Vanishing Act

by Linsey Lanier

  Once more Parker held the door open for her and they stepped inside. They located a creaky elevator, took it to the second floor, and found a directory on the wall.

  Of course, it was in Cyrillic.

  “Let’s see if this works.” Parker took out his phone, held it up to the sign and tapped a button.

  “What are you doing? Playing with some app?”

  “Excellent,” Parker murmured, and with a cagey grin, he showed her his screen.

  Miranda was stunned. The app had magically translated the words into English.

  Readable English.

  “That is way cool.” Then she frowned as she recalled all the facts he’d spouted off in the car about Ukrainian history. “When did you do all this homework?”

  His lip turned up. “I did some research last night after you went to bed.”

  Sneaky as ever, but right now, she was glad for it. She looked at the phone again. “Here it is. Registrar, Lolita Kuzmivna.”

  “I’d say she might be able to help us. Room Two-Twenty.”

  Lolita, huh? “Let’s hope so.”

  The rooms were numbered haphazardly, and it took a while, but at last they located the door marked Two-Twenty. As old-fashioned looking as the building, it had a pane of frosted glass.

  Miranda rapped on it. When she heard a voice within, she opened it.

  She’d expected a counter with gatekeepers, but instead she found a slender woman in her mid-thirties sitting at a polished oak desk, staring at her computer screen through dark rimmed glasses.

  She was dressed in a severe black suit with a bright orange scarf around her neck for color. Her auburn hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, and though her makeup was perfect, she wore no jewelry. The name Lolita didn’t seem to fit, but maybe people here thought of that name differently.

  Behind her were polished paneled walls and a bookshelf with several heavy volumes.

  She removed her glasses and looked up at her guests. For a brief moment, her dark eyes widened with the typical first reaction to Parker’s good looks, then she uttered a string of unintelligible syllables.

  “Tak,” Parker said to her.

  He must have learned the phrase Lolita had spoken from that research last night.

  “I assume you speak English?” he asked.

  She nodded regally and gestured to two bright blue chairs in front of her desk. “Why yes, come in. Are you looking to register an international student?”

  “Not exactly,” Miranda said.

  “Oh?” Her demeanor turned defensive.

  Parker gave her his million dollar smile. “Ms. Kuzmivna, we’re so sorry to disturb you. We’re looking for someone who may have been a student here some time ago.”

  Back rigid, she sat up, looking as wary as if Parker were a KGB agent from the past. “What is this in regard to?”

  “Fourteen years ago, a young man from a village in the northwest went missing. We think he may have come here in an attempt to enter your university.”

  Carefully the woman studied Parker, then Miranda. “And what is your interest in this student?”

  “We’re private investigators,” Parker explained. “We were hired by his family.”

  Lolita looked like she didn’t buy it. “Your accent is not English. Are you American?”

  “Yes. We’re from Atlanta, Georgia.”

  She drew in a stunned breath. “Why would a Ukrainian family hire investigators from there?”

  “We’re related.”

  Her back grew even more rigid and she studied them again. With a grim expression, she shook her head. “I am not sure I can give you what you are looking for.”

  Miranda’s patience was fading. “All we need to know is whether a young man of eighteen registered for classes here fourteen years ago. His name is Sasha Pavlovych.”

  Lolita frowned and turned to her computer. “That is not an uncommon name. Can you tell me anything else about him?”

  “He was interested in engines and electronics. He may have wanted to become a doctor.”

  Abruptly the woman stopped typing as if she had just come to herself. “Did he have the requisite papers from his secondary school? Did he have his certifications?”

  Miranda glanced at Parker and saw the same distress on his face she was feeling. “We don’t know.”

  Lolita’s lips pursed in a grim expression. The woman seemed incapable of a smile. “We have a strict screening process here. It is unlikely a young man with no paperwork to demonstrate his academic achievements would have been accepted.”

  “Could he have audited a course?” Parker suggested.

  She shook her head. “Not without the exams and certifications.”

  Miranda’s shoulders sank. “Couldn’t you just—”

  “You should try Taras Shevchenko. They are a little more lenient in their entrance requirements. I am sorry I cannot help you.”

  And she turned back to her computer and her own work.

  Chapter Twelve

  “We should have asked Anastasia if Sasha requested his records from school.”

  “I’m sending her a text to that effect,” Parker said.

  They were back on the street in the BMW, stopped at a light. The light changed, Parker put his phone away, and they continued on their way to the next university, passing more old European style buildings, including an embassy and a museum.

  Miranda pulled out her phone and did some research. “Taras Shevchenko University is known as KNU. It was founded in 1834 and ranks in the top five hundred universities in the world.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yeah. It’s the third oldest university in Ukraine and is named for a renowned poet. But they offer degrees in Mechanics and Mathematics, something called ‘High Technology,’ and Biology and Medicine.”

  “All things Sasha seems to have been interested in at the time.”

  Maybe they’d get lucky there. Then she read further. “They have about thirty-thousand students.” She sighed aloud. “The needle in the haystack theme continues.”

