by K. J. Emrick
“Well for now, let’s start with the basics. Her name, date of birth, where she was from. A photo, maybe?”
“Yes. I have that. I thought you might ask for that.”
From a front pocket he takes out a folded envelope and passes it across to me. Opening it up, I find a piece of paper with a name and other information printed on it in neat handwriting.
Katarina Borishev. Her date of birth is under it, making her twenty-three years old. That’s about ten years younger than I would peg Barlow to be, at least, but who am I to judge? Her phone number is there, and the number from her visa, and a couple of other things.
Behind the paper is a photo of Katarina. Barlow was right… she’s gorgeous. I like to think I’m no slouch, but this woman is the stuff of men’s dreams. Olive skin, dark green eyes, long black tresses that fall in waves over her shoulders. Those full lips looked totally kissable. She was smiling one of those pouty smiles that I’d expect to see on the models in a Calvin Klein ad.
Kind of makes me wonder what she’s doing with Barlow. The man is playing way out of his league here. Outside of the age difference, he’s not the kind of guy you’d expect to see that kind of girl cozying up to. Not that he’s a bad looking guy, really, but he’s a six on a good day. That faded brown hair with way too much styling product in it, that nose that’s a little too wide, the angular shoulders, the sunken eyes. He’s what the boy-next-door turns into after prom night. Good enough to bring home to your parents but not someone you would show off to your friends trying to make them jealous. It raises certain questions for me.
“Barlow, how did you and Katarina meet?”
He stares down into his glass, looking back through the memories in his mind. “It’s so cliché. We met over one of those dating apps for men seeking women for companionship. She’s from Croatia originally, you see, and she wanted to meet someone from here. We talked online for months, with messages and video chats, before I got up the nerve to invite her to the US to meet me in person. She said yes, and I paid for her visa so she could come here. That was a long process in itself. Nearly a year. It’s only a temporary visa, and she’s only been here for two months but we love each other. The process to make her a permanent resident is expensive, but I don’t care. We discussed it and we were going to get married. She’s my everything. We were just starting our life together, Miss Stone. There’s no way she would leave, and take my money, unless she was in trouble.”
He ran out of breath as he finished his story, and I had to admit, his version of the events was one possibility. Katarina could be in trouble. She could have come over to this country to find her true love.
On the other hand…
“Did you ever consider,” I say, picking my words carefully, “that she was just using you to get here, to America, and that her plan all along was to leave you the first chance she had?”
He is immediately offended, as if he’d never even considered that. “Of course not. She loves me.”
But then he blinks.
Now that he’s spoken those words out loud, he must have realized how they sounded. Not just to me, but to anyone else he might tell his story to as well. The truth is often stranger than fiction but it’s often hard to ignore a fact when it slaps you in the face.
“Look, Miss Stone, I’m not as naïve about things as you might think. I understand how the world works. I understand there are people out there who are only interested in taking whatever they can from you. My ex-wife was like that. Katarina is not. She’s kind, and generous, and despite the fact that I’m… well, nothing more than an investment banker who will never amount to much, she chose to love me from across the globe. So no, I don’t think she was scamming me. I think she’s in trouble.”
I nodded and sat for a moment quietly considering all of that. I’ve found that if you’re going to make it in this business you have to learn to trust your clients, and not believe anything they say, both at the same time. Kind of makes your head spin, but it keeps you alive, too.
Investment bankers are literally in the business of making money, and Katarina could have chosen him as her ticket into the US because of his monetary resources.
But, Barlow believes—strongly—that Katarina loves him, and would never willingly leave him. So for now, I’m going to go along with that. At least until I can prove differently.
“All right,” I say, moving on to step number two in the private investigation handbook. “Then how about family or friends in the area? Did Katarina have either?”
Barlow shakes his head. “Her parents were her only family, and they’ve passed on. That’s one of the reasons why she was so willing to move all the way around the world to be with me. As for friends, she did manage to strike up a friendship with a woman by the name of Carol. I’m afraid I didn’t know her, but she and Katarina were constantly texting back and forth and having coffee together while I was at work.”
“Okay, good. I’ll need to talk to Carol, then.”
His face fell. “I… don’t know her last name. Or her phone number. Or where she lives either, I guess.”
“She was your girlfriend’s best friend but you didn’t know anything about her?”
With a shrug, he admits, “I know that sounds bad, but I was trying to show her that I trust her. I didn’t want to smother her and scare her away.”
“I guess I can understand that. All right, how about her cellphone? You said they texted all the time so Katarina must have had her own phone? Carol’s contact information must be in there.”
“Oh. Well yes, she did. She left that behind with all of her other things. See, there’s another reason why I’m sure she’s in trouble. Why would she leave without her phone? Her clothes? Nothing at all?”
“Except your money.”
His expression falls flat again. “Yes. I guess she did take something.”
“All right. Never mind that for now. Where’s her cellphone?”
“I didn’t bring it with me. I’m sorry. I can get it for you…” And just like that, there’s hope in his eyes again. “Does that mean you’re taking the case?”
