Wherever She Goes(45)

“That sounds . . .” She purses her lips. “I’m torn between weird and cool.”

“Weirdly cool. Totally up my alley.”

She chuckles. “I’m shocked, really. So, sword-fighting classes for women, at a library. That’s just odd enough that I might actually ask you to send me a link.”

“I’ll do that.”

We go three more steps before she says, “Ellie Milano says Kim didn’t have a son.”

I stop walking. My jaw works. I look at her. “What?”

She says it again, slower. I can’t read her expression, and that only pisses me off more. Ten seconds ago, we’re chatting about sword fighting, and I’m finally relaxing, feeling like I’ve made a connection, and now I get this impenetrable stare, these words, spoken with no preamble, no buffer.

“All right,” I say. “Clearly I have made a horrible mistake, and I hallucinated the fact that I spoke to this woman and her son in Grant Park last week. My daughter hallucinated it, too. It must be hereditary.”

“I don’t doubt that you spoke to someone who looked like Kim Mikhailov.”

“Yep, wasn’t her, though. Which is weird. I mean, this woman and I talked about her job, and she said she worked at a pizza place, and that’s how I found Kim. Oh, and I heard that woman talking Russian on the phone, and both Kim and Denis come from Russian families, but hey, just a coincidence.”

“You got the pizza parlor lead from the woman in the park?”

“No, I pulled it out of my ass. How else would I have known the dead woman worked at a pizza place?”

No change in her expression, as if my sarcasm bounces right off her. She just looks at me. After a moment she says, “Then you did speak to Kim.”

“Kinda said that.”

“Which means the boy who was with her must not have been her son.”

“He called her mama. Why the hell is it so difficult for you people to believe she had a son? A son she was hiding—which is why no one knows about him. You just keep explaining away everything I say—” I cut myself short. “No, never mind. I don’t care. There’s a boy, and he’s safe, and that’s all that matters. Now if you guys can stop Denis Zima, my imaginary boy will stay safe. I have more important things to do than bash my head against this wall.”

I turn and stalk back to my apartment building. Laila Jackson doesn’t follow.



I try to forget about Brandon and Kim. I really do. But thinking about them has temporarily distracted me from the crash-and-burn of my life. When I try to return to composing that letter for Paul, I keep feeling Brandon’s tug.

There is a child. I can entertain doubt, when I get pushback from Laila Jackson, but it only takes a hard reality check to realize there is no other explanation for what I’ve seen and experienced. So why is Laila pushing back?

Is she lying about Ellie Milano?

Why would she?

She would if she’s covering something up. If she’s complicit in all this. If she’s on the payroll of Denis Zima or his father.

Oh my God. Did I really just think that? I sound like exactly what the police have accused me of being: a lady who watches way too much crime TV. I don’t, actually. Sure, I can enjoy a classic or modern mystery novel, but I know that fiction isn’t reality. Ruben didn’t run an international ring of superthieves, able to break through the highest security to steal world-class art. The fact that he employed a hacker meant he was, for his field, very high-tech. Yet we were still breaking into houses with cheap security systems, stealing valuables left lying in drawers and closets. Easy pickings. Ruben selected his targets with care, too, and most times they never even called the cops, because if they did that, they’d invite more scrutiny into their income than they wanted.

When I suspect Laila of being in the Zima family’s pocket, I feel like that layperson who watches too many police dramas. I also know, from living with Paul, that corruption happens. Police, politicians, lawyers . . . Most are good people, but if there’s a way to make a little extra in any profession, someone will.

I want to call Ellie Milano myself and be sure she told Laila she doesn’t have a nephew. I know I shouldn’t. If Ellie calls the Oxford PD to complain, Laila will know it was me. Since there is no missing child, though, I can’t be interfering with the investigation into a missing child, right?

It’s not just idle curiosity that compels me to call. If Ellie is hiding Brandon for Kim, then she needs to know about Zima.

I have Ellie’s number from Kim’s phone records. She answers on the third ring.

“I’m a friend of Kim’s,” I say. “I’m calling about Brandon.”

There’s a pause. Such a long pause. Then a cautious “Brandon?”

“Her son.”

No response. I swear I hear her breathing across the line. Swear I hear that breathing pick up speed.

She says nothing. She just waits, and this tells me what I need to know. There is a Brandon.

An oddly muffled voice speaks in the background. I hear other sounds, too, as if she’s in a busy place.

“I met Kim in Oxford,” I say. “I know she was hiding her son—”

“My sister didn’t have a son.”

“I met Brandon. He’s about five. Blond hair—”