  “Let’s see what we can discover at the registrar’s office.”

  They neared a corner and Miranda spotted a structure so gorgeous, it took her breath. Three stories of red stone laden with elaborate white statuary, pale yellow columns, and fanciful balconies. A grand turret sat center stage with more artistry and ornamentation, as if the architect had been obsessed with his own creativity. And all of it was topped with a pretty mansard roof.

  “What is that place?”

  Parker gazed up, studying it. “That is the Sirotkin House. It is quite lovely.”

  “And gaudy.” Though she couldn’t help admire it.

  “It was owned by a wealthy local family until the early nineteen hundreds when they had to sell it due to financial hardship. It exchanged hands several times, and finally was purchased by a hotel chain. I tried to book a room for us there, but the renovations aren’t finished.”

  Only Parker could sound so matter-of-fact about booking a room in a magnificent palace like that. “More of that research, huh?”

  “So to speak.” He turned the corner and his cell buzzed. At the next light, Parker took out his phone again and scowled down at it. “Anastasia says no one ever told them Sasha had requested his school records. She will have Katerina ask.”

  “That’s right Katerina’s a teacher there, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “She would have known if his records had been requested, wouldn’t she? Someone would have told her.”

  “Let’s wait and see what Anastasia finds out.” He put the phone away again.

  Miranda felt as if their best lead was slipping away. She reached for the dash and turned up the heat.

  “Chilly?” Parker asked, knowing the answer already.

  She pointed at the numbers. “It’s minus seven degrees.”

  “That’s about twenty degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Excuse me. It’s a heat wave.” She rub
bed her arms.

  They both knew it was the frustration that was making her cold.

  They went down a few more blocks, soaking up more of the decorative façades.

  As the GPS told them they were nearing their destination, they passed a large building painted bright blue, then an orange one. Finally they reached a huge blood-red building with austere columns that seemed to reach to the cloudy sky.

  Parker pulled into a diagonal spot across from the building. Before them lay a large park with a tall statue at the end of a walkway.

  “This is it?”

  “This is Taras Shevchenko University.”

  “Is that who that statue is?”

  Parker peered through the windshield at the tall iron colored structure. “I believe so.”

  No time for sightseeing, though.

  They got out and Miranda pulled her coat and hat around her tight as she crossed the busy street with Parker. They dodged the ice on the patterned sidewalk and headed for the massive red columns.

  Inside was another large classic hall, with more columns. Unintelligible signs were everywhere, but with a little more finagling with Parker’s translation app, they found their way through the maze of corridors.

  Soon they were on the third floor sitting in the office of one Eduard Rebrov.

  The office was spacious and filled with furnishings in a light colored wood, along with lots of books and framed diplomas on the wall.

  Which Miranda couldn’t read.

  Rebrov had a triangular shaped face—a broad forehead tapering down to a narrow pointed chin. His nose was long and pointed, as well, his brows thick and dark. His large head was covered with wavy gray hair, and as he regarded them eagerly with round dark eyes, he reminded Miranda of a bird of prey.

  He wore an enthusiastic smile that hadn’t relaxed since they’d come through the door. Obligatory for his role of ushering students into the school, she supposed.

  “So is it your son or your daughter who will be matriculating next year?” he said with a bit of British in his Ukrainian accent.

  “Neither,” Miranda said. “We don’t have any children.”

  He blinked, his grin growing wider. “Do one of you wish to attend the university?” He seemed to relish that idea.

  She gave Parker an impatient glance. The man hadn’t been listening when they’d introduced themselves.

  She cleared her throat. “As Mr. Parker told you a moment ago, we’re private investigators. We’re looking for a missing young man.”

  Now he got it. Finally the smile disappeared and Rebrov sat back in his chair, his birdlike eyes even wider. “Missing? As in kidnapped?”

  “We don’t know. All we know is that he left home and wanted to study in Kiev.”

  Rebrov put a finger under his nose and thought a moment. “Do you know his name?”

  “Sasha Pavlovych.”

  “That’s a common name.” He glanced at his computer screen as if he were suddenly afraid of it. “He was a student here at KNU?”

  “We’re assuming that,” Parker told him.

  “If so, we would have a copy of his passport on file.”

  “Passport?” Miranda asked. “He was Ukrainian.”

  “All Ukrainians are required to have a passport as verification of citizenship. It is for identification. Like your American social security card.”

  Miranda raised her brows. She didn’t realize Sasha would have one of those.

  “A few years ago, the government went to biometric passports, so it’s more difficult to fake an ID. If the young man updated his recently, it would be very easy to find in our records. How long ago did he attend KNU?”

  “If he registered, it might have been as long as fourteen years ago.”

  Rebrov’s shoulders sank. “Biometric passports weren’t available fourteen years ago. I might not be able to go that far back in our records. We purge them every few years. Space considerations. We have over thirty-thousand students here.”

  The haystack had just quadrupled, but Miranda was starting to get used to it.

