“I see. But what does this have to do with Mikolaj? Or with you, for that matter?”
“I’m getting there, Ana.” I bit into another strawberry. “The French police asked for my assistance in finding the girl.”
“And why would they do that?”
“Because that’s what I do. I recover abducted children.”
“You are with what organization? The FBI? CIA? Interpol?”
“None of the above,” I said. “I’m a former U.S. Marshal, but now I work privately. I hunt down estranged parents who have abducted their children and fled overseas to countries that don’t recognize U.S. custody decisions.”
“But that is not what happened to this little girl.”
“No, this little girl was abducted by strangers. Two German men named Dietrich Braun and Karl Finster. I followed them to Berlin. They were hired to do the job by the man I mentioned before—Talik. It’s likely his nephew Alim Sari is involved. A call was recently placed to this office from their flat in Kreuzberg. It’s all I have to go on. It is why I must speak to Dabrowski immediately.”
Ana shook her head, her curly locks swaying from side to side. “But there must be some mistake. A misdialed number perhaps. Mikolaj cannot possibly be involved.”
“Either way,” I said, “I need to find out. And to do that, I need to know where he is.”
She gave it considerable thought, then rose from her chair and said, “There is something I have to check out first.”
I watched through the windowed conference room as Ana strolled down the hall to the office marked MIKOLAJ DABROWSKI. She looked back at me to let me know she wasn’t concealing what she was about to do. To prove, I think, to me and to herself that she wasn’t ashamed of it. She pulled a key ring from her pocket and opened the door.
The shades were drawn in Dabrowski’s office, but I imagined her sorting through his files, looking for this fellow Talik, or Alim Sari. She was in there quite a long while. When she finally stepped out, she had a serious look on her face.
“All right,” she said as she reentered the conference room. “I will tell you where he is, under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I am coming with you to speak to him.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I work alone.”
“Then you will have to wait until he returns, as I said before.”
“You found something in his office,” I said. “What did you find?”
“His appointment book. Tomorrow morning is marked with the initials T.Y. It is not enough to convince me, but as long as I am with you we have an excuse for being together.”
“An excuse?”
“I can tell him you are my lover.”
Last time I tried to win an argument with a lawyer it went bad for me. Last time I tried to win an argument with a woman it turned out downright ugly. From the moment I first laid eyes on her, it struck me that Anastazja Staszak was adept at being both. So what choice did I have?
“All right, then,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”
Maybe a mistake. Probably a mistake. Thing about mistakes is, you don’t usually realize they’re mistakes until well after you made them. I knew this was probably a mistake going in.
“Now,” I said, “tell me where we’re going.”
“Krakow. Mikolaj keeps a home there near his parents.”
I pushed out my chair and stood. “Are you okay riding on a motorcycle?”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “I drive one to work every day.”
Chapter 19
The three-hour drive from Warsaw to Krakow was pretty much a straight shot. Ana and I stopped once in a small café in Kielce and sat across from each other, sipping espressos.
“So,” I said softly, “the T.Y. on Dabrowski’s appointment book was enough to convince you to bring me to him.”
The left side of her lip turned up in a smile, revealing a dimple on her left cheek. “There was one other thing. Maybe it is something, maybe it is nothing.”
“What is it?” I said.
“When I first went into Mikolaj’s office I dialed his mobile number, hoping to get in touch with him to sort this out.”
“And?”
“And I heard a ringing in his desk drawer. I opened the drawer and found his mobile sitting atop his files.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So?”
“So, Simon, we always tell our clients, if you are up to something nefarious, do not bring your mobile.”
I nodded. “GPS, cellular towers, and all that. Led me to more than a few targets over the years.”
“Exactly. These wireless records are used all the time by police and prosecutors to place defendants at or near the scene of the crime at precisely the right time.”
“So you think Dabrowski left his phone behind on purpose.”
Ana shook her head. “That I cannot say. But I think it is worth inquiring.”
“What exactly is your relationship with this Dabrowski?”
“It is complicated,” she said, her eyes darting away from mine. “I have worked for him since I became a lawyer. Ten years now.”
That was all she’d say on the matter, though I suspected there was significantly more history. I decided not to push the issue, though. At least not yet.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “The best plan is to locate Dabrowski tonight and watch him tomorrow morning. There is nothing to be gained by making him aware of our presence.”
Ana shook her head adamantly. “No, I refuse to spy on him. Not without further evidence. We will go to him today. I have brought his mobile phone. I will deliver it to him. It makes sense. He is never without it. I will say I heard it ringing as I was passing by his office and was sure he needed it. The office has no other way of getting in touch with him in Krakow.”
“And then?”
“Then I will ask him what his plans are tomorrow. If he lies to me, if he fails to mention a meeting or something involving a T.Y., then we will watch him.”
*
Krakow, of course, was victim to a brutal past. The city had served as capital of Germany’s General Government following the Nazi invasion of Poland at the start of World War II. Krakow’s Jewish population was herded into a walled zone known as the Krakow Ghetto. From there Jews were transported to a network of nearby concentration camps known as Auschwitz, where they were systematically executed. Hitler’s “Final Solution of the Jewish Question.” Those spared the gas chamber were killed by firing squad, or died of starvation, forced labor, disease, or medical experiments.
