Secretive (3 page)

––––––––

Z
OE checked the mirror and saw the glint of the silver car behind her. It followed her up the entrance ramp to the Tollway. The caravan of cars she was part of merged onto the larger road, and the mass of cars on the Tollway engulfed the line of cars. She lost the silver car. She drove for a while and didn’t see it. She was telling herself she’d become far too paranoid when she saw it one lane over. It was almost in her blind spot. Maybe it was another silver car? She did a head check. Sunlight glinted on the jagged crack.

Maybe it was just a coincidence? Maybe the person driving the silver car happened to be in her neighborhood today and then needed to run to the airport, too? The road forked ahead, the left road continued south while the right road bent to the west toward Lewisville. She signaled and moved into the left-hand lane. The silver car dropped back, then merged into the same lane behind a black Suburban and followed her as she took the left fork. Zoe bit her lip as a couple more exits whizzed by.

The exit for the Stemmons Freeway, an interstate that sliced through central Dallas on a diagonal, was next. She shifted to the far right-hand lane and the silver car stuck with her like a distant shadow. Despite it being daylight and being surrounded with commuters, she was getting a tad freaked out. What would happen when she got to the airport? Would the driver get out and follow her inside? Confront her? Or, just keep following her at a distance?

Zoe took the double-lane exit ramp for south Stemmons in the far right-hand lane. The silver car followed her. The two lanes began to peel off of the Tollway. She checked over her left shoulder. There was a gap in the cars. She bit her lip, waited until the last possible second then pulled the wheel hard to the left.

With her shoulders hunched up around her ears, the Jetta threaded the needle between two cars. Horns blared as she swept across the wide white lines that marked the dividing point between the exit and the Tollway.

Heart pounding, she rocked into an open slot on the Tollway then quickly glanced over her shoulder and saw the silver car’s back end pop up as the driver hit the brakes. He wanted to follow Zoe across the lanes, but there was too much traffic. He was blocked in. Like a bit of wood caught in the current of a stream, Zoe watched as the car sailed along the exit lane, which swept up and then curved back toward her as it arched over the Tollway.

Zoe tightened her fingers on the steering wheel as she drove under the bridge and tried to get her breathing under control.
Okay, I’m not imagining things,
she thought
. He definitely was following me.

She mentally reviewed the roads. There was no way the driver of the silver car could catch up to her. There was no quick shortcut back to the Tollway, and it would take the driver forever to get off at the next exit and work his way back to the interchange. Still, she didn’t want to linger. She pressed the accelerator down and hoped that there were no traffic police lurking about.

––––––––

I
T wasn’t hard for Zoe to find her mom. She was the only woman in a full-length white wool coat with a furry collar and Ugg boots standing outside one of the doorways to baggage claim. She flicked her head around so that the wind would pull the long strands of her mahogany hair out of her face and took a long drag on her cigarette, then stubbed it out.

Zoe waved as she closed the distance. “Hello, Mom.”

“Darling!” Donna deposited air kisses on each side of Zoe’s face then said, “Donna. Call me Donna.” She pulled away and shot a quick glance around the sidewalk to see if anyone had heard Zoe drop the ‘m’ word.

“It’s okay,” Zoe said. “DFW isn’t a big paparazzi hang out.”

“You never know,” Donna said, her voice lilting with hope. She reached forward and pinched some of Zoe’s hair, examining it. “Your hair. It’s still red. I thought you said you dyed it a nice brown,” she said, clearly disappointed.

“It was a rinse, Mom. It washed out.” Donna had never been pleased with Zoe’s red hair. It had only taken Zoe about fifteen years to comprehend that Donna didn’t like anything that drew attention away from her. “Well, you could always do it again. Keep things fresh.” She threaded her arm through Zoe’s and pointed them to the parking lot. “Now, where’s your car? I’m staved.”

“We better eat here. You’ve only got about an hour, and then you’ll need to get back through security.”

Donna’s collagen-enhanced lower lip pouted. “Are you sure there isn’t somewhere close? I was hoping for a cute little bistro.”

