Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (21 page)

––––––––

FOR a second, Zoe thought she must
have gotten it wrong—that the woman had to be Francesca’s sister, or even
possibly her daughter, but as the woman busily took the paperweight, replaced
it in the box, and put it on the counter by the cash register, all the while
chattering away in Italian, Zoe looked closely at her face.

If Zoe hadn’t stared at the
passport picture for so long as she got ready for the international flight she
probably wouldn’t have been able to tell, but it was Francesca. The woman was
too old to be Francesca’s daughter because of the fine spray of lines at the
corner of her eyes. Her hair was champagne blond, cut short and spiky around
her face, not a dark brown. Her eyes were brown, not green. But the shape of
her face was the same, and she had the same delicate lips and arched brows as
the passport photo. Her skin was a shade darker, but it had an orange tone to
it that made Zoe think, “fake tan,” instead of “time in the sun.”

Her thoughts caught on those
words—fake tan. She remembered Connor’s list, the photos he’d mailed, the
paperweights. Thoughts skittered through her mind, the primary one being,
get out of here now
.

The woman was smiling at her
expectantly, and Zoe realized she had asked her a question.

“No Italian,” Zoe said with a
shrug. She turned away quickly, pretending to browse. She would ease back to
the door and get out of there, she decided, but then she saw the table of
paperweights. Somehow they figured into this mess she was caught up in. They
kept turning up. It couldn’t be coincidence. Blindly, she picked one up and
checked the price. Twenty euros. She had that in her pocket. She swallowed and
turned back to the woman who was now behind the counter and indicated she
wanted to pay for the paperweight.

As the woman rang up the sale, Zoe
studied her. She wore a form-fitting cowl-neck jersey dress cinched in at the
waist with a wide leather belt and high-heeled boots. A heavy gold necklace
encircled her throat. A ring shaped like a butterfly set with diamonds flashed
as she rang up the sale. Whatever had happened to Francesca, she wasn’t
scraping by. Quite the opposite, in fact. She looked like a woman who had a
standing appointment at the spa for pedicures and massages.

The cash register chimed, Zoe
placed her money in the glass dish on the counter, and the woman boxed the
paperweight in a small white box. The box with the smudged imprint was sitting
on the counter only inches away. It was right beside the cash register among
several pens, a phone, a handset, and a pump bottle of antibacterial hand gel.
The woman slipped the white box into a plastic bag and handed it to Zoe over
the counter.

As Zoe reached for the plastic
bag, she let her messenger bag swing forward and bump the phone, pens, and
paper. They spilled off the counter. “Oops, sorry,” Zoe said, her heart
thumping hard in her chest.

“Is okay,” the woman said,
squatting down to pick everything up. “No problem.”

With trembling fingers, Zoe quickly
switched the white box in her bag for the one with the smudged imprint. Zoe was
already backing away from the counter, tightly gripping the plastic bag as the
woman stood and replaced the items on the counter. “Sorry,” Zoe said again.
Almost to the door
, she
thought as she navigated the little tables and shelves.

“
Ciao
,” the woman called as she pumped some hand
gel and rubbed her hands together. Zoe stepped out the door into the sunlight,
the little bells over the door clattering frantically from the force that she’d
used to open the door.

She heaved a sigh of relief as
she made her way to the
campo
,
her heartbeat still pounding. A few deep breaths and she felt better, calmer,
as she sat in the shade of a huge umbrella at the back of the rows of outdoor
tables. Jack wasn’t around. She wondered how long to wait for him here. What if
Stubby Guy went a long way? What if he went off the island? Would Jack follow
him? And how would he let her know what was going on? She knew he wouldn’t risk
calling her. They hadn’t use a cell phone at all. Hers was still dismantled,
but she didn’t want to put it together. She was too paranoid. She didn’t know
how long she could wait here for Jack, but she intended to hang out as long as
she could.

She sipped the fizzy water the
waiter had brought her and opened the box with the paperweight. She traced the
edge of the wrinkled felt with her thumb. There was something under the felt,
something square and hard. She worked her fingernail under the edge, pried away
the glue, and created an opening.

A square memory card fell into
her palm. Great. They needed a card reader, not to mention a computer, to find
out what was on it. Her glance swept the
campo
,
but it was lined with tall
palazzos
and the usual stores catering to tourists. If she wanted a pizza,
gelato
, or a carnival mask,
no problem. But Venice was a little a short on electronic gadget stores, at
least in this part of the city.

A familiar figure strode across
her line of vision. Stubby Guy crossed the
campo
in a diagonal, making for the café. Zoe slumped down and glanced around for a
menu to hide behind, but she only had napkins. She pretended to blow her nose,
then grabbed the sunglasses from her messenger bag and shoved them on. When he
was within a few paces, he veered to her left into the Street of Shops. Zoe
glanced back and saw Jack emerge from the same street where Stubby Guy had
entered the
campo
.