  “The young man wanted to become a doctor or an engineer,” she said. “Would that narrow it down?”

  “Possibly. What secondary school did the boy attend?”

  Parker told him the name of the village and Rebrov got to work on his computer. After a few minutes he shook his head. “I’m not finding anything from that school for a Sasha Pavlovych. No certifications or interview records.”

  “What if he didn’t have his school records?” Miranda said. “Couldn’t he have been admitted without them? The registrar at Boris Grinchenko told us you were more lenient in your entrance requirements.”

  That made Rebrov chuckle. “I am afraid he was giving you the brush.”

  Huh? Oh. “You mean brushing us off?”

  Looking a little embarrassed at his mistake, Rebrov nodded. “Yes. Entrance requirements are fairly standardized. Every institute of higher learning requires documents from previous schools.” He raised his palms in a helpless expression. “How else would we determine if the applicant was qualified?”

  Miranda sat forward in her chair. “You never make an exception? For someone who was exceptionally bright?”

  “This young man was bright?”

  “As far as we can tell. He made good marks in school.”

  Just then Parker’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and thumbed the text. His face grew dark. “Sasha’s sister has just confirmed he never requested his records from the village school.”

  Rebrov’s thin lips grew even thinner as he shook his head. “I am so sorry. In that case, I am not able to help you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In silence they climbed back in the car and drove around the ornate streets with its unreadable signs.

  Finally Miranda let out a sigh of defeat. “So Sasha didn’t go to school in Kiev.”

  “And apparently nowhere else.”

  Saved them from going from institution to institution. But where were they going to go instead?

  “What do we do now, Parker?”

  The scenario of Sasha being picked up on the road started to run through her mind again.

  “We need to think about what he did do.”

  She forced herself out of her doldrums. “Okay. He had an ID, his passport.” She tapped her gloved fingers on her lap. “Can’t you hack into a database and track that?”

  Parker had brought his laptop. It was back in their hotel room.

  “Track him through the passport? If he got in trouble since he left home and has a criminal record, I suppose. But I don’t think hacking is something I’d want to risk here.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. The jails around here might not be too friendly.” She rubbed her temples but her brain didn’t want to work.

  “I think we need fuel,” Parker said.

  Miranda glanced at the clock on the dash. It was past two-thirty. “I guess it’s been a long time since our two breakfasts.”

  “One and a half. You didn’t finish your bowl of buckwheat.”

  “You didn’t either.”

  They drove through more rows of pretty buildings and finally reached a shopping area dotted with a few lofty modern skyscrapers. A little farther down were more rows of tall apartment buildings.

  Parker made another turn, and they finally they found a spot that met with his approval.

  Miranda couldn’t even read the name of the place, but inside were marble tabletops, elegant rose-colored overstuffed chairs, photos of flowers in golden frames, and low lighting from the glittery sconces on the walls.

  Nice.

  She didn’t know how Parker deciphered the menu—even with the help of an accommodating waiter who spoke English—but he did. And after a while the waiter returned and set two large plates in front of them.

  She inhaled the mouth-watering aroma as she eyed the bed of yellow rice ladled with delicate slices of meat and smothered in a rich brown sauce.

  It
looked luscious.

  She picked up her knife and fork, cut into it, took a bite.

  Mmm. It wasn’t very spicy, although there were some green chilies, but it was as rich as Parker himself. She could taste nutmeg and cardamom and black pepper, and other exotic spices she couldn’t identify.

  “Is this lamb?” she said after she’d paused for a sip of the wonderful black coffee.

  Working on his own plate, Parker studied her with a tender smile. “It’s the chef’s version of Mutton Mandi. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  Mutton Mandi. She’d never heard of it, but she had a new favorite.

  “Yum.” She raised her fork to him and put another bite in her mouth, tasting the snap of a chili this time. Delicious.

  Even in a strange land five-thousand miles from home, Parker liked to spoil her. His pampering used to make her wary. Now she just enjoyed it. She could finally admit how much she loved this man, and it didn’t scare her a bit.

  She dug into the dish and relished every bite. It was a nice break, but her mind kept going back to their case. And the hopelessness of it.

  She finished the food and sat back willing answers to come. They didn’t.

  Parker pushed his plate away and the waiter came and cleared the dishes. He offered a tempting assortment of desserts, but they opted for more coffee.

  Miranda felt like her brain was back in order, so she straightened her shoulders. “Okay, let’s think back to the day Sasha left home. Let’s assume he wants to go to school and hasn’t decided not to send for his records yet. After the fight with his father in the morning, he leaves on his bicycle. If he rides straight to Kiev, how long does it take him?”

  Parker poured a bit of cream into his coffee from a tiny silver pitcher. “Several hours at least.”

  “So he gets here by noon, let’s say. What does he do first?”

  Parker went for the obvious. “He would be hungry.”

  “Good point.” A big boy, used to hearty meals at home. After pedaling all that way, it made sense. “He has the money he saved for school, but he has to be careful with it. So he goes to some restaurant that’s not too expensive.”