The One That Got Away (24 page)

Zoë looked around the room filled with other people’s possessions. This was her new home. Her new prison. She wanted none of it. Maybe she should do what Ogawa had suggested the night before and start over someplace else.

“Look, I know this is for my own good, but I need something to keep me going,” she said. “Did the sheriffs find anything useful out at the Tally Man’s place?”

“He shook his head. They’re still combing the area for evidence, but they didn’t find any bodies.”

“Do you think they’ll find her?” She couldn’t bring herself to say Holli’s name.

“My gut feeling is no.”

“So he buried her somewhere else?”

“Or she got away, like you did.”

“Don’t you do that,” she barked at him. “Don’t bullshit me. If Holli was alive, she would have come home. She’s dead, and that sick bastard did something with her body—don’t pretend any different.”

Greening raised his hands. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Jarocki and Martinez appeared in the doorway.

“Something wrong?” Jarocki asked, his eyebrows raised.

“No. We’re good,” Greening said.

“Zoë?” Jarocki asked.

“We’re fine.”

“I’m done with the doctor,” Martinez said.

Greening pushed himself off the window ledge. “Then we’ll let you settle in. Do you have everything you need for now?”

“There’s a few things I could use.”

“Make a list, get it to me, and I’ll have someone bring them by later. I’ll call you tonight.”

Jarocki saw them out, while Zoë remained in the bedroom. Jarocki’s home probably held a special meaning for him, but to her, the place seemed cold and uninviting. She felt tired and alone. The Tally Man was tearing her life apart again. Maybe she should just let him finish the job and kill her. At least it would be over.

Jarocki reappeared in the doorway. “I was going to make some coffee—want some?”

“Sure.”

She followed him into the kitchen. He put a pan of water on to boil and tossed coffee grounds into a large French press.

“So, this is the family estate.”

He looked around the place and smiled. “Not quite. It’s the family home. My parents left it to my two brothers and me. We never had the heart to sell the place because it held so many memories, like family Christmases and Dad pointlessly trying to teach us how to pitch, so we hung on to it. We let friends stay here, my brothers use it when they visit, and I sometimes come out here to work when I need a little seclusion.”

She imagined his childhood. From the way he talked and the house’s ’50s-throwback look, it sounded Norman Rockwell idyllic. She didn’t resent his upbringing. It sounded no different than hers—until the Tally Man. There was a home like this waiting for her, with parents who cared, but she’d turned her back on them. She pushed the image from her thoughts.

Jarocki made the coffee and showed her into the living room. She stretched out on the sofa, feeling every one of her injuries again. The doctor had sent her home with pain meds, but she wasn’t taking them. She wanted her full wits about her. Jarocki sat kitty-corner to her in a lounger, with his back to the window.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“Whatever you want. I’m here at your disposal.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“That’s fine. If you want to be alone, this house is yours for as long as you need it, but if you prefer company, I can stick around. I’ve canceled my appointments for today, and I can work from here. I will have to go into my office to see patients, but I can be here the rest of the time. Would you like me to stay?”

She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, so she remained silent.

“Don’t decide now. Think about it.”

“Why are you going to this trouble?”

He put down his coffee mug and clasped his hands together. “You’re my patient. You need help and support, and I’m in a position to provide that.”

She should have said thank you, but she didn’t. She hated being indebted to people, relying on their help. It was probably why she didn’t like this house. It was a big reminder that she couldn’t do this alone.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” The stiffness she felt from the pummeling she’d taken wasn’t much different from the morning-after feeling she had after a tough self-defense class. Her throat was a different matter. When she touched her neck, she could feel the ghost of the Tally Man’s fingers deep under the surface of her skin, as deep as her soul.

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

The question sounded as if it came without strings, but she felt them dangling in the air. This wasn’t just a general inquiry. “You want to turn this into a session?”

Jarocki raised his hands and smiled. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

Marshall Beck returned to the scene of the crime—Zoë’s apartment building. Was it a crime? It was more like the scene of a public service. His only crime was his failure to capture her. This was the second time she’d gotten away from him. He needed to get it right next time. She had to be punished.

He’d come back here on his way into the office, the morning following the scuffle, and found cops still milling around. They were still there at lunchtime, when he dropped by again, though their presence had been reduced to a single squad car parked on the street. Now it was after five, and there was no squad car, although his instincts told him the old Intrepid parked in the spot where the cop car had sat was a plant.

He made a casual pass by the sedan, noting that the guy sitting in the passenger seat looked bored. Could he really just be waiting for someone? The big test was time. How long does someone sit in the passenger seat of a parked car? Thirty minutes? An hour? Two? No, if you’re waiting for a friend, you don’t hang out in your car for more than thirty minutes. Any longer than that, and you go looking for your friend.

He could be patient. Precision work like his made you patient. After ninety minutes, the man in the Intrepid remained where he was.

“You’re a cop, my friend,” he murmured to himself from the quiet of his Honda.

So, they were watching Zoë’s place. It made sense. Her Chicken Little act had exposed him. It made it essential that he snatch her the next time around.

He felt his blood pressure build up in his veins and stared at his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. A hot head wouldn’t help him here. He had to be calm and relaxed if he was to get to Zoë again. He let his tension bleed from him.

He wondered how long the cops would stake out Zoë’s apartment. A day? A week? Longer? He was ruing his failure to grab her last night. It was forcing his hand. With all the police interest surrounding Zoë now, he needed to adjust his plans. He was still a ghost when it came to law enforcement. They had a dumb name for him, and that was about it. He could back off and just keep tabs on Zoë for now. He could always take her after the police had lost interest.

