Parker guessed where she was going. “It isn’t likely the staff at a restaurant would remember him.”
“Unless he frequented the place after that.”
Parker sipped his coffee. “Perhaps. And if we’re thinking very optimistically, perhaps still does.”
Optimistic wasn’t the theme of this hunt, but she’d go with it. “All right. Where does he spend his first night?”
“A youth hostel, most likely.”
Miranda nodded. Anastasia had confirmed he hadn’t stayed with friends here. “Somewhere cheap.”
“Probably.”
“Somewhere near one of the universities maybe?”
Parker considered that a moment, then shook his head. “Those units would probably be already occupied by students.”
“Right.” She took out her phone and scrolled around. “Here’s one for five bucks a night. It’s in the area.”
She handed him her phone and Parker studied the map.
“What do you think?”
He handed the phone back. “It’s worth checking out.”
But his expression told her he didn’t think they’d be that lucky.
Miranda didn’t think so, either. They were back to the needle in the haystack scenario, but they had to do something. It wasn’t like Sasha was going to walk up and introduce himself to them.
She downed the rest of her coffee and got to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Fourteen
The woman who went by the name Irina Voloshyna stood at the edge of the cage, watching the two newest fighters in her mixed martial arts club.
The smaller fighter had the larger one on the ground. Straddling his opponent, he was striking at his face with his fists.
He was slow. The one on the bottom blocked each strike, then grabbed for an appendage, attempting to get an arm bar.
They were weak.
“Hit him!” she screamed. “I want to hear bones crack. I want to see blood.”
The larger man grabbed the opponent’s arm, rolled over with it, producing the desired arm bar. Grimacing in pain, the smaller one tapped.
Irina turned away in disgust.
This was not good enough for any future event, let alone to be sent to America. Those prospects had to be more than tough. They had to be able to crush any adversary and ground him to powder.
She had to prove she could produce such specimens.
The men she dealt with day to day thought she could not handle running the operation of the club she had inherited from her brother several years ago. They were wrong. She would prove it. She would show them what a smart woman could do. She was as ruthless as any of them.
Across the floor of the gym she caught sight of Sergei, her right-hand man. He was watching her, derision in his eyes.
He gave her a signal.
She nodded toward the hallway and exited the gym. A moment later she walked into her office with Sergei behind her.
She loved this office that used to belong to her brother, with its hand carved paneling and rich black-and-gold fern patterns everywhere. It exuded power. Intimidation. Money.
A young man cowered in the one of the antique red-and-black guest chairs. Struck speechless, he scrambled to his feet and stared at her with large helpless eyes.
“Sit down.”
She waved a dismissive hand and moved to the mahogany desk in the center of the room, ran her hand over its intricate gold inlay. Her brother’s desk. He had reigned from here. Now she did the same.
She surveyed the things on the desk. Paper, pens, a razor sharp letter opener, her laptop.
She sat, pressing her back into the tufted black leather of the high back chair. It made her feel like a Tsarina.
Ignoring the others, she eyed the intricate carvings of the antique what-not case in the corner. Inside on the glass shelves sat dolls from her childhood. The dark-haired Delphine with her fair porcelain face and her lacy dress. The beautiful blond princess in her white ermine coat and hat. Her collection of matryoshka, the Russian nesting dolls in so many colors. Gifts from her father.
She pressed a button on her phone and music filled the room.
Tchaikovsky. Waltz of the Flowers. Her favorite.
She drank in the lush notes of the harp in the introduction, and then the gentle horns. The tune reminded her of growing up in Moscow in their palace house, the rooms filled with beautiful paintings and gold everywhere. She was her father’s favorite. He gave her everything she wanted. He was gone now, but she would honor his memory.
She would be like him.
With an irritated sigh, she turned off the music and studied the young man in the chair. He was small and weak looking. There was desperation in his eyes. His clothes were worn and dirty. She could smell him across the desk.
Her anger rising, she curled a lip at Sergei. “Is this the best you can do?”
Sergei folded his arms across his huge chest and fixed her with a dark gaze. “It is not as easy as it used to be, Irina.”
She watched the muscles of Sergei’s huge body flex and felt a hunger stir inside her. They had been lovers once, but she had ended it when she was put in charge. She could not let him think he controlled her.
She narrowed an eye at the boy in the chair. “Too skinny,” she said.
Sergei shrugged as if he were discussing the weather. “They are thin these days. They do not get enough to eat.”
Did he not hear her? “We cannot afford to wait until he is fattened up.”
Sergei strolled over to her bookshelf and picked up one of the Ukrainian Easter eggs she kept on display there. He knew the gesture annoyed her.
Irina refused to respond to it.
“He is good with math,” he said pretending to study the egg’s intricate design. “We need such a skill to replace the one we lost.”
The one who had betrayed them. “Does he have a degree?”
Sergei smirked. The answer was obvious. “He wants one.”
