to Eddie, who was returning from the far corner of the room, a rolling suitcase bumping along noisily behind her. The knife was gone, Zoe saw. Probably stowed away in some pocket or pouch in her suitcase.

  “There,” Francesca said shortly. “The rest is in the box upstairs on the floor.”

  Eddie ripped the bag from her hand, checked inside as if she didn’t believe Francesca, then glowered at Zoe. “You sure you don’t need any help?” she asked to Francesca’s back. Francesca was bent over the desk where she’d dumped the messenger bag.

  “No. Go.” She swished her hand through the contents. Zoe watched Francesca’s fingers glance off of the makeup bag where she’d put the memory card. Thank goodness it wasn’t a transparent plastic bag. She forced herself not to stare at it. Although, if she thought there was a chance she could offer it to them in exchange for walking away, she would have done it in an instant, but she knew they weren’t going to let her leave. Besides, whatever scam they had going, she knew Francesca’s real identity. Any doubts about what Zoe knew would be gone the minute Francesca opened the passport.