But there was something about walking away from unfinished business that didn’t sit well with him. Running away was failure. Failure was cowardice. And one thing he wasn’t was a coward.

Besides, if he left town, what stopped her from doing the same? He’d hate to come back and find that she’d upped and run too. Yes, he knew her name, but there was nothing stopping her from changing it.

It was all very frustrating, but it illustrated to him that he needed to be on his game in the future. No more mistakes. No more failures. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught.

He climbed from his SUV again. Even though the cops were there, he needed to check on Zoë herself. If there was a cop on the outside, was there also one with her in the apartment?

Since the cops didn’t have a good description of him, he could stroll up to the apartment gates, but the cop who was watching the place might be logging everyone who went in and out of the building. Luckily, he didn’t need to go into the complex to observe Zoë’s place. He simply needed to get to a neighboring rooftop.

He crossed the street and walked into the building next to Zoë’s complex. A security door prevented him getting access to the stairwell, but it didn’t stop him from getting to the fire escape in the back. He climbed the stairs to the rooftop, pulled out a pocket set of binoculars, and peered over at Zoë’s apartment. The drapes were drawn, and the lights were off.

Was she in there? If she wasn’t, why were the cops staking out her place? If they weren’t watching out for her, then they had to be waiting for him. He needed to see how far the cops had taken this.

He descended the fire escape and rejoined the street, then circled the block before deciding his next move. He needed an up-close look at Zoë’s apartment to know if she was in there. It meant crossing in front of the stakeout cop. So be it.

He bided his time and waited for someone to drive in and open the security gate. As the gate slid open, he slid in. He crossed the parking lot to Zoë’s building. He didn’t bother climbing the stairs to the second floor. He didn’t have to. From the street level, he could see the police tape sealing off her front door.

That was interesting. If Zoë’s apartment was considered a crime scene, where was she? Was she staying with a friend? It was possible, but he hadn’t seen her with anybody. She seemed to be a loner. Had Zoë skipped town without the cops’ knowledge? Maybe the police hadn’t staked out the place, looking for him. Maybe they were waiting to see if and when she would return.

He scanned the parking lot, and there was Zoë’s motorcycle. Now, she might have skipped town without taking her bike, but it was unlikely. Zoë was somewhere and somewhere close.

It was time to leave. He’d learned all that he could tonight.

A young woman with long, curly hair pulled her Honda Civic into the driveway, activating the security gate. He walked out as the car swept in.

Averting his gaze from the stakeout cop, he crossed the street and headed back to his SUV before casting a glance over his shoulder. The woman who had been driving the Honda was now on the second floor of Zoë’s building. She stopped in front of Zoë’s apartment.

He watched her from his vantage point across the street.
Who are you, young lady—friend, nosy neighbor, or something more?

The woman ignored the police seal and let herself into Zoë’s apartment.

Well, what do you know? Zoë does have a friend
. He smiled.

He returned to his Honda and got behind the wheel. It was a half hour before the woman reemerged, carrying a bulging gym bag.

“Well, Zoë can’t be expected to live without her essentials,” he said to himself.

He gunned his engine and waited for the Honda Civic to emerge. When it did, he tailed the small sedan. The stakeout cop didn’t react, so he obviously knew about Zoë’s little helper.

He followed the Honda through the city to US 101 and across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin, keeping a discreet distance from the Civic. The driver didn’t show any signs that she’d spotted him. Neither did she drive like someone who expected to be followed.

“What kind of friend are you, Miss Civic?” he asked. “How far are you willing to go to help your friend Zoë?”

He hoped it wasn’t to the ends of the earth. He had only a half tank of gas. He needn’t have worried. They went only as far as Napa.

He stopped his SUV when Miss Civic halted in front of a house farther down the block. She walked up the walk, carrying the gym bag, rung the bell, then went inside.

He didn’t see her, but he didn’t have to. He knew he’d found Zoë’s hideout.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The doorbell rang. Instinctively, Zoë got up off the sofa to answer it. Jarocki came flying out of his office.

“I answer the door, remember?” he said.

She did, but enforced captivity was proving to be a difficult adjustment. Coming and going as she pleased was so natural to her that suddenly trying to remember she couldn’t leave the house was like trying to remember how not to breathe.

“Go to your room,” the therapist said.

Despite the situation, the parentlike instruction brought a smile. She did as she was told and went to her room. Getting out of sight was a protocol set by Greening.

A moment later, Jarocki called out, “It’s OK. It’s Inspector Greening.”

Returning to the living room, she found Greening manhandling half a dozen grocery bags and a pasta-making machine through the door. Jarocki relieved him of the equipment and a couple of the sacks and led him into the kitchen.

“Glad to see you’re sticking to our rules,” Greening said.

The afternoon heat was spilling into the house. She went over and closed the door. “Dr. Jarocki is keeping me honest.”

Greening dumped his bags on the countertop. “I think I got everything you requested. That should keep you busy.”

Keeping busy was the name of the game. It had taken her only twenty-four hours to discover that witness protection sucked. No leaving the house meant no self-defense classes, no gym, no jogging, no shopping, no working, and no barhopping. Mothballing everything that defined her and kept her busy was driving her crazy. Even prison inmates got an hour of yard time. She’d always thought her life was empty until she’d been forced to stay confined. That was why she’d decided to throw herself into a pursuit like cooking, which would fill the hours.