Run Away(38)

Anything to rescue his child.

Protect her. Save her.

Some father he’d turned out to be.

“She’s probably around here somewhere,” Rocco said. “You can look for her, man, I can’t blame you for trying. But she’s a junkie. Even if you find her, this story won’t have a happy ending.”

*



Cornelius led the way back to his apartment. When he closed the door behind them, Simon reached into his coat pocket and took out the gun.

“Here,” Simon said, holding it out toward him.

“Keep it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Cornelius said.

“Do you think Rocco will be able to find her?”

“With that reward money?”

Simon had ended up making a simple offer to Rocco: Find Paige and get $50,000.

“Yeah,” Cornelius said. “If she’s still down here, he’ll find her.”

There was a knock on Cornelius’s door.

“Put that gun back in your pocket,” Cornelius whispered. Then raising his voice: “Who’s there?”

What sounded like a little old lady with an accent—Polish, Russian, Eastern European maybe—said, “It’s Lizzy, Mr. Cornelius.”

Cornelius opened the door. The woman was as voice-advertised—small and old. She wore a strange white gown of some sort, long and flowing, almost something you’d wear to bed. Her gray hair ran down her back, loose and unkempt. The hair seemed to be swaying from a breeze, even though there was none.

“Something I can do for you, Miss Sobek?” Cornelius said.

The old woman peered around Cornelius with her huge eyes and spotted Simon. “Who are you?” she asked him.

“My name is Simon Greene, ma’am.”

“Paige’s father,” Cornelius added.

The old woman gave Simon a look so heavy he almost stepped back. “You can still save her, you know.”

Her words chilled him.

“Do you know where Paige is?” Simon asked.

Miss Sobek shook her head, the long gray hair dancing across her face like a bead curtain. “But I know what she is.”

Cornelius cleared his throat, trying to move this along. “Did you want something, Miss Sobek?”

“Someone is upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“On the third floor. A woman. She just sneaked into Paige’s apartment. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Thank you, Miss Sobek. I’ll go check right now.”

Cornelius and Simon stepped back into the corridor. Miss Sobek hurried away.

“Why did she come to you with this?” Simon asked, following him down the corridor.

“I’m not just a tenant.”

“You’re the super?”

“I’m the owner.”

They headed up the stairs and down the hall. The yellow tape on the apartment door—blocking off the murder scene, Simon reminded himself—was torn. Cornelius reached out for the knob. Simon realized that he had—intentionally? subconsciously?—put his hand on the gun in his pocket. Is that what happens when you carry? Is it always there, by your side, like some kind of pacifier that calms or gives comfort in stressful situations?

Cornelius flung the door open. A woman stood there. If she was startled by their interruption, she was doing a good job of keeping it to herself. She was short and squat, maybe Latina, with a blue blazer and jeans.

She spoke first. “Are you Simon Greene?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Elena Ramirez. I’m a private detective. I need to talk to your daughter.”

*



Elena Ramirez showed them a fancy embossed business card, a private investigator’s license of some kind, and an ID showing she was a retired FBI agent. They were all back in Cornelius’s apartment now. The two men sat in leather armchairs while Elena Ramirez took the green tufted sofa.

“So where is your daughter, Mr. Greene?” she asked.

“I don’t understand. Your card says you’re from Chicago.”

“That’s correct.”

“So why do you want to talk to my daughter?”

“It involves a case I’m working on,” Ramirez said.

“What case?”

“That I can’t say.”

“Miss Ramirez?”

“Please call me Elena.”

“Elena, I’m not really up for games. I don’t care what your case is and I don’t have any reason to be cagey, so I’m going to be forthright and I hope you will be too. I don’t know where my daughter is. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to locate her. I basically have no leads other than the fact that she’s probably getting high within a one-square-mile radius of where we now are. Following me so far?”

“You bet,” Elena said.

“So now you come along—a private eye from Chicago no less—and want to talk to my daughter. I’d love you to talk to her. There’s nothing I’d like more, in fact. So maybe we can help each other out by cooperating?”

Simon’s phone buzzed. He had it in his hand, constantly checking for any text updates, feeling that phantom vibration thing every ten seconds. This one was real.