Vanishing Act

by Linsey Lanier

  From the look on his face, she could tell Parker had the same question.

  As if in reply, the officer slowed the vehicle.

  Miranda’s nerves went on alert as she craned her neck to peer out the window.

  Two more police cars and an ambulance were parked along the river side of the road, their lights flashing. Two policemen were directing the traffic to keep people from stopping to gawk.

  Nearby a colorful truck stood with its doors open. A man with a camera on his shoulder was filming a nice-looking woman holding a microphone. A news reporter.

  Their chauffeur made a U-turn, pulled onto the stretch of pavement where the other vehicles sat, and came to a stop.

  He got out, opened their door and waited for his guests to emerge. “This way, please.”

  He led them to a low road barrier at the edge of the asphalt. The three of them climbed over it and trudged down the slope of a snowy field to the icy river bank.

  As the reporter’s rapid Ukrainian rang in her ears, Miranda saw what the commotion was about.

  She glanced at Parker. His face was hard.

  Along the bank, more officers in thick dark coats and hats were gathered around a large lump on the ground. Some were taking photos, others were taking specimen samples. Miranda didn’t have to guess what they were looking at.

  They had pulled someone out of the water. Someone who hadn’t made it.

  With Parker at her side, she hurried over to the group and looked down. Chills rippled through her.

  The body, if you could still call it that, lay on the snow, a bluish, purplish bloated mass. Most of the clothes were gone, and the ice caked on the thick waxy substance that had formed over the skin told Miranda the person had been in the water a good while. As did the mangled face that had been picked at by the fish.

  It was unrecognizable.

  Wearing a black wool coat that matched his dark mustache, and a black cylindrical astrakhan hat, Inspector Gurka tromped slowly up the bank to his visitors. Looking even grimmer than he had last night, he greeted them.

  “Good morning, Ms. Steele, Mr. Parker. Thank you for coming.”

  Parker nodded. “Good morning, Inspector.”

  Gurka pointed back to the shaken figure he had been talking to. “A man who was ice fishing found the body this morning and called the police. The mass appeared under the ice and got caught in his line.”

  Good Lord. That couldn’t have been pleasant.

  “It took a team of five more than an hour to break through the ice and get him out.”

  Sounded risky, too. “And you think—”

  “We cannot identify him, of course,” Gurka said.

  But it could be Sasha. Miranda turned to Parker.

  The dour lines in his face were deeper in the sunlight. She could tell he was thinking the same thing.

  “Whoever it is did not meet with his demise fourteen years ago,” he said.

  True. He’d be a skeleton by then. “So he ended up here recently.”

  If it even was a he. Couldn’t really tell from the face. The hair and scalp were pretty much gone, too. No way to tell the person’s age.

  Miranda inched closer to the mound on the snow. Bracing herself, she bent over to study the form.

  The darkened torso was bulky like Sasha, but that could have been from the bloat. What was left of the lips were swollen and distorted. The eyes were missing. And the throat—that didn’t look right, even in this condition.

  She pointed down. “There’s something around his neck.”

  The techs around her began chattering to each other in Ukrainian. She stepped back as one of them took several pictures of the throat area, then gingerly two others rolled him over. Stuck to bits of what had been the person’s coat was some sort of satchel.

  The strap of it had somehow gotten wrapped around the deceased’s neck.

  After taking numerous photos and samples, someone cut the strap. A technician carefully laid the bag out on a sheet of plastic another pair had spread on the ground.

  With Parker at her side, Miranda peered down at it.

  The satchel was large enough to carry a few notepads and a small laptop. It must have been brown leather originally, but the water and mold had turned it to the same grayish-green as most of the body.

  It had a single flap, held together with two buckled straps. With gloved hands and a tool he’d gotten from a nearby kit, the technician gently urged the straps open and drew back the flap.

  Inside he found some cash, papers that were little more than pulp, a waterlogged cell phone, and something that might actually help.

  A passport.

  Still on his knees, the tech said something in Ukrainian to Gurka.

  “English, please,” Gurka grunted at him. “We have Americans here.”

  “Sorry, sir.” He stared up at Miranda and Parker, excitement in his pale blue eyes, a few strands of light blonde hair sticking out from his dark wool cap and blowing in the wind. “I said I think we should take this to the lab for processing. It might disintegrate if we examine it any more here.”

  “Good thinking, Anton,” Gurka said. “Bag and identify everything and let me know when you have something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait,” said a second tech, whose hand was still in the bag. “I think I have something else here.”

  He pulled out his fist, then held out something made of metal and plastic in his gloved palm.

  Miranda looked down at it and her heart began to race. “It’s a flash drive.”

  Gurka grimaced. “It is probably unreadable.”

  Good point. If it had been submerged in water as long as that body, it wouldn’t do anyone any good.

  Parker bent over and took a closer look at the device in the tech’s palm. “I might be able to salvage it.”

  Gurka straightened with surprise. “Really?”

  “I said might. I can give it a try.”

  Miranda pointed at the collection of things from the bag. “Maybe we could get that cell phone working, too.”

