Wherever She Goes(23)

I snort.

“Aubrey,” Ingrid whispers. To the reporter, she warbles something about stress again as she shunts me off to the staff room.

“You cannot speak like that in front of patrons,” she says as she closes the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She hovers, as if waiting for an argument.

When I don’t give it, she nods slowly and says, “I’m concerned. That’s not like you, Aubrey.”

Actually, it’s totally like me. It’s the me I abandoned when I met Paul. I’m not saying I miss that girl. In some ways, I feel like her older sister, rolling her eyes and saying, “Seriously?” Yet the other part of that girl, the part that had no problem telling a reporter where to shove his shtick? Yeah, I kinda miss her.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m under a lot of stress. About the news clip, I’d like to explain—”

“No need.”

“I’d really like—”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? It’s slow today.” She pats my shoulder, but there’s a hesitancy to it, like patting a Rottweiler.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I—”

“Really. I insist. Take the day off and rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”



I have an unexpected half day off. I’m trying not to freak out about that. In fact, I’m trying to tell myself it’s exactly what I need. The more time I have to investigate, the faster I can vindicate myself.

Of course, the first thing I do is go online, in hopes I’ve already been vindicated. But there’s no update on the case, nothing to indicate the murdered woman has been identified.

Time to get to work. When I left this morning, I took care with my outfit. Dress pants, a white blouse, a dark blazer. Hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Minimal makeup. I leave my contacts out and wear my black-rimmed glasses.

Does the mirror show a woman who could pass for a police detective or federal agent? Yes, and that’s no accident. I won’t tell anyone I’m a cop, but if they draw that conclusion, it isn’t my fault. Or so I tell myself. The truth is that I’m no longer the pissed-at-the-world twenty-year-old who pulls crap like that and doesn’t give a damn. I know better.

It’s 12:10 when I reach the first pizza place on my list. No one there has seen the woman in the photo. On to the next one. I hesitate in the parking lot. Pop’s Pizzeria is a hole-in-the-wall. A tiny take-out parlor in a tiny strip mall. The sign actually reads Pops Pizzeria. It’s that kind of sign, the sort you get done by a friend who has a buzz saw and a few cans of paint and a C in grade school English. It’s either going to have the most amazing pizza ever . . . or the worst. From the lack of cars out front, I’m betting the latter.

I go inside. The counter area is empty, of both customers and staff. When I call “Hello?” I hear voices in the back, speaking Italian. I call again. A door opens and a woman emerges, wiping flour-covered hands on an apron. A mix of yeast and tomato and oregano wafts out, and it smells amazing.

“Five minutes,” she says in heavily accented English. “It is ready in five minutes.”

“I’m not picking up an order,” I say.

“You make order?”

I smile. “I wasn’t planning to, but judging from that smell, I might.” I extend my hand. “Bree Minor. I’m trying to find a missing woman.”

I’m straddling a line, using my maiden name and not calling myself a police officer. I’m still nervous. Still not sure I can pull this off. But for the missing woman and her son, I’m going to try.

I continue. “We have reason to believe she worked at a pizza—”

“Kim.” Before I can speak, she opens the door into the back room and calls out in urgent, rapid-fire Italian.

A man walks out. He’s younger, maybe my age.

“Is Kim okay?” he asks.

I hesitate. I have no idea what police protocol would be in an actual murder investigation. But these people aren’t going to know either, and I’ll have better luck getting details if I admit there’s been a crime.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m investigating a murder.”

I pause a moment, respect for the dead; then I open a manila folder and hold out the printed photo.

The man takes it, and his eyes shut for a second before he nods. “Yes, that’s Kim. She didn’t come in to work yesterday, and I’ve been calling. That isn’t like her. Mamma was worried. I said I’d stop by her place later.”

He bends in front of his mother and talks to her in Italian. She crosses herself and then folds her hands in her lap, her gaze down.

“I’m very sorry,” I say. “But I do thank you for identifying her. I also need to ask about her son.”

The man frowns. “Kim had a son?”

My heart thuds. “Evidently.”

“She never mentioned any kids. Did he live with his father?”

No. Please, no.

“I only know she had a little boy,” I say. “Four or five years old.”

The man frowns, turns to his mother, and says something. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head vehemently.

“Kim did not have any children,” the woman says in English. “I would always tease her, saying she needed to find a nice young man and have babies. Perhaps this woman is not her.”