Elusive: On the Run International Mysteries, #1

1

Dallas, Tuesday, Noon

It was supposed to be an easy job.

Cake, Rick had said.

Sammy Dovitz tossed his binoculars onto the passenger seat then shifted restlessly within the confines of the black KIA. It should have been an easy job—no dog and no sign of an alarm installed. The large cottonwood in the front yard hid some of the two-story house and made it difficult to see what was going on upstairs, but that situation also worked to his advantage—he’d take mature landscaping over barren new lots any day. High hedges, shrubs, and towering trees made it possible to move around unnoticed.

But for it to be an easy job, the woman had to leave.

Sammy pulled a small hand towel from below the binoculars and wiped his sweaty forehead. He’d been sitting in the car for five and a half hours. It hadn’t been too bad at six-thirty in the morning, but now the windshield acted as a magnifying glass for the sun. The dark clouds of the approaching early spring thunderstorm were sliding across the sky, but they were still far enough away that they didn’t block the sun. He’d moved the car three times already, to stay in the shade—and he didn’t want to remain in one place too long.

He threw the soaked towel onto the passenger seat. Rick hadn’t told him the woman worked from home. Sammy hated work-from-home people. His line of work depended on empty houses, not that this was business as usual. This job was some sort of special case. Sammy usually worked alone, but when Rick offered to let him in on this job, the payoff had been too big to pass up.

Sammy’s phone vibrated. Rick didn’t bother to say hello. He’s left the office. You got it yet?

No. The woman’s still there. Is he coming here?

There was a muttered curse, then Rick’s scratchy voice, pitched higher than usual and with a layer of nervousness vibrating through his words, came back on the line. Doesn’t look like it. He was still in his suit. He’s driving to the Tollway. Sammy, man, you’ve got to make this happen. Get on it, right now. Did you hear me? Right now.

Yeah, I got you. Thunder rumbled, and Sammy looked at the approaching mass of clouds. Another half hour and they would be directly overhead. The bottom of the cloudbank was dark, nearly black, and flat as if sliced with a knife, but the top was bumpy with bloated white columns. Not good. A downpour would only complicate things.

Do it now, Rick said. My part is done. I’m out of here.

Half an hour, Sammy said and turned off his phone.

Looking at the house again, he sighed. It was going to be the hard way. Instead of a quick and dirty, in and out, he’d have to do the job with the woman in the house—not impossible, but time consuming and riskier. He wasn’t worried about a confrontation with her. He knew he could take care of her, but it would be better if she never knew he was there, which meant slow and careful and quiet.

Sammy pulled a gray shirt over his white T-shirt. He fastened the buttons, making sure the collar covered the chain link tattoo on his neck. He removed his diamond earring, dropped it in the console, and then picked up a small clipboard and black baseball cap. The name of the game was blending in—that was key. You couldn’t stand out. Tattoos and diamonds were memorable. Sammy wanted to be practically invisible. Both the shirt and the cap had the logo of a local cable company, a multi-colored starburst. He pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes and strolled across the street to the gate that opened into the backyard of the two-story house. Despite the large tree in the front, he couldn’t risk being seen picking the lock on the front door. It would be too chancy in this neighborhood of occasional walkers and joggers. He could leave through the front door, but he wasn’t going inside that way.

The gate was unlocked, so he slipped inside the fence after a quick glance up and down the empty street. He moved to the back of the house and eased up to the small window placed high on the wall over the kitchen sink. His hand tightened on the rough brick. She was still there, all right, motionless except for the movement of her fingers as she bent over a laptop, which was a useless piece of trash. He’d hoped to do a little business on the side during this job—something Rick didn’t need to know about—but if that was the type of merchandise in the house, he wouldn’t even bother. It wasn’t worth his time.

Sammy inched his head away from the window. No sudden movements. When he was clear, he went to one of the windows on the opposite side of the house, an extra bedroom filled with boxes. He sighed with satisfaction. Finally, something was breaking his way. Sammy tucked the clipboard into his waistband at the small of his back then slipped his knife out of his pants pocket. After examining the screen and window for an alarm, he used the knife to pry the screen out of its track.

He set it on the ground then slid the knife into the thin space where the upper and lower window casement met. With a flick, the thumb lock released, and he pushed the window up. A cool, air-conditioned breeze from inside the house engulfed him.