“Afraid not.” Zoe steered her mom inside the doors. If there was one thing Zoe was sure of, it was that they weren’t taking a chance on getting caught in a Dallas traffic jam. She wanted to make sure Donna made that flight. The thought of dealing with strange people in silver cars following her paled in comparison to the thought of an unscheduled visit from her mom.

They found a little sandwich shop and settled into a table that Donna picked near the front of the restaurant, clearly hoping that someone would recognize them and ask for an autograph. They quickly covered the topic of Zoe’s “little editing job,” then Donna asked, “Anything else going on? All of that horrid GRS stuff has been resolved?”

“Yes, that’s all over.” Zoe had no compunction about keeping the truth from her mom. If Donna knew the truth, that Jack was still alive, she’d be texting
Entertainment Tonight
faster than she ran down the aisle to get married.

“How long will you be in New York? Are you coming back through Dallas for Thanksgiving?”

“No, I’m staying in New York to shop. I have my meeting tomorrow, then a spa day on Thursday.”

“You found a spa that’s open on Thanksgiving?”

“New York is an international city. Not everyone celebrates Thanksgiving.”

Zoe was having a turkey and ham sandwich with chips on the side and noticed that Donna was staring at the chips with an almost longing expression. “Want some?” Zoe asked, swiveling the plate toward Donna.

“No. They’re carbs.” Her red-tipped fingernails traced across her flat abdomen. She flicked a crouton to the side of her salad and pierced several pieces of Romaine.

“So what’s new with you?” Zoe asked, then shot a quick glance at Donna’s left hand and saw with relief that it was bare. Zoe had hurried into marriage with Jack, but at least she’d only married hastily once. Donna was up to five marriages and an equal number of divorces.

She crunched through the lettuce then said, “I’ve been asked to be a special features correspondent for one of the morning shows. I’m on my way to New York to meet the producer.”

“A local New York show?”

“No.
Daybreak
.”

Zoe sat back, stunned.
Daybreak
was a national network morning show. “Wow, that’s great.”

“I know.” Donna pushed away her still-full salad bowl. “It’s a wonderful opportunity. I’ll travel the country, do interviews, and have three in-studio appearances a month.”

“So you’re auditioning for it?”

“No, it’s a done deal. They want me to start next month.”

“They know you don’t have any reporting experience, right?”

Donna waved a hand through the air. “Nothing to worry about. The producer will do all that kind of thing...the detail work.” She fiddled with her fork. “There’s only one tiny drawback.” Donna leaned forward and whispered, “It’s for their retirement lifestyle correspondent. I’m not retired. I’m not a
senior
,” she hissed and glanced around as if she’d said a dirty word.

“No...but you’re close.”

Donna’s carefully sculpted eyebrows shot upward. “I’m
barely
in my forties.”

Zoe knew Donna was teetering on the brink of the big five-oh, but she didn’t contradict her. Instead, she did some damage control. “You know how it is in TV—everything skews younger.”

“Well, that is true,” Donna said, mollified.

“You should definitely go check it out. Sounds like a good opportunity.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, nodding her head. “It would keep me out there. Exposure is everything now with the media so fractured.”

Relieved that her mom’s trip to Dallas was nothing to do with the cheerleaders or announcing nuptials, Zoe finished off her sandwich and checked her watch. “You better get going. The security lines look pretty long,” Zoe said.

“Already? Well, you’re probably right.” She stood, struggled into her coat with the enormous furry collar. They exchanged another set of air kisses, and Zoe walked with her out of the restaurant.

“Oh! I almost forgot. This came in the mail for you.” Donna pulled a small package from her leather handbag and gave it to Zoe.

There was no return address on the brown box, only a smudged postmark. It was addressed to Zoe care of Donna’s Los Angeles address. The address was in Times New Roman font on a piece of printer paper that had been taped to the front.

“It didn’t look like the usual junk mail I get in your name.”

“You get junk mail addressed to me?”

“Sure, all the time. Mostly, from that college you attended for a couple of years. They want you to donate to their alumni group or some silly thing like that. I just throw it away. Good-bye, darling! I’m off to New York, New York!” she said, flinging out her hand and doing a little dance step as she moved away.