Irina narrowed her eyes at him. She was sick of this incompetence, sick of Sergei’s attitude.
“He has potential,” he said, putting the egg down again.
Did Sergei think he was putting one over on her? She would not be fooled. She would not stand for insubordination.
She raised her arm and brought her fist down on her desk with a slam. “Rejected. Get him out of here.”
Sergei picked the young man up by the collar.
Suddenly the boy found his tongue. “I can do well. I can work. I will do anything. Please let me work for you.”
Irina bared her teeth. “Go!”
With a sigh of disgust, Sergei started out the door, dragging the boy with him.
“Let Kostia take him back where he came from. I need to talk to you.”
Sergei left and returned a few moments later.
“What do you want to see me about, Irina?”
“You know what about. The matter at the river.”
“The police have not found a body. It is winter. They won’t find it now.”
She rose and paced to the window, staring out at the roof of the neighboring building.
The police. Once her family was the police. During the Soviet regime, they had power. They could do as they pleased, but that was all changed now. Now the police were her enemy. They were after her. They suspected what was going on here in the club and wanted to stop it. Self-righteous pigs. She had her suspicious, too. She was sure one of her trainers was an undercover officer, but she did not know which one. She could not trust anyone.
“What about his motorcycle?”
“I told you. I destroyed it.”
She spun around and glared at Sergei. “And what about my flash drive?”
He winced, as if surprised by her question. “I told you. It went into the river with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure. It is gone. He is gone.”
She picked up the letter opener from the desk and pointed it at him. “If you are
lying to me, Sergei.”
“I am not lying. How could I lie to my comrade?”
After waving the letter opener a little more, she put it down. “Look for it again. And get me a better prospect.”
She could see disapproval in his eyes as she sat.
But he gave her an obsequious bow. “Yes, Irina.”
And with no more to say, he left.
Chapter Fifteen
The streets near the area of the third cheap youth hostel Miranda had found on her phone had lost their charm.
No old-world European architecture here. There was nothing but shops and rows and rows of plain gray apartment buildings.
How many people were living in them? Miranda wondered as she stared up at the morass of windows. Thousands. Was Sasha Pavlovych among them? How were they ever going to find him among the masses?
Parker made a U-turn, drove another kilometer or two, and finally pulled into a tree-lined side street. The bare branches cast strange shadows against a building whose lower floor was covered with graffiti. It seemed a little more sinister than the other two hostels they’d already visited, but not by much.
They found the entrance and stepped onto the dark linoleum floor of a small reception area that reminded Miranda a little of the Bates Hotel.
There was a bell on a chipped counter, but before Miranda could ring it, a pale young man in a heavy olive green sweater appeared from the back. He had thin dark hair, cut short, and was sporting the beginnings of a matching beard.
Holding what looked like a bottle of some soft drink in his hand, he sneered at them as if irritated they had interrupted his nap. Then he rattled off a string of Ukrainian that sounded like cuss words. Friendly guy.
“Excuse me,” Parker said to him in his most ingratiating tone. “Do you speak English?”
The young man seemed insulted. “Of course. I speak very good the English. But that does not change the policy.”
“Which policy?”
“The one I just told you. No couples. We take only single occupants.”
Parker smiled patiently. “We’re not looking for a room.”
The young man set down his drink and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. “Then why are you here? That is all we offer.”
“We’re private investigators and we’re looking for a missing person.”
His dark brows shot up into his forehead, his attitude turning to interest. “Private investigators? For sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can you help us?” Miranda took out her phone and showed him the photo of Sasha. “Has this person ever rented a room here?”
He cocked his head one way, then the other as he studied the picture. Then he shrugged. “He looks like dozens of dudes who have stayed here.”
“This photo is fourteen years old,” Parker said.
“For sure? How old is this dude you are looking for, man?”
This clerk must have learned his English from American pop movies.
“Thirty-two,” Parker said darkly.
The attendant took a sip from his bottle and made a face as if it were too sour. The sour attitude was back, too. “He will not be here, then. We have mostly students.”
Even at this distance from the universities. “Anyone who’s not a student?” Miranda asked.
The clerk lifted his palms. “As long as they can pay. I go to university, too. I work only afternoon shift.”
Parker tried a different tack. “Do you have anyone on staff who’s been here a good while?”
“Fourteen years, you mean?” He laughed. “No. I am sorry, man. They hire only students.”
Miranda wasn’t giving up. She leaned over the counter. “Don’t you keep records on your guests?”
“Of course, but we do not keep them so long.”
“Could you look anyway? The man’s name is Sasha Pavlovych.”
With a scowl, the surly clerk went to an ancient-looking computer and pecked at the keys. After a few minutes he shook his head. “We only go back one year. No Sasha Pavlovych stayed here since last February.”
Miranda looked at Parker.
He shook his head.
Yeah, she agreed. They weren’t going to get any more out of this guy.