ZOE stopped typing and stared at the exposed rafter of her kitchen ceiling, listening.

It was too quiet.

The air conditioner whirred and there was the faint plink from the leaky faucet in the hall bath, but there should have been noise from upstairs. A quick glance at the digital clock on the oven confirmed that it was almost twelve-thirty. Jack should have finished his daily run and be in the shower by now. She had heard him come inside, hadn’t she? She must have. He moved through his schedule with a precise, unwavering regularity. Despite their best efforts to steer clear of each other, their daily lives crossed at certain points. They couldn’t completely avoid each other. Even divorced, non-communicative ex-spouses tended to run into each other when they shared a house.

It wasn’t an ideal situation, but because the bottom fell out of the housing market right about the time they divorced, they didn’t have a choice. The house was underwater, meaning they owed more on it than they could sell it for, so they were stuck—with the house and with each other.

To keep their sanity and prevent a shouting match that would have the neighbors calling 911, Jack and Zoe kept to their carefully defined regions. Jack used the front door and the stairs to reach his half of the house, the upstairs. Zoe used the back door, which opened into the kitchen. The first floor was hers. The stairs were a sort of No Man’s Land, a 38th Parallel. The first floor had more living space, but Zoe really only cared about the kitchen. She’d gladly ceded the master bedroom because she couldn’t live without a kitchen. The guest bedroom downstairs was fine with her. She didn’t understand how Jack made do with a hotplate and a mini-fridge, but apparently he lived on cereal and sandwiches.

Zoe swiveled on her barstool, legs dangling, as she considered checking the driveway for his car. Then she heard the distinctive creak of the floorboard in the hall, followed seconds later by the far-off squeak of the upstairs bedroom door. Zoe gritted her teeth and turned back to the keyboard. She couldn’t remember how many times she’d asked him to spray some WD-40 on those hinges, but did he ever get around to it? No. He could make time in his schedule for anything related to his small business, but minor household repairs never showed up on his to-do list.

When the knock sounded on the back door five minutes later, Zoe looked up from the spreadsheet to check the time and cringed. Helen wouldn’t be happy.

It’s open, she shouted, as she leaned over to flick on the overhead lights, since the light in the kitchen had taken on a golden cast as if the sun were setting.

I knew it, Helen said as she opened the door and plunked down two brown bags dotted with grease stains.

You stood me up again. And for your laptop, no less. Why did I even bother to go to Chez Madeline? I should skip that step and go straight to a drive-thru instead. It would save me at least fifteen minutes. She tossed her long golden brown bangs out of her eyes and put her hands on her hips. Did you even remember we had a lunch date?

The aromas of grilled hamburger and French fries filled the kitchen. Sorry. I forgot to call you to cancel, Zoe said squirming, but she knew that Helen wasn’t seriously mad at her. Helen was never seriously mad about anything. I’m a terrible friend. I got two short notice assignments this morning. They were urgent. Since I finished the copy-edit on the Italy book, things have been a little slow. Zoe reached around the laptop for a French fry so hot she could barely touch it. I don’t know why you put up with me.

Helen dropped her combative stance and rolled her eyes as she climbed on the barstool beside Zoe. She began to unload food from the bags, careful not to get grease on the cuffs of her silk Michael Kors blouse. It’s probably because you taught me how to fold a dollar bill into a ring in seventh grade and passed all my notes to Ned Billings in history.

I did dissect your frog for you in biology, too, so you wouldn’t fail. Don’t forget that.

Please—we’re about to eat! Helen shuddered, causing the topaz pendent on the thick gold chain at her neck to wink.

I’m just saying…I do know all your secrets.

That’s definitely part of it, Helen said as she unwrapped her burger and inhaled deeply. And I know you need the money.

Zoe licked her fingers, gave them a brisk wipe on her shorts, typed a final entry, then attached the document to an e-mail, and sent it off. She pushed the laptop back and picked up her burger. That I do.

When will you get the next travel book? Helen asked.

Copy editing books for a small but popular independent travel company, Smart Travel, was the main reason Zoe’s checking account stayed just barely in the black—most of the time. Should be in a week or so, Zoe said. England and Ireland this time.