Mikolaj Dabrowski’s flat was located on Grodzka in the Old Quarter near Market Square. We parked the bike and walked, hand in hand, at Ana’s insistence.
“Mikolaj would not believe that I drove all this way alone just to give him his mobile phone. Better we say that you are my boyfriend. We met at Paparazzi; it is a posh cocktail bar in Warsaw. I told you the situation and you suggested we take a road trip, because you have never seen Krakow.” She looked me up and down as we walked. “You are a criminal lawyer, too. Only white-collar crimes. You work on Madison Avenue in New York City.”
I stopped her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to make this Dabrowski fellow jealous.”
Ana looked me in the eyes. “You want to take me to Los Angeles because I told you I have always been dying to see Hollywood.”
I stared into those emerald eyes and grinned, genuinely amused for the first time in days.
Chapter 20
Dabrowski’s flat was larger than I had expected. It was elegantly furnished, full of light and warmth. Dabrowski appeared surprised to see Ana, but not overly so. He did, however, seem quite stunned to see me.
Once Ana introduced me, Dabrowski quickly asked, “So, what brings you two to Krakow?”
Ana reached into her handbag and plucked out Dabrowski’s phone. I watched his reaction. Or nonreaction, that is. He certainly didn’t look grateful.
“Yo
u drove all the way here to give me this?” Dabrowski tried a smile but it didn’t work well.
“Well, not only for that,” Ana said. “It was Simon’s idea, actually. He has never seen Krakow and he suggested a trip.”
“I want to take her to Los Angeles, too,” I said. “She’s been dying to see Hollywood.”
Dabrowski nodded. “So she has told me. Many times.”
“Simon and I are staying in Krakow tonight,” Ana said. “I thought maybe the three of us could have lunch tomorrow.”
“Oh, I wish I could,” Dabrowski said. He still had not invited us to sit down. “But it would be impossible tomorrow. I am spending the day at Jagiellonian University. Professor Levitsky requested I speak to his class about the practice of criminal law.”
“That is too bad,” Ana said with the slightest hesitation. “Well, maybe once you return to Warsaw, we can all have dinner. Simon will not be leaving until next week.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Dabrowski said, finally smiling. He was handsome when he smiled, his round face contrasting nicely with sharp features and dark eyes that seemed they could pierce through flesh. “Something I will look forward to.”
Dabrowski shook my hand, firm and steady, and we said our goodbyes.
Once we were outside, Ana said, “So, first thing tomorrow, we stake out his flat, and when he leaves, we follow him.”
“I take it he didn’t convince you he was speaking at the university tomorrow,” I said.
“Not particularly, no.”
She kept walking, fast. As though she wanted to get as far away from Dabrowski’s apartment as possible.
“Is it that there’s no possible link between Professor Levitsky and the T.Y. you found in Dabrowski’s planner?”
“No,” she said, lowering her brows. “It is that Professor Levitsky retired from the university last semester.”
I shrugged. “Isn’t it possible that Levitsky is covering for another professor, or visiting an old class, or even serving as an adjunct?”
“None of that is possible.” Her voice was suddenly full of sharp edges.
“Why not?”
“Because two months after Professor Levitsky retired, he suffered a stroke and dropped dead.”
I stopped, pulled her back to me. “Are you certain, Ana?”
She turned and stared up at me, her bright green eyes watering. “Quite certain,” she said. “I spoke at Levitsky’s funeral.”
Chapter 21
We checked into a thirteenth-century guesthouse on Tomasza, a few blocks from the main square. It wasn’t my first choice for accommodations, but Ana suggested I live less like a tourist and more like a world traveler. We took two rooms on the third floor, one right next to the other. There were only six rooms in the entire guesthouse, and the other four were vacant. After I showered and changed suits, I met Ana downstairs and she asked if I was hungry. I told her I was starved. I had set my sights on Aqua e Vino, a trendy Italian restaurant on Wiślna, but Ana rolled her eyes at the mere mention of it.
“You can have Italian food anywhere in the world, Simon. It would be silly to eat it here in Poland.”
My stomach didn’t think so. “All right then, where?”
She insisted on Pierogarnia, an informal eatery on Sławkowska. So we went there, sat across from each other on old wooden benches, hovering over an old wooden table. I ordered a bottle of Zywiec, one of the more popular Polish beers, and stared at the limited menu.
“You look anxious,” Ana said.
“All they have are pierogi,” I said. It was true. More than twenty distinct dishes, all pierogi.
How many different things can you stuff into a bloody dumpling? I thought.
“What is wrong with pierogi?” she said.
“Nothing, it’s just I’ve never had one, and—”
She reached over the table and smacked me. She was genuinely angry.
“How can you never have pierogi?” she said. “You have been to Poland before, yes?”
I shrugged. “A few times. Mostly up north, near either the German or Russian border, for work.”
She reached over the table and smacked me again. “And you never tried pierogi?”
