Secretive (6 page)

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Z
OE and Sam paused in the airport after emerging from the plane. He had checked luggage. She didn’t. People flowed around them as they both went to speak then both stopped.

Awkward
, Zoe thought shifting from foot to foot. “Well...I’m here for a few days.”

“Me, too,” Sam said as he checked his phone.

Zoe watched him and shook her head slightly. Great. Another guy so connected to his technology that he can’t look at me when we talk. That had been one of the issues between her and Jack. It sounds like a trivial thing, but when they were married, she’d often felt as if Jack paid more attention to his phone than to her. Although that wasn’t quite fair. He hadn’t behaved that way when they traveled together, she remembered.

Sam rattled off a string of familiar numbers, pulling Zoe’s attention to the present.

“So, that’s right?” he asked. “That’s your cell phone?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Zoe said.

“Great. I’ll call you about dinner.”

“Sounds good,” she said then thought about international calling rates. “Send me a text.”

“Okay. Good-bye for now. It was a pleasure.” He leaned in, and she realized he was going to kiss her. Now? When she’s just spent nine hours on a plane and hadn’t been able to brush her teeth because they hit turbulence on the way in, and they all had to stay seated for the last hours of the flight? She did a quick weave move and his lips landed on her cheek. His stubble scratched against her face as his lips brushed her cheek. He smelled of coffee along with a hint of woodsy cologne. She pulled away quickly, blindly grabbed for the handle of her suitcase, and knocked it over.

“Easy there,” he said as he set it upright. There was no mistaking the playful smile he sent her. He knew he’d discombobulated her...with a little peck on the cheek. She said good-bye and managed to walk away, thankfully without tripping over her own feet.

Why had she reacted like a schoolgirl? Zoe shook her head at herself as she headed for passport control. She had more serious things to worry about than Sam.

After working her way through the bureaucracy required to enter the country, Zoe found a place to exchange the stack of dollar bills she’d withdrawn on the way to the airport for pounds, then headed for the Underground. She bought a pass, figured out she needed the Blue Line to Piccadilly then she could switch to the Green Line at South Kensington, which would take her to Victoria, the stop closest to her hotel. Zoe levered herself into one of the train cars and found she could hardly keep her eyes open as it swayed down the track. She drifted off, then jerked awake, afraid she’d missed her stop. She hadn’t.

Determined to stay awake, she thought over the flight. She never would have thought she’d get to fly first class. It was quite a change from her last transatlantic flight when she and Jack had been in coach. Jack would have loved the lamb—it was one of his favorites and the one time Zoe had tried to cook it for him, she’d burned it. They’d ordered a pizza. She smiled at the memory then suddenly felt disloyal to Sam. Sam was the one who used his points—or miles, whatever—to upgrade her. She should be thinking about Sam, not Jack. The train neared her transfer station, and she forcibly put thoughts of any men—Sam, Jack, even the FBI guys, who always seemed to be hovering ominously at the back of her thoughts—out of her mind and focused on getting to her hotel.

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H
OURS later, Zoe stifled a yawn as she emerged from the Leicester Square tube station. She shouldn’t be tired. She had dumped her luggage in her hotel room and ignored all the advice about powering through and forcing yourself to stay awake to get on the new time zone. Instead, she’d collapsed on the bed for a thoroughly satisfying nap. She’d awoken feeling refreshed and was able to fully appreciate the hotel.

It was a small family-run place with ten rooms on a street of immaculate row houses. A short flight of steps rose between white columns to a cobalt blue door. Inside, there were hardwood floors covered in thick cherry-colored rugs and drapes in the same color. Her room was tiny, barely bigger than the double bed, but it had a bath and a tiny wrought-iron enclosed balcony overlooking the narrow back garden. After a shower and fresh clothes, she felt like she could navigate London.

The cool air felt wonderful on her face as she moved away from the tube station. She was glad to be above ground. The long, steep escalator ride from the train platform to the surface had made her feel a bit queasy. It was overcast with the threat of drizzle hanging in the dark clouds as she made her way through the souvenir and T-shirt shops, consulting the map that came with the
Smart Travel
guidebook. She dug her chin in to the lime-colored scarf she had wrapped around her neck, glad she’d worn Helen’s hand-me-down boots.