That will be a nice change from gladiators and gondolas.

Are you saying you don’t like to hear interesting trivia that I pick up when I’m copy-editing?

Oh, no. I think it’s fascinating to learn about the construction of the Colosseum and how archeologists excavated Pompeii. I’m invincible at Trivial Pursuit now.

Right. I forgot history was your least favorite subject, next to biology, of course.

Helen shrugged. I can’t help it if all those dates mash together. Anyway, you like it and that’s all that matters. Helen changed the subject. Want to go to the club with me tonight? It’s Yoga night.

Zoe shook her head. Can’t. I have a spreadsheet to finish and then I’m walking my neighbor’s dog. Normally, she had several dog walking appointments around North Dallas, but the last few weeks had been slow and she only had her neighbor’s dog on her schedule today.

Helen put her burger down and took a long sip of her soda as she glanced at Zoe out of the corner of her eye. Casually, she said, Gary’s quitting.

Zoe frowned. Who?

Gary. Gary Wilson. In the clerk’s office. You know, he’s got the third cube on the left.

Zoe closed her eyes briefly, but it wasn’t because she was enjoying her food. She knew what was coming. I don’t want to work at the County Clerk’s Office, she said quickly.

Why not? Helen pounced. It’s a good job. Benefits. Steady pay. You wouldn’t have to take all these different jobs to scrape along, and you might be able to save enough money to actually visit some of the places you’d like to see instead of reading and dreaming about them, Helen said as she pointed a French fry at a mason jar half filled with coins that sat on the window sill. A curling and faded sticky note with the words, Passport Fund, was stuck to the outside. You could finish this, she added, looking up at the exposed wood and pipes that ran overhead.

Water damage from a leaky pipe had forced Zoe to rip out the drywall a few months ago and she didn’t have the money to hire a contractor to put up new drywall after she paid the plumber.

Zoe plunged her fry into ketchup. I’ll travel someday and I’ve decided I like it this way.

You do not. You just say that to make it seem better.

No, I do like it, Zoe replied firmly. "Those exposed pipes and wires might drive you crazy, but you don’t live here. I do. They give the place character, a uniqueness. I know exposed beams would never go over in your corner of suburbia, but here in Vinewood, it’s okay.

They’re not exposed beams, Helen said, exasperation lacing her tone. They’re two by fours.

Zoe shrugged. So? Who says you have to have drywall on your ceiling? Helen took a deep breath and Zoe wrinkled her nose. I’m frustrating you, aren’t I?

Yes! Helen swiveled on the barstool and touched Zoe’s arm. I worry about you—living here in this old house. You know it will need more repairs. How will you pay for them? And your car, it’s already got what—a hundred thousand miles on it?

Two, actually, Zoe said, placidly.

Helen threw up her hands at Zoe’s tone. What will you do if your car breaks down? How will you get to your dog walking clients to make twenty bucks?

Fifty bucks—for an hour’s work. Even you have to admit, that isn’t bad, Zoe said as she finished off her burger. That’s more than you make an hour, isn’t it?

But you don’t make fifty dollars every hour. You make fifty here, ten there, and it’s not steady work. You don’t know if you’ll have anything tomorrow.

Yes, I do know that I’ll have something tomorrow. Tomorrow is April first, and Jack’s rent is due.

Oh, there’s great security in that…renting office space to your ex is not the smartest business move. Don’t you think he’ll look around for someplace to move his office as soon as the lease is up?

No, I don’t. I know you’re not Jack’s biggest fan, but he’s…steady, solid. He’s not going anywhere. I can count on him.

Helen narrowed her eyes. I’ve never understood what happened between you two….but it begins to make sense now.

Why we divorced?

No, why you got married in the first place! I mean, I understand why he fell for you—you’re vivacious and beautiful and fun, but Jack is so…well, dull. Sure, he’s good looking—that dark hair and those blue eyes. She raised her eyebrows and nodded. "I totally got that, and he can be witty in a sort of dry way. But after you get over his looks, he’s kind of stuffy. But you’ve hardly ever had anyone you could count on. Who knew, she mused, stodgy as sexy. Well, there are plenty of guys who are down right dull at the county offices. You can have your pick of them."

