Page 18 of 3rd Tango
Odd. Three of the four are in the tri-state area. Missouri stands out. I read on to find Sven was born and bred there and chose to kick off his thieving ways in the bank three miles from his parents’ home.
Lovely.
I study his wanted poster, noting his height, weight, any cautionary notes. At the time, the FBI considered him armed and dangerous and traveling with his longtime girlfriend, a woman named Evelyn Jacoby. I jot that down for further research, but first tap Sven’s name into my phone.
A list of links pops up, the FBI most wanted being the first. I bypass that and scroll through news reports on his robberies. Fifteen banks over a six-month period.
Busy guy.
The next stops me—dammit.
Sven hadn’t just been captured; he’d been killed. Late 1999. A tipster revealed his location and the subsequent FBI raid left him and his bank-robbing buddies thoroughly devastated by gunfire and…well…dead.
“That’s disappointing,” I mutter.
“What?”
I lift my head, my gaze meeting Jerome’s. “Hitting steel walls here. Four of my guys are in prison and one is dead. I’m chasing my tail.”
Jerome shrugs. “It’s research. That’s what happens. Keep going. You never know.”
I roll my eyes. Thank you, Confucius.
I mean, could he not come up with something a tad more motivating?
This isn’t his fault though. I close my eyes, draw a breath of stale air then slowly release it. I hate being locked in a closed-off room. Eventually, the energy becomes too heavy. Too…stuck.
“I’m not being a jerk, Meg.”
My guy. He knows me so well. “I know. It’s just—”
“Frustrating.”
“Yes. Have you found anything? Please, give me some good news.”
Slowly, he shakes his head. Back and forth, back and forth, each movement like a stab to my already aching head.
“Sorry, sweets. I’ve got zip. Not done yet, though.”
Terrific.
Rallying myself for the last few reports, I give a firm nod. “Let’s finish this and meditate. Then we’ll get out of here. Get some fresh air.”
“I like it,” Jerome says.
Like me, he’s a fan of meditation. As creatives, we have a keen understanding of how mindfulness fuels artistic expression.
A soft knock sounds and Charlie pops her head in. As usual, she’s all pulled together. Perfect hair, perfect lipstick, perfect clothing while I’m…wilting.
“Hi. Sorry to interrupt.”
Actually, I’m thankful for the distraction. “No prob. What’s up?”
“Mom is here. She wants an update.”
Of course she does.
For years this case has driven our mother to near-madness. Now she’s become our client, turning over her research, which, knowing her, was probably more difficult than childbirth.