  Gurka turned to his techs. “Bag up the flash drive and the cell, and I will take them to my office.”

  Anton did as he said, carefully marking the bags. Then he handed them to the Inspector.

  Gurka gestured toward the lot where the cop lights were still flashing. “My vehicle is over there,” he said to Parker and Miranda. “If you would not mind my driving you to the station.”

  As far as transportation, it was fine. Miranda didn’t like the idea of going back to the police station, but if that flash drive told them this body was Sasha Pavlovych, it would be well worth it.

  She turned to Parker. “I’m game if you are.”

  Despite Parker’s earlier resistance about this case, he nodded and turned to Gurka with a confident air. “We’d be happy to ride with you, Inspector.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It took longer than it should have to drive the few kilometers to police headquarters in Gurka’s black police issue Prius.

  The rush hour traffic was in full force, and the twisted path through the tangle of cars and the rows of gilded buildings to the majestic square and the peach-colored edifice took almost forty minutes.

  Gurka’s vehicle was unmarked, and Miranda wondered if the Inspector had a set of blue lights he could have used. Probably wouldn’t have done much good. There was no space to squeeze between cars.

  And finally they got there.

  This time they headed for the third floor of the stately building, and Gurka ushered them into his office.

  Gurka’s workspace was larger than Miranda expected for a policeman. And fancier. The walls were papered in a gray textured baroque design. A tall window with heavy tan drapery stood behind a shiny walnut desk covered with papers. A matching credenza sat behind the desk. It was covered with framed photographs. Another Ukrainian flag stood in the corner.

  All very governmental.

  Gurka stacked up the papers and set th
em on the credenza to clear off space, then placed the two plastic bags holding the electronics in the middle of the desk.

  “We’ll need paper towels and some rubbing alcohol, if you have it,” Parker told him.

  Gurka nodded, left the room and returned a moment later with a large stack of brown paper towels, several pairs of plastic gloves, and a tall plastic bottle with Cyrillic lettering and warning labels.

  Parker turned to Miranda. “Would you like to handle the cell phone?”

  “Sure. I’ll just follow your lead.” Becker usually handled the tech stuff.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Gurka told them as he took his seat in the high back leather chair behind the desk.

  Miranda settled into a cushioned guest chair next to Parker, pulled on a pair of gloves, and got to work.

  After donning his own set of gloves, Parker spread a portion of the paper towels in front of them four sheets thick. Then he reached for the bag with the cell phone and handed it to her.

  She opened it and pulled out the cell. Water spilled onto the towels soaking them through. The air took on a fishy odor.

  Gurka handed her more towels and she wiped up the mess, then set the phone down on a dry spot.

  Meanwhile, Parker opened the bag containing the flash drive and dried its exterior.

  He studied it a moment then turned to Gurka. “Do you have a small screwdriver?”

  “I do.” Gurka opened a drawer and produced a tiny tool.

  Taking it from him, Parker gently worked at the case for a few minutes, then at last pried the pieces open, exposing the circuit board inside. He took another paper towel and gently wiped up as much of the moisture as he could.

  Then he dabbed the rubbing alcohol on another towel and wiped it some more.

  Miranda picked up the screwdriver, and copying Parker’s movements with the flash drive, used it to pry open the cell phone case.

  There was a lot more moisture inside the cell case than the drive, and she went through more towels trying to get it up. At last she had the skeleton pieces and circuitry lined up on the paper next to the drive.

  “It will take at least an hour for these to dry completely,” Parker said.

  At that moment, Miranda’s stomach decided to rumble.

  Parker looked displeased with himself. He hadn’t kept up his usual feeding schedule for her. They hadn’t eaten since that lavish lunch yesterday.

  “Your officer came to our door before we had breakfast,” he explained.

  “How rude of me.” With a polite bow, Gurka got to his feet. “I know of a very nice cafe down the street from here. They have excellent lattes. Why don’t you let me treat both of you?”

  He sure was being nice. But why turn down a free meal?

  “Sure,” Miranda said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gurka’s café turned out to be pretty nice.

  A cozy spot on the edge of the square near the blue-and-gold domed St. Michael’s cathedral. One of the famous tourist attractions in Kiev, he explained.

  Surrounded by whitewashed brick walls and sitting in a booth upholstered in a colorful Eastern European pattern, they stuffed themselves with flavorful borscht laden with cabbage and onions along with the beets, freshly baked rye bread, mouthwatering potato pancakes, and sour pickles. Miranda always drank her coffee black, but she had to admit the Inspector was right abut the lattes here. They were excellent.

  With milk swirled into a pretty artistic flower pattern on top, the espresso was strong and rich and delicious.

  Gurka stirred a large dollop of sour cream into his soup. “Tell me more about the young man you were hired to find.”

  Miranda was surprised by his question, but she didn’t hold back, and neither did Parker.

  They told Gurka about Mr. P’s visit to the penthouse the other night, their flight over, the dinner with Sasha’s family, and what the family had told them about the young man who had left home at eighteen.

  With a nod from Parker, Miranda told the Inspector the worst part. About the rape of Sasha’s mother and the fight with his father.