“Bye. Good luck,” Zoe called as she wrenched the tape away and opened the box. At first glance, it appeared empty, but when she flexed the flaps open wider and tilted it over her hand, a princess-cut diamond ring on a gold chain dropped into her palm.

––––––––

I
T was her wedding ring, the ring that Jack had insisted she keep after their divorce, the ring that should either be at the bottom of a Venetian canal or in an evidence locker with the Italian police. “Well, this is ironic,” Zoe whispered as she turned the ring around in her fingers. It showed up on the very day she’d considered—for the first time—the possibility that Jack might not come back.

A slip of pale blue paper had followed the ring out of the box and had floated lazily to the floor. Zoe snatched up the paper and ran after her mother. She caught up with her as she balanced on one foot, pulling off an Ugg boot. “Mom, how long have you had this?” Zoe asked, holding up the box. She held the ring in the tightly closed fist of her other hand.

“Donna,” she said, patting Zoe’s cheek. “It’s Donna.” She was smiling, but Zoe could see her back teeth were clamped together.

“How long have you had this,
Donna
?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A few weeks? Maybe a month or two? I kept meaning to mail it to you and forgot, but when I saw it on my way out the door today, I thought I’ll just take this with me,” she said in an aren’t-I-clever tone. “Oh, must move on.”

They went through the air kiss routine again, but Zoe was barely aware of it. She returned Donna’s final wave before she disappeared into the line for the scanners, but she was thinking about the ring. She’d asked about it, if it had been recovered, but was told that it hadn’t been found.

The sharp edges of the diamond cut into her palm. Someone had clearly found it, and she suspected it was Jack. But how would he get it? And why would he mail it to Donna? Donna, of all people! It was a miracle she hadn’t trashed it with the junk mail. And it was a good thing she’d never opened it. If she had, Zoe had no doubt the ring would have gone on Donna’s finger, and she would conveniently forget the box had been addressed to Zoe. Shiny things had a tendency to mesmerize Donna.

Zoe examined the ring again. It was definitely hers. She recognized the long gold chain threaded through the ring. Her initials, along with Jack’s, were engraved inside.

“Please move along, ma’am.” Zoe looked up to find a TSA official waving her into the line for security.

Zoe stepped backward. “Sorry. I’m not traveling.” She slipped the necklace over her head, letting the ring settle under her neckline. She examined the box as she walked through the airport. The postage date was smeared, but readable. June. It had been mailed in June. Zoe walked faster, a spurt of anger surging through her. She didn’t know how long it would take something to go from—she consulted the postmark again and halted as she made out the words, “Royal Mail” and “London.”

London? Was Jack in London? That didn’t make sense. As far as she knew, Jack had never been there. But, then again, there were a lot of things that she hadn’t known about Jack.

She examined the blue slip of paper, which contained a string of ten numbers interspersed with dots. She flipped it over. A skull and crossbones sketch filled the other side.

Well, that was cryptic. Was Jack trying to tell her he was in trouble? She went back to the numbers and frowned. Maybe it was a phone number and Jack had thrown the dots in there to disguise it? But why wouldn’t he just write the phone number down the normal way with dashes? She tapped the number into her phone and got a recording telling her the number wasn’t in service.

She rubbed the paper between her fingers, feeling frustrated. Would it kill him to write her a note, using actual words? No room for misunderstanding there. She sighed. She’d been through this before. Last spring when her normal world disintegrated, there had been mysterious numbers and every thought she’d had about them had been wrong. She sifted through the possibilities for this string of numbers: bank account, lock combination, dates. Heck, they could even be GPS coordinates. How many digits did GPS locations have? She’d have to find out, Zoe decided. If the numbers were supposed to mean something to her, she was clueless. She tucked the paper into the box and headed to her car.

She was still thinking about the numbers on the blue paper when she arrived at the office suite. She waved to Al, the teen who worked for Sam part-time. “Is Sam in?” Zoe asked.

