Page 55 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

At least not too much.

“What if…” I set the slice of toast on my plate and poke my eggs. “What if we called in reports for Zoya to different departments? See where the calls are transferred? Who shows up?”

He looks curious. “And then?”

“And then, we compare the names to public lists of the departments. Track them just like the galleries.”

His grin is small but encouraging. “That’s my clever fox.”

***

Several days after my brilliant idea cropped up during breakfast, I’m sitting with Pavel in his office, huddling over a series of lists at the conference table. The size of the office no longer intimidates me at this point. I’m starting to prefer the spacious setup here to his office upstairs.

I’ve got the tip of my finger holding a place on a department list while my phone is cradled between my ear and shoulder. I go through the same spiel I’ve been using for the past week: “Yes, I’m calling about a missing person’s report for Zoya Malinskaya—Great, I can hold—Hi, who am I speaking to? Yes, I have pictures…”

Pavel waits nearby with a pen in his hand.

I nod to him and say, “Hi, Detective Jared Holt—Yes, I have pictures, I think—Where’s your department located?”

As I repeat the address, Pavel writes it down. I wrap up the call after answering a few simple questions and set the burner phone on the table. I peek at the notepad in front of Pavel and then at the list of names under the department my finger is on.

I sit back with a sigh. “Checks out.”

“Try this department next.”

I go through the motions like a robot, nodding and doing my best to keep a pleasant tone. It’s discouraging when I’ve made dozens of these calls already, each one as informative as the last—which isn’t very informative at all.

Still, we have a small list. And it’s growing. It’s just taking forever.

I perk up when the line clicks in my ear. A rough but kind voice says, “This is Captain Sharp.”

“Hi, I have information about Zoya Malinskaya.”

“One moment.” The line clicks again, and I realize I’m on hold. When it clicks thrice more, the man returns, saying, “What do you know?”

I blink with surprise. Most cops tend to ask differently. But maybe I’ve just been on the phone for too long.

“I think I found where she’s staying,” I state plainly. “But I’m not too sure. I have some pictures I took on my phone.”

“Did she seem nervous? Happy? Panicked?”

I shake my head. “No, she was just walking.”

“Was she heading toward a building or a car?”

“I’m not sure where she was headed.”

He clears his throat. “Did she have anything on her? A cell phone? A bag? Did she seem like she was on the run?”

“I just have pictures of her.”

“Was she holding her stomach?”

I freeze.

The way this guy is asking questions is weird. I’ve heard it before. Not the same phrasing, but the same prying tone for sure. But above all, there’s something almost threatening about howfriendlyhe sounds.

“I have pictures,” I offer. “That’s all I have.”

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