“No,” I said. “What’s the big deal? And stop hitting me, by the way.”
“It is a sin to come to Poland and not try pierogi.” There was a dead-serious look on her face, a fierceness in those green eyes.
I stared down at the menu. “Well, I guess I have no choice tonight, do I?”
“What do you mean, you have no choice? You can have them stuffed with meat, sauerkraut, mushrooms, fruit, cheese, anything you want. How can someone not like pierogi?” She was genuinely puzzled.
“All right,” I said. “You’ve made your point. You’re preaching to the converted. I’ll have mine stuffed with cheese and pretend I’m eating a ravioli.”
I could see she wanted to reach over the table and smack me again, but my look caused her to hold back.
“You must start with barszcz,” she said.
“Now what is that?”
“Beetroot soup with lemon and garlic.”
“Great,” I said. “My fantasy dish.”
The waitress came over and took our orders. Ana sipped her wine as I contemplated a table for one at Aqua e Vino.
“So, are you an only child, Simon?” Ana said a few minutes after the waitress took off.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you seem to need to get your way all the time.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “Are you out of your head? Projecting a little, maybe? We’re staying in a goddamn haunted house and I’m eating dumplings for dinner when I haven’t eaten a proper meal in over a week. How am I getting my way?”
“I did not say that you get your way,” she said with indignation. “I said only that you need to. So, am I right? Are you an only child?”
“I had a sister,” I said.
“Had?”
I lowered my voice. “My father and I moved to the States when I was five, left my mother and sister behind in London.”
“Why?”
“Because my father’s a shit,” I said.
“Well, what about your mother and sister? When is the last time you saw them?”
“I just told you. When I was five.”
Her eyes widened. “You have not contacted them since you grew up?”
“Why should I?” I said. “They never reached out to me.”
“This is terrible,” she said, shaking her head. “It makes me very sad.”
“Don’t be too sad,” I told her, watching our waitress step out of the kitchen. “Here come our pierogi.”
*
“Well?” Ana said as I took my last bite. “What do you think? Delicious, yes?”
They were, but I refused to give her the satisfaction. “They were all right.”
She was every bit as offended as if she’d made them herself. “Well, maybe we can find you a discarded hot dog lying in the street on the way back to the hotel.”
“Guesthouse,” I corrected her. “So, Ana, tell me. Were you an only child?”
“Of course not. I have an older brother named Marek. He is a politician in Warsaw.”
The waitress came by and asked if we’d like dessert. We both declined. Then we fought over the check. I eventually won, but it was a struggle—a struggle made worse when I told her it wasn’t my money but Vince Sorkin’s.
“The father of the missing girl?” She snatched the check out of my hand for the third time. “He cannot pay for our pierogi! The poor man.”
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “We eat pierogi, he gets his daughter back. It’s a fair deal.”
It was the first comment I’d made about pierogi that actually made her smile instead of reaching over the table and smacking me.
“Now that you’ve had some wine,” I said, “care to tell me about your relationship with Mikolaj Dabrowski?”
The smile vanished from her
face. “I told you, it is compli—”
“Complicated, yes, I know. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get my mind around it, and we certainly have the time to kill.”
Ana sighed, swept her curly hair behind her sizable ears but the locks didn’t stay in place. “You are going to think I am this silly girl who has jumped into bed with every boss she has ever had since she was sixteen years old.”
“Well, have you?”
That earned me a dirty look, her eyes blazing in the candlelight. “No.”
“Then why in the world would I think that?”
“Because I jumped into bed with Mikolaj. I was a stupid girl, just out of university. I was eager to begin a life. But for an entire decade I stayed in this job, going to bed with him a few times every year and always hoping there will be something more.” She shook her head. “Still, I am stupid, I guess.”
I didn’t say anything.
Ana gave it a moment. “So you are not going to say anything?” she said, displaying that raw anger again.
I thought about my choices. Went with, “Sometimes it’s difficult to move on.”
She carefully considered my words, nodded. “And you? You are not married?”
“Widowed,” I said.
“I am so sorry. May I ask you what happened?”
“Suicide,” I said.
“Your wife, she was depressed?”
“Not always,” I said.
“Something happened to make her sad?”
“Our daughter was taken,” I said.
Ana drew a deep breath. I knew she was afraid to ask more questions. Most people were, once they heard those words. But she’d think about it. They all did. And I didn’t want that hanging over the rest of the evening. And I sure as hell didn’t want her thinking about it tomorrow morning when it was time to follow Dabrowski. So I told her.
“I was in Bucharest,” I said slowly, “to apprehend a fugitive. My wife, Tasha, and I were living in D.C. with our six-year-old daughter, Hailey. Beautiful girl, my daughter. Well, both of them were. Beautiful, I mean. Hailey looked just like her mother. Anyway, we lived in a house in Georgetown. A nice house, as nice as the one my father owned in Rhode Island, the likes of which I never expected to be living in again. Not as long as I was in law enforcement. But Tasha’s family had money. Real money. Old money. They insisted on buying us the house as our wedding present. I refused, but Tasha wanted it and she wouldn’t relent. So it was ours.
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 9