She knew she was running on fumes, but she couldn’t rest until she had her daughter back.
And then what?
And how?
She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, inspecting her newly trimmed, dyed black hair and then caught a look at her eyes. They were tired. The last week had worn on her, and the stress was starting to show, even if nobody else could see it but her. She needed to rest.
But first she needed to get her daughter.
Jet fished around in her purse and retrieved a handheld GPS unit. She thumbed it on, and the little screen flickered to life. Stabbing at the tiny keyboard, she entered the street address, which she’d committed to memory, then peered at the display. According to the unit, she was seven and a half miles from the house. A quick look at the onscreen map told her that she could be there within fifteen minutes.
She swung onto the main artery that led to the outskirts of Omaha, mind racing over the possible scenarios she would find when she arrived at where her daughter had spent the last two years. Jet didn’t know what to expect; her throat tightened with accumulated tension. She forced herself to relax. Getting agitated was dangerous and would serve no useful purpose.
When she arrived at the subdivision, it was as anonymous as any she’d seen, filled with identical homes built from one of three different templates — modest affairs for the middle-class working folk, who apparently made up much of Omaha. Many of the cars were medium-priced American models, and it being a mid-week afternoon, the streets were empty, with everyone either at work or picking up children from school.
Jet had never been to the United States before, so the Norman Rockwell neighborhood was inherently foreign to her, as was the sheer size of everything. The shopping plazas, the cars, the people, the roads were all big. It was as if someone had supersized the entire country. She’d never seen anything like it, but she resolved to try to fit in so as not to attract attention. Her greatest asset at this point was that she was completely off the radar — invisible, traveling on one of her alternative passports, her identity a Belgian freelance journalist.
She slowed her speed as she rolled past the address, looking over the unremarkable single-story house with practiced eyes. A fence, no doubt a backyard, two car garage, probably three bedrooms judging by the size. Absolutely nothing to distinguish it in any way from the hundreds of other tract homes on the long, quiet street.
After pulling over, she jotted down the phone number of a real estate agent whose sign was planted in the front yard of the home next door. A stroke of luck if she could get in. It would tell her everything she needed to know about floor plans, quality of any security systems, neighborhood watch groups, door and window locks.
The downside to the neighborhood was that it afforded few places to hide, and it looked like the kind of place where everyone knew one another, meaning there was no way she could easily mount a watch on the house. She’d have to get creative — there would only be one shot at getting her daughter, and she couldn’t blow it.
She meandered down the street, jotting down a few more phone numbers — apparently there were a decent number of sellers, victims of the lingering financial crisis that had stretched for almost half a decade. Every other sign declared foreclosure or that the home was bank-owned — including the one next door to her target.
There was nothing more to see. Her next stop would have to be to get a disposable cell phone and then find a motel nearby. Twisting the wheel, she headed back the way she’d come, eyes darting back to the house as she passed it again. There were no obvious signs of life, but then again the blinds were closed on the front windows so it was hard to judge whether anyone was home.
A few blocks down the road, Jet pulled into a Target parking lot. She shut off the engine and popped the trunk, then transferred her suitcase to where it would be out of sight. No point in begging any thieves, although, so far, Omaha looked like a postcard for suburban safety.
Ten minutes later, she returned to the car and made a call on her new burner cell phone.
“Realty World. This is Joanie!” an overly cheerful voice chirped.
“Yes. Hello. This is Susan,” Jet lied. “I’m looking at homes, and I got your number off a sign in front of a house I liked…”
“Oh, yes! A house! Well, you’ve come to the right place! Which one was it?”
Jet told her the address.
“Mmmm. Yes. I know the one. That’s a great deal. The bank owns it. Wants to unload it as soon as possible. You can probably steal it, and they’d lend you the money to do it!”
“Well, that’s good to know. I’m looking all over, but that seems to be a nice, quiet neighborhood. Is there a time when I can get in to see the place?”
“Of course. How about in an hour? Can you make it then?”
“That would be perfect.”
“Susan, right? What’s your last name?”
“Jacobs.”
“And will your husband be with you?”
“No. The house is for me.”
“Wonderful. And do you have financing in place so you can write an offer?”
Jet was rapidly growing annoyed with the pre-qualifying.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are a lot of homes out there. I plan to pay cash whenever I buy and then get a mortgage once I’ve bought it.”
“Oh, good. I like that. You know what you want, and you’re not going to waste any time.”
Jet sighed. “I’ll see you at the house in an hour, right?”
“Absolutely!”
Jet wondered what assertiveness training course the auto-suggesting saleswoman had gone to, and disconnected with a shake of her head. She checked her watch and confirmed that she had time to find someplace to spend the night. Someplace quiet.
Twenty minutes later, she had checked into a generic motel, two stories, with exterior room entrances and nobody watching the comings and goings of the occupants. She’d asked for the quietest spot they had, and the woman at the reception desk put her in the ground floor room at the far end of the complex. It turned out to be simple, clean and adequate, with an electronic in-room safe and wireless internet. She hastily unpacked her few possessions and locked her IDs in the safe along with most of the cash she was carrying. She’d have a better idea what she would need to source once she’d scoped out the neighbor’s house.
Joanie turned out to be a mid-forties woman who precisely matched her voice. With a bouffant hairdo and an evangelical smile, she wore a pant-suit and sensible shoes and shook hands like a man, before launching into a non-stop barrage of information and questions.
As they walked through the home, Jet pretended to care about the amount of space in the kitchen, the faux granite counters, the new appliances. There was no furniture, and the carpets had been recently changed, and the interior painted, so it smelled like chemicals and stagnant air.
“Like I said. The bank is motivated. You know how that is,” Joanie enthused.
“Well, it’s in reasonable shape. What can you tell me about the neighborhood? Is it safe?”
“Oh, extremely. It’s one of the lowest crime rates in all of Omaha!”
“That’s good to know. And what about a neighborhood watch?”
“You know, I don’t think they have one. There hasn’t been a break-in for years. I mean, many, many years. That just doesn’t happen here. You couldn’t find anything safer.”
“Have you shown it a lot? How long has it been on the market?”
Joanie checked the listing paperwork.
“Looks like almost five months. And no, it hasn’t had a lot of traffic. Not too many folks want to move during the winter months, with the snow and storms and all. I think you could pick it up for a song.”