Jack slipped into the seat beside
her. “Shopping?” he asked, glancing at the bag from Murano Glassworks. “At a
time like this?”

“More like research,” Zoe said
holding out the memory card. “Stubby Guy went into Murano Glassworks,” she said
tilting her head in the direction of the shop. “Where did he go when you
followed him?”

“He had a coffee at a café.”

“Oh. That’s kind of...mundane.”

“Isn’t it? Normal, almost. It
didn’t look like he was carrying a gun either.”

“That’s comforting, I guess.”

Jack examined the box and memory
card in between glances at the door of the glass shop. “I thought you’d be
waiting here, biting your nails, and worrying about me. I should have known you
wouldn’t sit here and twiddle your thumbs. You do have a rather proactive
personality.”

“Well, it was worth it. I got
that,” Zoe said tapping the memory card in his hand. She showed him the
distinctive smudged imprint on the box, then described the similar one she’d
seen in Connor’s apartment. “The saleswoman didn’t want me to hold this box,
but I distracted her and switched the boxes.”

Jack turned the memory card over
in his hand. “So you think the paperweights were...what? Cover for smuggling?” He
waved the memory card. “To get whatever is on this, to Connor. You think he was
their distributor?”

“It’s got to be something like
that. I mean, who puts memory cards under the felt padding of paperweights? The
box with the smudged winged-lion imprint would be easy to find, but if someone
opened it and examined the contents, they would think it was a printing error.
And,” Zoe said, rushing her words together, “because of the smudge, it would
look perfectly logical if Connor kept those boxes back and didn’t give them
away. They weren’t top quality. Spoilage, I think it’s called.”

“And selling information—whatever
is on that card—would fit. It sounds like something Connor would be involved
in.” Jack handed the memory card back to Zoe. “Better put that in a safe place.
Got anywhere in that big messenger bag of yours where you can hide it?”

“Sure.” As she dropped it into her
plastic makeup bag and slid the zipper closed, she asked, “Do you think we can
find a card reader somewhere around here?”

“I’m sure there’s one somewhere in
this city. Maybe in a pharmacy, but we should stick around here for now and
watch Stubby Guy.”

“Yeah, about the shop,” Zoe said,
fiddling with the water bottle the waiter had left on their table, “I found out
something else...” she trailed off, not quite sure how to explain about
Francesca. She had to do it. She had to tell him. She paused and had a second’s
misgiving.
What if she was
wrong? What if it really wasn’t Francesca?

She stared out at the scene on
the
campo
for a
second. Tourists wandered, gaping and snapping pictures. A few kids kicked a
soccer ball at the far end of the
campo
,
their shouts carrying across the stone and brick of the old buildings to the
café. Italians, noticeable because of their dark, dressier clothes, and more
purposeful stride, crossed the
campo
without gawking at the architecture, but they still had a leisurely attitude
that indicated they weren’t rushing. It all looked so normal. It seemed absurd
to even think that the woman in the shop was Francesca. But she was.

Zoe pulled her sunglasses off. She
folded the earpieces and gently set the glasses on the table. “I know this is
going to sound crazy, but the woman in the shop—it was Francesca.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and stared
at her like she’d spoken in a foreign language. “It can’t be. She’s dead.” The
door to the glass shop opened, and Jack focused on it, but it was only a dark
haired woman leaving the shop. Jack looked slightly disappointed as if he was
hoping to see Stubby Guy so he could take off after him again.

Zoe pressed her lips together.
“Jack, I’m serious. I wouldn’t say anything unless I was sure. That woman in
there, the one who sold me this,” she tapped the white box, “it was Francesca.
I know it.”

Jack stopped scanning the
campo
and returned his
attention to her. Zoe felt a bit like she’d stepped into the glare of a
spotlight. She licked her lips. “She’s changed her appearance. Her hair is
short and blond, her eyes are brown, and she’s got a deep tan—fake, I’d say by
the orange tone to it—but,” he opened his mouth to speak and she held up her
hand, “but,” she repeated, “the shape of her face is right. Her lips and
eyebrows...it’s her. I stared at that passport photo for a long time, Jack. I
know it’s her. She’s dyed her hair and has colored contacts, but the bone
structure is the same. It’s her.”

“Zoe...she’s probably just someone
who looks like her,” Jack said in a
you-poor-thing-all-this-stress-has-sent-you-around-the-bend voice. Next thing
Zoe knew he’d be pressing a sleeping pill on her to knock her out like some
delicate character in an old movie.

“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—”