Zoe cleared her throat. Helen had hit a little too close to home. Zoe didn’t want to dwell on why she’d jumped into a hasty wedding. Once the fireworks had fizzled, she and Jack had found themselves at opposite ends of the spectrum in almost every area of life. She was a live-in- the-moment kind of girl. Jack lived by his calendar. She loved surprises. Jack loved routine. They were just too different.

Look, Helen. I know you’re trying to help, but I’m not like you. You’ve gone all domestic and settled down with Tucker. You’ve got a great job. That’s terrific for you, but I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to dress up and go to the office every day. I like wearing this to work. She gestured to her droopy, oversized waffle weave sweater. It had been navy blue, but now she’d washed it so many times it had a faint gray cast to it. Rumpled North Face khaki shorts, boat shoes, and jingly miniature coin earrings completed her look. Helen stared at her for a moment, a hurt look spreading across her face. Zoe said hurriedly, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with your life, just that I don’t want it.

But how can you not want it? How can you live from paycheck to paycheck, or, actually, job to job, not knowing if you’re going to have enough money? Helen leaned forward. Think of all the fun we could have, if we worked in the same building. My cubicle would be down the hall from you. We could eat lunch together everyday and see each other a lot more than we do now.

Zoe’s stomach clenched. And be trapped in an office all day, filing papers and typing on a computer, a cog in the massive machine of government. She shook her head so adamantly that a few strands of her dark red hair came loose from her low ponytail and brushed her cheeks. No way.

You make it sound like a death sentence. You type and file papers here all day.

But I only do the work I want. I turn down jobs, if I don’t want to do them. I’m in control.

Helen narrowed her eyes. When was the last time you turned down a job?

Zoe busied herself gathering up the trash. A few weeks ago. I told Kendra I couldn’t housesit.

Because she has a cat! Come on, Zoe, tell the truth. You didn’t take the job because you’re allergic.

Zoe turned away, dumped the trash, and then hid behind the refrigerator door. It wasn’t the cat. It was the fact that Kendra is the devil incarnate. Looks like we’re going to get some rain. The overhead lights in the kitchen seemed to glow brighter as the light outside shifted. The thick layer of dark clouds slid across the sky, bathing the landscape in sepia tones. Want something else to drink? I’ve got water and ice tea.

Water’s fine. Helen had her arms crossed, and a stubborn frown crinkled her forehead. Don’t try to change the subject.

Zoe filled two glasses with water from the sink. The point is, she said as she crossed back to the island, that I can set my own hours. I value my freedom, and whatever happens, happens. I can’t control things. If the Jetta dies, I’ll find something else or get it fixed. And, I’ll always have some income, thanks to Aunt Amanda.

At least you’ve got one sane relative, Helen said.

Zoe’s Aunt Amanda believed real estate was the ultimate investment. When she’d moved to Florida to live in her Sarasota condo, she’d asked Zoe to act as the property manager for her commercial properties, two stand-alone offices built side-by-side, like a duplex, in a business park. After five years, her aunt decided to live in Florida year-round and she’d deeded the commercial properties to Zoe, saying she had plenty to live on from her other real estate investments. Zoe had tried to talk her out of it, but Aunt Amanda had refused to listen and told Zoe to consider the properties an early inheritance.

Amazing that I’m even halfway normal, isn’t it, considering Mom carted me from one audition to another from the time I turned three months old until I was eleven.

Well, at least you got to live on a tropical island for three summers in a row. I was jealous.

Zoe sipped her water, then said, Yeah, the island was great, but the downside is that now the three most mortifying years of my life are available on DVD for $14.99.

What is your mom up to these days? You haven’t mentioned her lately.

She’s at a spa outside of Sedona for the next two weeks for a ‘Freeing Serenity Treatment,’ Zoe said.

What’s that?

Not sure, but it involves total separation from the stress of everyday existence and silence. No television, no music, no phones, no computer.

Your mom is going a week without TV? Without E! News? How will she survive? And why would she do that to herself? Won’t she go through withdrawal?

Zoe shrugged. Her mom lived in continual hope of a new reality show contract and followed celebrity news like some people followed politics. I think it has something to do with a certain producer’s wife being at the spa during the same time mom is there.

Helen said, It all makes sense now. And I bet she expects you to be in it, too.