“Nope.” He always looked a little anemic, but today he looked as if he was on the verge of hospitalization. His black T-shirt with the words, “Anarchists Unite,” contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His long brown hair was parted down the middle of his head and drawn back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck showing off his single small hoop in one earlobe. Zoe had once spent a painful fifteen minutes in attempted chitchat with him while she waited for Sam to show up. Unable to get more than ten words out of Al, she’d said, “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” He’d solemnly replied, “I let my music speak for me.”

“I’m here to check the repairs,” she said. “Interesting shirt,” she called over her shoulder.

“It’s ironic,” Al said, deadpan.

“Okay.” She wasn’t sure if he was serious or joking. She entered the bathroom and nearly fainted. Could it be? The repair was actually finished? No, she wasn’t imagining things. The job was done. She gave the tiles a close inspection. They looked great. A chime sounded, indicating the front door had opened. Zoe stepped into the reception area. Sam closed the front door as he tossed a set of keys to Al and said, “Thanks.”

Al caught them. “Sure, man.”

“Good news,” Zoe said, and Sam turned to her quickly, clearly surprised to find her in the office. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was here to check the repair. After only four weeks—it’s done.”

“That is too bad,” Sam said. He had on a white oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up and a pair of jeans. He was still sporting the stubble look, but on him it didn’t come off as sloppy as if he’d simply put off shaving.

“Why is that bad?” Zoe asked. Had the repairman slacked off and she missed it?

Sam’s gaze was on a stack of messages he’d picked up. “That means no more unexpected visits from my landlady.” Head bent over the messages, he glanced up at her with a little smile.

Was he flirting with her? Zoe toyed with the set of keys Al had placed on the counter, fingering the leather fob imprinted with the letters
O
and
B
. “Oh. Well. I was just trying to stay on top of things.”

Sam put down the messages. “That’s good. To stay on top of...things.”

Were they even talking about repairs? Zoe felt a blush creeping into her cheeks as his smile widened. He
was
flirting with her. She was flattered. He was an attractive man, after all. But there was Jack, always in the back of her mind. Of course, Jack wasn’t here—hadn’t been here in months.

“Since the slow repairman is finally finished, I may have to resort to taking you out for a coffee to see you?” He put an inflection on the end of the sentence and raised his eyebrows slightly.

She almost said no, but then thought of her disappointment this morning when she realized Jack wasn’t about to walk in the door. No guarantees, she reminded herself. New perspective. “Sure.”

It was just coffee, after all.

––––––––

Z
OE was thinking more about Sam than about the silver car when she drove home, but as soon as she turned into her neighborhood, she scanned the cars on her block. No silver car. It probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to give the silver car the slip this morning, Zoe thought. It certainly wouldn’t be hard to find her again. It wasn’t as if the driver didn’t know where she lived.

As she cruised down her street, she did see a familiar car, a brown four-door sedan with special plates. “Oh, no,” Zoe groaned, wanting to slip past her driveway and keep moving, but they’d seen her. She’d spotted the tall guy in the driver’s seat with the dark hair. That would be Special Agent Sato. He made eye contact with her as she closed the distance, and she bet that he was putting his car in DRIVE in case Zoe decided not to stop. There had been that little incident when she slipped out from under his nose last time. She was sure he wasn’t about to let it happen again. The front fender of his car edged into the street as if to block her.

Zoe sighed and pulled into her driveway. She parked and walked back from the garage, knowing that she wouldn’t have seriously attempted to escape Sato. It would have been entertaining, but she was sure this was another of the occasional visits the FBI paid her. They liked to keep in touch. At least Sato’s partner Mort—he’d asked her to call him that, but it still felt weird—was nice and didn’t have her penciled in as “guilty.”

She met them at the mailbox. Sato nodded at her, hand skimming down his fuchsia silk tie. “Afternoon, Ms. Hunter. We have a few questions for you.”

“All right,” she said, hoping she appeared calm and unruffled. On the inside, her thoughts were racing. Sato had once insinuated that Jack might not be dead, that he might have conveniently disappeared. Had they somehow found out about the ring? Maybe the guy in the silver car had been from the FBI? But how could they know about the ring? She’d lost the guy in the silver car before she got to the airport. She knew Sato and Mort weren’t at the airport themselves. They were quite a pair and would have stood out, even among the crowds.