  “None of them are sure Sasha is his son, but they still love him and want to know what happened to him,” she concluded, reaching for her latte for fortification.

  The story of what had happened to Sasha’s mother still unsettled her.

  As they finished the meal, Gurka gazed out the window, his short forehead furrowed as if he were questioning the meaning of life.

  “Very sad,” he murmured. “Soviet times were not good.”

  He looked like he was about to launch into a political diatribe when his cell went off.

  Raising a finger he answered it. He spoke to someone in Ukrainian, then hung up and rose to his feet.

  “That was Dr. Loboda, our medical examiner. She has some result for us.”

  Miranda wiped her mouth and rose while Parker did the same.

  That sounded promising.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The ME’s office was in a different area from the stately government buildings in the square. Gurka drove them several kilometers to the west to a plain brick three-story structure located in a quiet, ordinary looking neighborhood.

  From the outside no one would suspect this was the morgue. Unless they could read the signs.

  With Parker at her side, Miranda got out of the Prius and followed the Inspector through a back door and down a long hospital-like hall.

  They went through a large set of double-doors, and Gurka waved his badge and jabbered to security people in Ukrainian, evidently telling them he had guests and they were to be admitted.

  There was more button pushing and badge swiping, but after another minute or so, she and Parker entered the brightly lit autopsy room.

  It was similar to other such rooms Miranda had seen.

  Around the perimeter stood mobile file bins, chairs, and laptop desks. Plastic bins of various colors were placed here and there, the colors serving as a coding system for items she didn’t want to think about to be disposed of. There were several stainless steel tables with matching washing stations and shelving units that held knives and scalpels and other cutting and digging instruments. Large scales for weighing body parts hung from the ceiling.

  The room had a chill to it, but the smell, of course, was the worst part. Ignoring the obnoxious odor, Miranda gazed across the room at the mound lying on one of the tables.

  A woman was bent over it. As soon as she saw she had visitors, she covered the body with a thin white blanket, removed her mask and gloves and came over to greet them.

  She nodded in a formal way. “Inspector Gurka. Are these the American detectives your team has told me about?”

  Gurka gave her a quick nod. “They are. This is Wade Parker and Miranda Steele.” Gurka exchanged a familiar look with the doctor that said despite the formality, they’d worked together for some time. He turned to his guests. “This is Dr. Loboda, our pathologist.”

  The doctor gave each of their hands a brisk shake.

  Miranda put Dr. Loboda at about thirty-eight or so. She was a tall thin woman with a long narrow face and a no-nonsense expression. She wore her light brown hair pulled back in a tight band at the nape of her neck. In her crisp white lab coat, she had the air of someone not to be trifled with.

  “Our American detectives are working a missing persons case,” Gurka said.

  Dr. Loboda raised a pencil thin brow. “And you think you have found him?”

  Parker gave the woman a solemn smile. “That’s for you to tell us, Doctor.”

  Her expression grew somber. “Unfortunately, I cannot tell you much, yet. What I can say is that he is male.”

  “Okay,” Miranda said. At least that part matched Sasha.

  “He is over here.” She led them across the room to the long silver table where she’d been working. She stared down at it a moment, as if deciding whether to pull back the blanket or not.

  Miranda was glad she didn’t. She’d seen
enough of the mangled corpse earlier.

  “I have only just started, but I felt what I have found so far warranted my phone call.”

  “And what have you found?” Gurka asked.

  “As it typically does, the Dnieper froze in mid-December this year, so most likely he has been submerged since then. As best I can tell, he was in the water two to three months. And I found a bullet wound in his chest.”

  What?

  “He was shot?” Gurka sounded surprised.

  “Yes.”

  The Inspector stroked his mustache, taking that in.

  Miranda was shocked. She glanced at Parker and saw anger on his handsome face. Had they come all this way to discover Sasha had been murdered? Although it had always been a possibility, the idea stunned her.

  “That was the cause of death?” she asked the doctor. “A gunshot wound?”

  Loboda shook her head. “The bullet did not kill him immediately, but he must have fallen into the river a very short time later. His lungs were full of water.”

  Fallen or was thrown in.

  “After that long, his lungs would have filled with water, anyway,” Parker pointed out.

  The doctor gazed at him as if surprised by his knowledge. “Yes, Mr. Parker. But he would have floated for some time. The Dnieper is busy in the fall. Someone would have seen him. I believe he was shot on the river bank or on a bridge. He fell into the Dnieper and sank. The temperature of the water delayed putrefaction until the buildup of methane, carbon dioxide, and hydrogen sulfide brought him to the surface recently.”

  “So the cause of death is drowning,” Miranda said.

  “Technically. But the bullet wound would have killed him in the next few moments.”

  Miranda thought of Gurka’s nephew, shot by some unidentifiable assailant he was certain came from Udar. Her heart broke for both of these victims.

  “So your conclusion is homicide?” Gurka said.

  “Yes. I do not believe I will find anything to contradict that.”

  Parker stared down at the body. “Dr. Loboda, do you know who he is?”