"Which I never will. If only I’d known what emancipated minor meant ten years ago." Zoe said it flippantly, but she was only half-joking.

The floorboards at the top of the stairs groaned. Helen looked at Zoe. Is that Jack? Zoe nodded and Helen asked, What’s he doing here?

He lives here, Helen. He always stops here after his run to shower and change before he goes back to the office, Zoe said, listening for his tread on the stairs.

I don’t think it’s good for you, living this way, Helen said with a glance at the ceiling. Still together.

What is this? Pick on Zoe day? Well, I can play the same game. When will you have a baby?

Helen held up her hands. Okay, I get it. Her tone softened. I worry about you, that’s all.

I know you’re concerned, but it’s not like Jack and I are living together. We live in the same house. It’s really no different than living in an apartment building or duplex. We hardly see each other.

But you’re still…connected to him, she said, her tone gentle. You’ve got his drawings on the refrigerator, for God’s sake, Helen said, swinging a hand to the fridge. Jack had a tendency to draw when he was bored. Not crosshatches and squares that Zoe made while she waited on the phone, which turned into splotches of ink that only resembled a blob of Play-Doh. Jack’s impromptu sketches were more art than doodles. Zoe looked at the fridge where she’d used poetry magnets to attach Jack’s sketches. There was the Dallas skyline drawn in the margin of the phone bill, a sketch of a book splayed open in the corner of a sticky note, and her favorite, ivy leaves climbing into the text of a magazine article like the words were bricks in a wall. They’re just little sketches, Zoe said. It doesn’t mean anything.

Helen didn’t reply, only dropped her chin and looked at Zoe with a sorrowful look.

"You’ve still got that Pirates of the Caribbean poster with Johnny Depp—the one you got when you were fifteen. I know it’s on the inside closet door in your guestroom. You haven’t thrown it away."

Helen shifted on her barstool. That’s for my nieces. They stay in there when they come to visit. Besides, a movie poster is different from personal mementos. And if I had any personal mementos from Johnny Depp, they wouldn’t be tucked away in a closet, let me tell you, Helen said with a grin and they both laughed, breaking the slight tension between them. They might argue, but they were good enough friends that they could argue.

Another noise from upstairs caught their attention. Will he come in here? Helen asked.

No. He never does. She paused, listening for his rapid descent and the solid thump of the front door as it closed—Jack always came down the stairs fast, but it was absolutely quiet.

Helen raised her eyebrows at Zoe. Is he gone?

Zoe walked over to the kitchen doorway. Unlike the popular open floor plan of Helen’s newly constructed house, Zoe’s house was designed in an earlier era when each room was self-contained. Nothing flowed, and there were few open spaces, which suited Zoe and Jack just fine. The choppy design was exactly what they wanted, but it meant that Zoe couldn’t see the stairs or the hallway that ran along the stairs to the front door. She leaned around the doorframe then peered up the stairs, listening, but the only sound was a crack of thunder.

Jack? she called. She returned to the kitchen, flexed a large envelope, and pulled out a stack of pictures. He missed these, she said with a little frown. She and Jack communicated mostly by message. They left notes or bills on the hall table, which was where she’d placed the envelope, figuring he’d pick it up on his way back to the office. She debated invading the upstairs for a moment to leave it in his room, but dismissed the idea. She wouldn’t want him poking around in her room.

Oh, pictures, Helen said, wiping her hands on a napkin. Let me see. You hardly ever see actual pictures anymore. Everything’s digital now.

These aren’t mine, and they aren’t high quality. They’re on printer paper. Connor mailed them, Zoe said, referring to Jack’s business partner. I have no idea why he’d mail anything snail mail in the first place or why he’d send it here.

Maybe he forgot the office address?

But remembered Jack’s home address? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know Connor’s address off the top of my head.

Where were these taken? Helen asked, squinting. They’re cute. I love the cobblestones and the sidewalk café, but they’re so grainy they’re almost Impressionistic.

I couldn’t figure it out either. Connor’s afraid of anything made after 1995, so he probably took them with his phone, which has a terrible camera. I heard him complaining the other day about how he couldn’t use his regular camera because he couldn’t find a place to develop film, if you can believe it.

Zoe flipped through the pictures again, which