“Well, that depends.”
“On what?”
I lean back, hooking my hands around one knee. “On whether or not you’ll be able to pay me.” Hey, I’m all for helping people, but this is going to be a big case, and right now I’m up against it as far as cashflow. “You said Katarina wiped out your bank account.”
“Yes, I did, but just the one. See, I have—or rather, I had—four bank accounts for, um, tax purposes. She only had access to the one.”
Reading between the lines, what Barlow here is saying is that he has accounts the IRS doesn’t know about, and those ‘tax purposes’ are him not having to pay any taxes on his income. I’m not judging, and I’m not the police, so I really don’t care if he puts his cash in offshore Cayman Island bank accounts or if he stuffs it in his mattress. I just need to make sure he’s got the funds to hire me before we begin.
“You’re sure she didn’t take money from your other accounts?” I press him. “Did you check?”
He opens his mouth to argue, but then slaps his lips closed and pulls out his cellphone, setting down his glass of water so he can tap away madly with his thumbs as I wait. It doesn’t take him long.
“That account there is secure, and that one too, but then she wouldn’t have had access to those two. I can pay whatever fee you name from those two accounts but now I’ll show you that my last one is… gone?”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he tosses the phone down on the couch next to him. “I remember now. I gave her the bank information so she could buy a coat online that she liked. A leather coat with zippers. She said it was like one she saw in a movie and she wanted to have it. Two of my four accounts, gone. She took all of the money out of two of my accounts. So, well, you see… that just proves my point, doesn’t it? She needs help. She wouldn’t have done this otherwise. I was giving her anything she asked for. Whatever she wa
nted to buy, I let her. Whenever I wasn’t at work, I was with her. She didn’t have any reason to leave.”
“How much money did she take from those two accounts?” I ask him.
With just a little hesitation, he gives me the number. I hear it in my head three seconds before he says it, but it still doesn’t prepare me.
“Five hundred thousand dollars.”
Wow. Just… wow. Seems to me that would give Katarina five hundred thousand reasons to leave. She could have started over somewhere, maybe with another guy Barlow here knows nothing about, and just disappeared. Or she could have moved back to Croatia, for that matter, where that kind of money would buy her anything she wanted.
Or she could be in trouble, just like Barlow said.
Either way, now I have a case to work on. “All right. I’m going to need some things from you, Barlow. The name of the dating site you found Katarina on, the date you first contacted her, the date she came to America… you want me to write this down?”
“No, no. I have a good head for lists. It’s one of the ways I made my fortune.”
“Okay, good. You can give me that information before you go, but then I’m going to need you to get Katarina’s phone to me. I’m going to need you to check to see if her passport is still at your place or if she’s taken that with her, too.”
“All right. I can do that.”
“My fee is two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. When everything is done, I’ll give you an itemized bill so you can see what you’ve paid for.”
“That’s how I would prefer it. I can’t thank you enough, Miss Stone. I don’t know what I would have done, if you said no.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I tell him. “Wait until I find answers for you.”
I brought him a pad of paper and a pen for him to write down the information I needed, along with the account numbers and bank information for the two accounts Katarina had cleared out. He was skeptical about giving me that until I pointed out there was no money left in them anyway. It wasn’t like I could clean him out a second time.
When I had two pages full of his handwriting and possible leads to follow up on, he thanked me again, and then again, and shook my hand as I walked with him to my door. Then, no word of a lie, he hugged me. Actually hugged me. Hopefully, he’ll be that happy when I come to him at the end of the investigation to show him whatever answers I dig up.
Here’s the thing about missing persons cases. Most people who go missing run away on their own, and don’t want to be found. All those posts about missing kids on Facebook are sad, and tragic, and yes I want every single one of them to come home, but when you start talking about adults who go missing, it’s nine times out of ten that they left by their own choice. They go to Florida or the Bahamas or someplace warm because they just couldn’t handle the pressures of their life. They go on walkabout in the Adirondack mountains to find themselves, or to a monastery to seek enlightenment.
Of course, those who actually do get abducted are in serious danger, and if there’s even a possibility that’s what happened to Katarina that means the clock is already against me. I have to assume that’s what the case is, just like Barlow wants to believe, even if I’m hoping this investigation leads me on a trip to Hawaii where I’ll find Katarina basking in the white sand with cabana boys bringing her fruity drinks paid for with Barlow’s money.
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That should be the private investigator’s motto.
So I’ve got to start looking for Katarina now. What had started out as a day at home in my apartment was now going to be full of work for me. It’s a shame, too, because my goldfish has hardly seen me at all for the last two days. I’m not sure Spot even recognizes me as I drop some food into the top of his bowl. I keep him here in my bedroom, on my dresser right next to the window, so he can see the sky and feel like he’s flying as he swims around in his water. There’s a ceramic mermaid in there with him, blowing bubbles through her mouth to keep his home aerated, and I guess she’s going to have to do him for company until I get back tonight.
“Behave yourself,” I tell him on my way out. “No wild parties.”