She would have liked to explore the small park in the square surrounded by shops and restaurants, but Dave Bent’s office was in the other direction. As she walked, she couldn’t help but compare London to her other international travel experience, Italy. There were the same narrow streets, some of them with cobblestones, but London didn’t have the air of unruliness and disorder that reigned in Naples.

The London streets were neat and clean, at least in this part of the city. There was no graffiti, no trash. The buildings were mostly brick in this area and only a few stories high, so she didn’t get that closed in, canyon-like feeling that there had been in Naples. There was no crumbling stucco or peeling advertisement posters on these meticulously maintained buildings. The paint on the doors and on the trim around the buildings was sharp and fresh. Cars seemed to stay in their lanes, for the most part, or were slotted into the carefully marked spaces along the street. It all looked so orderly and tidy.

She passed the iconic red phone box and smiled. She was in London. She savored the thought for a moment, then whipped out her phone and snapped a picture of the phone box as well as some of the shops, which were decorated for Christmas with lights, bows, and plenty of fake snow. She captured photos of the street, the shops, and the architecture as she walked. Reluctantly, she put her phone away, checked her map again, and realized that when the road split a few streets back, she’d picked the wrong angle and was actually moving diagonally, farther away from Dave Bent’s office.

She made a quick right to get on the correct street and thought she saw someone who looked like Sam darting across the street after her. She spun fully around and searched the pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. Could it have been him? Had his business brought him to Leicester Square as well? The crowds shifted.

No, she was wrong. She navigated the streets until she found number twenty-seven on a short street with a mix of commercial shops and a few restaurants.

She pushed through the double doors of dark wood that framed glass panels. She stopped in the small marble-tiled entryway with three doors, all closed, a steep woodened stairway, and a narrow elevator. She moved to the door with the discreet gold lettering that read,
BENT CONSULTING
, unsure if she should knock. She settled for a quick tap and then opened the door without waiting.

The building looked as if it had been a home before it had been converted to offices. This room must have been a closet. One step brought her inside the room and to the edge of the receptionist’s desk where a young woman was hastily hiding her cell phone in a drawer.

“Yes?” She pushed her long golden blond hair behind her shoulders, picked up a pen, and tapped a pad of paper on her cluttered desk as if Zoe had interrupted some important task.

“I’d like to see Dave Bent.” The walls of the tiny reception area were filled with framed news articles that mentioned him. One article, positioned on the wall behind the receptionist, showed a slightly pudgy man in his twenties with a goatee and thick brown hair drooping down over his forehead to the edges of his circular glasses.

“He’s not in. Did you have an appointment?”

Zoe could see through the doorway behind the receptionist into a tiny space that looked more like an overflowing storage container rather than an office. Zoe could just make out the edge of a desk under a mountain of papers, books, and magazines, along with several computers. Books, notebooks, papers, and odd miscellanea filled bookshelves that lined the walls. Tables crowded with computers were wedged up against the bookcases, and power cords and cables snaked across the floor. Sticky notes covered everything: the computers, the desk, the spines of books, even the windows.

As she watched, one of the sticky notes detached and drifted to a pile of papers and books mounded in a chair in front of the desk. Zoe half expected the bit of paper to cause a cascade, but the paper merely glanced off the pile, then floated to the floor where it joined several other notes. It was like some sort of strange paper manifestation of the geological process. She tore her gaze away from the disorder. “No. I only need a few minutes of his time. When will he be in?”

She shrugged.

“Okay. I’ll leave a message,” Zoe said, and the receptionist grudgingly wrote down the number. He’s never going to get that message, Zoe thought. Impulsively, she added, “I’d like to interview him for an article I’m writing about cyber crime and Victor Costa.”

The receptionist sighed. “Who do you work for?”

“
The Informationalist
,” she said, naming the blog that had broken so much news about Jack’s story.

“Never heard of it,” she said suspiciously, but wrote it down on the slip of paper. This Bent guy seemed to like to do interviews.