“Thank you for your time,” Parker told the clerk.
They started for the door.
Miranda turned back a moment. “Oh, and I hope you’re not majoring in hospitality services.”
Chapter Sixteen
Back out on the street the wind was turning bitter.
With a grunt, Miranda shoved her hands in her pockets and stared at the passing traffic.
“It was a good try,” Parker said gently. “We might be getting close to something that will give us a clue.”
He was humoring her.
“Sasha was young, strong, and had a bit of money,” she said. “That wouldn’t last, so if he didn’t go to school, he’d need to find work.”
“True.”
“He could repair a tractor. Maybe he got a job in a mechanic shop.”
Her mind racing, she started down the sidewalk, looking at displays in the nearby shop windows as if she could find answers there, though she couldn’t read their signs.
She passed a store with sofas and mattresses, a bridal shop, a shop with bassinets and baby things on display. Sasha could be married with kids by now.
She crossed a side street.
A few feet down was a bus stop where two men stood smoking. She trotted over to them, took out her phone, and showed them Sasha’s picture, but they only shook their heads and looked annoyed.
“We need an aging software for this photo,” she grumbled as she moved on.
Parker caught up to her. “I don’t think this is a good way to find a mechanic shop.”
He was right. She was just blowing off steam.
She was about to turn back when she reached the corner and caught sight of a colorful awning over a store window. Through the glass she saw books on display.
She pointed at it. “Bookstore?”
“Apparently.”
“With his interests, Sasha might have frequented a bookstore.”
“He might have.” Parker didn’t sound convinced.
“Let’s try it.” It was another long shot, but she headed for the entrance anyway.
“Very well.” Parker reached for the door and opened it for her.
Inside the smell of coffee and books greeted them, along with a shiny polished floor, and rows and rows of volumes attractively displayed on light colored shelves.
What in the world was she looking for? Though she was surrounded by titles, Miranda couldn’t read a single one.
This must be how it felt to be illiterate. Not very comfortable.
The store was smallish, and several customers in heavy coats were milling about, giving it a crowded feel. So what was the plan?
She didn’t have one.
Straightening her shoulders Miranda picked an aisle and made her way down it.
First, she encountered flat coffee table books placed face out on the shelves. The covers featured monuments and state building. Travel books, she guessed. They probably had pictures, but she didn’t think Sasha would be interested in them.
At the end of the aisle a man in a heavy gray coat and a ushanka was browsing. He studied a row of thick books with black spines embossed in gold. Before Miranda could reach him, he stepped around the corner.
Covers of the books he’d been looking at were on display along the top shelf. Each one had a knight drawing a sword or a hooded dude with a bow and arrow. Fantasy fan.
Probably not Sasha’s taste, from what they knew of him.
She followed Parker into the next aisle where he went to town with his translation app. “This section is obviously cookbooks,” he said quietly under his breath.
Miranda eyed the photos of soups and desserts on the covers. “I can tell you’ve had training.”
He gave her a grimace.
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br /> She peaked around the end of the aisle and spotted a corner with brightly colored storybooks. It held a small table and chairs, and had cartoons painted on the walls. The children’s section.
A dark-haired woman stood with her back to Miranda, holding a little boy’s hand as he pointed at the books he liked, chattering to her in Ukrainian.
Miranda smiled. Would this woman know Sasha? Was this his wife and child? One way to find out.
She started for the woman, determined to get answers from her.
Suddenly someone stepped out from a side aisle, and she nearly bumped into him.
He was a tall thin man in a bright blue sweater. Wisps of thin curly gray hair sprang up from his head and over his ears. Friendly looking, he wore gold-rimmed glasses and a kind smile.
He looked like he worked here.
“May I help you?” he said in perfect English.
Guess it was pretty obvious they weren’t from around here. Here we go again, she thought, bracing herself for another failure.
“Dobryy den’,” she said, tentatively trying out the phrase she’d picked up from Parker.
He grinned at her poor pronunciation.
Ignoring the reaction, Miranda pointed toward the woman and little boy. “Do you know those people? Are they regular customers?”
The friendly look turned to a scowl. “Why do you want to know about them?”
Parker came up behind her and cleared his throat.
She caught his signal. She wasn’t doing this right. She started over. “I’m sorry, sir. My name is Miranda Steele and this is Wade Parker. We’re private investigators from the Parker Agency in Atlanta.”
Now the man’s brow creased with surprise, but he extended a hand. “Good to know you. I am Misha Bondaruk, owner of this humble shop. Pardon me, but I cannot imagine what you might be investigating in a bookstore.” He glanced back at the woman and boy. “Or whom.”
Guess it did seem odd. “We’re looking for a young man who went missing some time ago,” she explained. “He wanted to go to school here. We’re wondering if he might have frequented your shop then or any time since.”
“Many students come into my shop.”
Vanishing Act Page 7