Sato moved impatiently toward the house, looking like a bad-tempered menswear model who’d stepped out of a Giorgio Armani ad. Mort, on the other hand, with his unruly thatch of gray hair, barrel-chest, and wrinkled gray dress shirt, had a more neutral expression. Zoe wondered again how they managed to work together. They seemed to be opposites not only in appearance, but also in personality. Sato was smooth with slicked back black hair, suave innuendo, and designer suits while Mort was rumpled and comfortably straightforward.

Zoe asked, “What is this about?”

“Let’s talk inside, if you don’t mind,” Mort said, and Zoe noticed a trace of formality in Mort’s tone that wasn’t usually there. It worried her.

She led them through the garage and into the kitchen where she flicked on the lights, dumped her stuff on the counter beside the sink, and gestured for them to take a seat at the barstools at the island. Sato pulled out a barstool, but Mort wandered to the other side of the kitchen and leaned against the counter, eyeing the missing drywall above his head.

“Something to drink?” she asked, reaching for glasses, which gave her something to do with her jittery hands. Even if they did know about the ring, there was no actual connection to Jack, Zoe reminded herself. She suspected it was from him, but she had no proof. “I’ve got ice tea or water.”

Sato shook his head, but Mort accepted a glass of water. Zoe filled one for herself, then dragged one barstool around to the other side of the large island and sat down opposite Sato.

“Where’s the money?” Sato asked.

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

“The money that was in the GRS business account, the money that was obtained by fraudulent means.”

“The money in the frozen account?” Zoe asked, glad that the question was about Jack’s old business account and not about his whereabouts or if he’d contacted her. “In the account, I assume.”

“Is that the way you want to play it? Total denial?” Sato removed a notepad and gold pen from his jacket.

Zoe had taken a sip of her water. She set her glass down slowly. His accusing tone set off alarm bells. “What are you saying? That it’s not there? It’s missing...
again
?”

“Yes,” Sato said.

Zoe glanced at Mort, who was sipping his water and studying her from across the room with what looked like a trace of disappointment in his gaze.

“Well, I had nothing to do with it. I have no idea where it is. How can that be anyway? I thought you said the account was frozen.”

“It was.” Sato tapped his pen on the blank page as he stared at her, waiting for a response.

“Why are you looking at me like that? I don’t know anything about high finance stuff. I can’t unfreeze bank accounts and move funds around.” He didn’t look convinced, and Zoe’s heart began to pump. “I could barely get my own online banking account set up. Here,” she said and pulled her laptop across the island. “You can check my bank account—”

Sato interrupted her as he consulted a page in his notepad. “We already have. Four-hundred-eighty-two dollars and nineteen cents.”

“See. That’s certainly not twelve million dollars.”

“What other bank accounts do you have? Anything offshore?”

If the situation hadn’t been so absurd, Zoe would have laughed, but she couldn’t. She was trying too hard to calm her racing heartbeat. “Do I look like the kind of person who has a bank account on some tropical island? These are not designer clothes—well, except for the boots, and they’re hand-me-downs from my friend. Would I have that,” she asked, pointing to the hole in the ceiling, “if I had twelve million dollars?” Sato and Mort exchanged a glance. Mort raised his eyebrows and gave a little nod, like he agreed. Satos’ face didn’t change.

“So you’re saying you don’t know how the money was moved, and you don’t have it,” Sato asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.

“Yes, exactly.” Zoe took a quick gulp of her water, feeling a bit better as it seemed at least Mort was leaning toward believing her. “So you’re saying that you don’t have any idea where it is? Can’t you track it?” she asked quickly before Sato could ask her any more questions.

Sato flipped his notepad closed and stood up. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“That’s great. Then you can call off your guy in the silver car.” They must have sent someone over to watch her house as soon as they found out about the missing money, Zoe thought.

“What guy in the silver car?” Sato asked.