“We’re on-line only. American.” She didn’t look convinced, so Zoe added, “My name is Jenny Singletarry.” If Jenny ever found out she’d used her name, there would be no more slipping out of interview requests, but if Zoe could just get the guy to call her, she might be able to convince him to look into the bank transfers. Surely he’d be curious. And, this way, if Dave Bent looked up the website, he would find plenty of articles with that byline. “It’s really important he call me at that number,” Zoe said, thinking that if he contacted
The Informationalist
directly through their website contact page, she would be blown. “It’s the only number where he can reach me while I’m in London.” The receptionist had put down her pen, so Zoe added, “You need to put that on the note—this number only.”

The receptionist rolled her eyes, but added the information.

“Thank you.” Zoe turned to leave as the receptionist tore the paper off the pad and moved to take it into the messy office.

“You’ll make sure he gets the message?” Zoe asked doubtfully, watching as the woman tossed it on the heap on the desk.

“It may look like chaos,” she said returning to her chair, “but he’s got a system.” She’d returned to texting before Zoe closed the door.

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Z
OE strolled through the shops of Covent Garden. Pale green steel beams stretched to the glass ceiling that covered the two-level open air arcaded shopping area. She stopped and admired a shell-shaped dish painted with blue flowers at one of the stores, then returned it to the table when she thought of her credit card balance, which had taken quite a hit this morning when she checked into the hotel. No impulse purchases for her. The whole trip was an impulse purchase, she reminded herself and moved on. The neighborhood around Covent Garden was also known by the same name, but since the GPS coordinates had centered on the complex that had once been the flower, fruit, and vegetable market, she’d walked directly here from Dave Bent’s office. Since she’d missed the computer expert, she hoped she’d have better luck here.

She maneuvered around a Christmas tree and continued her stroll. Fairy lights, mistletoe, Santas, and red bows abounded. She paused to check out a display of wooden toys, then continued her walk. The shopping area was huge, and she didn’t even know what she was looking for. She sighed, feeling overwhelmed.

Despite her nap, her arms and legs felt heavy. Sleepiness crept up on her again. She had no idea what Jack had been trying to tell her. Her mood was as gloomy as the gray clouds pressing down on the glass roof.

Had she just blown her savings and risked annoying the FBI by skipping the country on a whim? She supposed she could change the date on her return ticket, which was set for six days from now. Could she get back to Dallas before Mort and Sato realized she had left?

Food. That was what she needed, she decided. She hadn’t thought she’d be hungry after the food served in first class—there had been a midnight snack of warm cookies and a light breakfast shortly before they landed—but it was after three and she hadn’t had lunch. There was a pub-like place across the arcade and she headed down the steps toward it, but once she was on the lower level, her steps faltered, and she stopped in front of a pizzeria.

“Bella Napoli,” she whispered, reading the name and moved to the door of the restaurant. She’d spent two days in Napoli, the Italian name for Naples, with Jack. A mural dominated one wall, depicting the curving sweep of the Bay of Naples. A mishmash of buildings filled the plain that sloped down to the sea, crowding against the water’s edge while the dark shadow of Mt. Vesuvius loomed in the background.

“Sit anywhere you like,” said a passing waiter, and Zoe took a table at the rear near the dark triangle of Mt. Vesuvius. She ordered a margarita pizza from a blonde coed and watched the other diners as the servers moved between the tables and the kitchen, which contained a large wood-fired pizza oven. Her pizza came and it was an authentic Neapolitan pizza with buffalo mozzarella, a few sprigs of basil dotting the tomato sauce, and a crust that was thin, but not too crispy.

She savored every bite of the pizza. She ordered a black coffee and sipped it as she paid the bill, then lingered, searching every aspect of the restaurant. The caffeine gave her a jolt of energy, and she scrutinized the faces of the servers moving through the tables, the other customers, and the mosaic on the wall. She even reexamined the menu, then shoved it into the holder on the table in frustration. Just because the restaurant was called Napoli didn’t mean it was connected to Jack. She was probably completely wrong about the numbers and was on a wild goose chase. She threw her napkin on the table and shoved her chair back.