Mistaken for the Mob. Ginny Aiken
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Next time J.Z. Prophet showed his face, she’d be ready. Her new phone came with preprogrammable automatic dialing.
The first number she’d record would be 911.
The day went by in the same kind of blur as when she drove home last night. By five, she didn’t remember much of what she’d done. Well, she turned in the report, but other than that…mush.
Determined to regain some semblance of sanity if not control, she concentrated on the drive to the mall. She even sang along with Rebecca St. James’s latest on the radio. She parked, locked the car, ran through the ongoing rain to the food-court entrance and made a beeline for the cell phone and safety.
The young man had the papers ready for her. All Maryanne had to do was sign her name and give him a check. After a handful of directions, she felt confident enough to head home with the gadget and its instruction manual. On her way back to the car, she detoured by the frozen yogurt counter. She didn’t often indulge, but today she ordered a swirl cone. She didn’t want to choose between chocolate and vanilla.
Because of the rain, she opted to finish her treat at one of the food court’s small tables. Then, on her way to the great outdoors and the deluge, she tossed away her napkin and saw the man watching her from the sandwich shop line. She came to a halt.
J.Z. Prophet wasn’t besting her again.
Maryanne marched up to him. “I told you I’d call the cops the next time I saw you.” She pulled out her phone. “Watch me.”
He covered the gadget and her hand with his much larger one, his clasp gentler than she would have imagined. “It won’t do you any good. I know what you are—”
“What are you doing, J.Z.?” asked the other Uni-Comp clown, a bag redolent of corned beef in his hand. “You’re worse than a kid. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you? Do you want Eliza to charge out here and tear a strip off your hide—”
He stopped just when things were about to get interesting, when Maryanne might have learned something about the probably psychotic J.Z. But the two men glared at each other, and if it weren’t for the minor matter of her captured hand, she would have taken her leave. Instead, she looked from one to the other, only too aware of J.Z.’s warm clasp.
“Ahem,” she said.
The men turned.
“Would one of you please tell me which episode of the Twilight Zone you’re rerunning here?”
“Let her go,” J.Z.’s partner said.
J.Z. captured her gaze just as firmly as he held her hand.
“Who are you guys?” Maryanne’s fear fired up again. “What do you want with me? And don’t even mention computers. I know you’ve been following me.”
“Come on, J.Z. Let’s go.”
Maryanne smiled her gratitude at the blond man who didn’t work for Uni-Comp—she wasn’t dumb.
“Yes, J.Z. Let me go. I’ll go my way and you can go yours, and never the twain shall meet. Okay?”
“Let her go,” her pal—Don? Dan? Yeah, Dan Something—repeated.
J.Z. acceded, but a strange look she couldn’t read, not the anger she’d seen, maybe frustration, filled his eyes. “Watch yourself,” he said. “One mistake, and I’ll make my move.”
“Who are you?” she asked yet again.
“Tell her, J.Z. You’ve blown this out of the water, so you may as well tell her now.”
Maryanne’s eyes ping-ponged from one man to the other.
Dan muttered something else, this time nothing Maryanne could make out. He thrust his sandwich bag at J.Z. and rummaged in his back pocket. But instead of the wallet she’d expected, he extended a small leather card case toward her.
“What…?”
“Open it,” he said gently.
She did. Four words jumped out at her: Federal Bureau of Investigations.
Her head spun. Ice replaced her blood. The world tipped under her feet. “Why?”
“You’re under investigation,” J.Z. said in clipped tones. “You’re good, but I’m better. I’m going to get you and your mob pals, so say goodbye to freedom, your frozen yogurt and your little phone.”
Everything went black.
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