There’s a few things I need before I go, like my little .38 in its concealed holster, and my leather over-the-shoulder satchel with its two buckled straps on the flap. It carries just about everything I need, plus it’s more my style than that purse over in the kitchen. I don’t much go in for things like purses, or high heels, or body glitter. Although I have been known to rock a pair of strapless stilettos when I’m wearing the right dress.
For now, I’ve changed into a black pencil skirt and a no-nonsense white blouse. Not exactly my color, and the slip-on flats are pinching my feet, but I’m not wearing this outfit for comfort. It’s all part of the plan. The glasses I’m wearing are part of it, too. I don’t need glasses. These are just readers, but they complete the look.
Ready to go, and I’m out the door again. Time is money in my business. Although I do take a quick moment to remember I’ve got that rather tall package waiting for me over there in the corner. I’ve got no idea who sent it, or what’s inside of it, other than I’m pretty sure it’s not a bomb. Too tall for a bomb. Since I’m relatively sure it’s not going to explode before I come back, I decide to just leave it there for now.
Whatever is inside it can wait.
Chapter Two
Where to start looking for missing persons, step one. Make sure they haven’t left the country.
If the person you’re tracking has left the country, you’re pretty much out of luck. Unless you want to spend thousands of dollars hopping around the globe into countries where you may or may not speak the language, you’re better off telling your client that you can’t help them. Try Interpol, maybe. You want your person to still be in the country, where you’ll at least have a chance of catching up to them.
That’s easier said than done. There’s seven airports either in Detroit or within a few hours’ drive of the city. Eight, if you count Windsor International, but that one’s in Ontario and I’m assuming someone here in the States on a visa isn’t going to be allowed across the border to hop a plane. The border guards are touchy about things like that.
So here’s where I start earning my fee. I make a call to each of those airports and pretend to be Katarina Borishev, asking if they’ve found my lost luggage yet? I don’t speak Croatian, but I do a killer Russian accent. It’s close enough, I think.
It does the trick.
One by one, each of them lets me know they have no record of anyone with that name taking a flight on any of their airlines. So. Unless she used an alias, Katarina hasn’t taken a flight out of the US. There’s no way for me to check for aliases, and I’m going to assume she doesn’t have the contacts necessary to get false documents. Our little bird hasn’t flown away.
There’s plenty of bus stations and taxi services to run through, too, but by the time I get to where I’m going and park the Mustang, I’ve checked with all of those places too, using the speakerphone on my cell to talk while I was driving. I had Katarina’s date of birth from Barlow, and the bank information she would have used to buy a ticket anywhere, so these people have no reason to doubt my cover story, or my questions. They just don’t have any record of me—I mean, Katarina—taking a ride with them.
Okay, that’s step one. Chances are good that Katarina is still in Detroit. Unfortunately, that makes it all the more likely that she’s in trouble.
So, step two. Go to the last place where you know for sure the missing person was seen. In this case, the bank.
Bank employees are not going to talk about anyone’s account over the phone. They also won’t talk to someone off the street who comes in asking about a bank account that isn’t theirs. On the one hand, I’m glad to hear that, because I don’t want anyone poking into my finances without my knowledge or consent. On the other hand, I’m constantly frustrated that I can’t just go poking around other people’s bank accounts when I need
to, without their knowledge and consent. Sort of a Catch 22 situation.
At the same time, banks also won’t talk to the police without a warrant, or family members of an account holder without written authorization, or the FBI without a subpoena, or the Pope for that matter. They are extremely tightlipped with their information.
That’s okay. I came prepared for that. It’s why I changed clothes.
Parking Roxy far enough away from the bank that she won’t be noticed means I need to walk two blocks to get to the bank. I want them to see me, not the car. Satchel over my shoulder, eyes straight ahead, I’m doing my best to present the image of a bored professional. My Mustang, as much as I love Roxy, does not fit the image.
First National Bank is on Woodward Ave, right across from Cadillac Square, and right around the corner from a Shake Shack. I might just get a bite to eat there after I’m done in the bank, depending on how things go. If I screw this up and get the police called on me, I’m going to be in too much of a hurry as I leave to stop for one of their peanut butter shakes. Which would be a real shame. I love those things, plus I skipped lunch and I’m hungry. So. Let’s hope I don’t screw this up.
The institution’s name is spelled out in block plexiglass letters over the wide front doors. First National Bank. Ever notice how it’s always the “First” National Bank? Why is it never the Second National Bank, or the Third? Is everyone who came after the first bank just ashamed to admit it?
Game face on, I pull open the front glass door and step into a wide-open lobby. My shoes slap quietly against the marble floor. Above me is a balcony running around a second floor where desks are lined up in rows, with what I assume are junior bank associates busy doing menial banking tasks. Thick columns with white marble veneer rise up to the ceiling high above, but they’re decorative, not structural. Lots of money went into decorating this place. It’s actually one of the older buildings still standing in Detroit, built sometime around the turn of the twentieth century, but it’s also been renovated dozens of times since. I’d be impressed, if I wasn’t focused on what I was here to do.