Marc gave Isabelle a quick, staccato wave. “Nice to see you again.”
There was respect in his voice. Isabelle liked him, but also feared him a bit. There was something dark in him, something he managed to hold at bay, if only barely. His face sometimes betrayed his struggle. His smile was genuine, but tired. His strides long, but somehow faltering, as if he was running a marathon with no end in sight.
She held his hand for a moment longer and looked at his eyes, the small patch of hair his razor missed this morning just above his upper lip.
“Are you okay to work with me tonight?” she asked.
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “It will be my honor, Ms. Templeton. I have great respect for your work.”
“Isabelle, please.”
He simply nodded. “I’ll do my best to look after you as well as Andy would. Please let me know if I can do anything to make our time together more comfortable.”
She wanted to hug him, to wrap him in her arms, but she refrained from doing so, sensing he wouldn’t like it. Instead she ran her hand down the length of his arm.
He flinched but didn’t pull away.
She imagined that he wasn’t touched often, that he didn’t like it, but still longed for human warmth on some level.
“Shall we go find Claire?” she said.
Claire’s phone last pinged in Tribeca. Once there, however, Isabelle didn’t know where she and Marc would have to go to look for her.
They drove in silence to the spot where Claire’s phone last produced GPS coordinates. The site was in the heart of the normally lively neighborhood, the mood seemingly sedated by the cold. The weather forecast predicted snow later tonight. Already the clouds had started to move in, the clear skies from earlier gone. Isabelle wasn’t particularly fond of the cold. She loved the rain, though.
Marc parked the SUV across from a café, the sounds of slow jazz seeping through the closed doors when they stepped out of the vehicle. A man stood smoking on the sidewalk, head hidden under a hoodie. He dragged on the cigarette like he was in a hurry to get out of the cold and back to wherever he came from.
Isabelle zipped up her coat. What did they do now? Look around? Ask if anyone had seen Claire? The shops on this particular street were closed by now, except for a single set of inviting lights a block away.
She walked down the street, Marc a vigilant presence on her right hand. It would probably be a dead end, but it was the only bread crumb to follow. They stepped inside the bodega. The man behind the counter looked up. He was older, Asian, his practiced smile reflecting a lifetime of customer service.
It died when he saw Marc.
Isabelle turned around, signaling for Marc to wait at the door as she approached the man.
“Evening,” she said and smiled. “My name is Isabelle Templeton.”
“Hi.” The gentleman thawed somewhat but didn’t offer his name. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes still fixed on Marc.
“I wonder if you can help me? I’m looking for a woman. Maybe you saw her around here earlier today? Maybe she came in for a water or something to eat.” Isabelle realized she had to do better. She loathed to tell the lie but did so anyway. “It’s my older sister. We fear she may be in danger.”
“Ah,” the man said. This time the smile was warmer, more genuine. “My name is Johnny Bahk.”
She shook his hand, then showed him a picture of Claire that Jam had sent to her phone earlier. He studied it carefully. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. No. I haven’t seen her.”
“Are you sure? Maybe she didn’t come in here. Maybe she just walked by on the street?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head with conviction. “I haven’t seen her. I’m sorry.”
Isabelle nodded and put her phone away. She bowed slightly. “Thank you for your time.”
At the door, the man called her back. “Are you married?”
She turned. “Uhm…no.”
He beamed. “My son is studying programming.”
She held up her hands, laughing. “I’m taken, Mr. Bahk. Sorry. As good as married. Just don’t have the ring yet.”
It didn’t feel like a lie—not if she trusted the dreams, like she’d started to do.
His face fell, but he managed an anemic smile. “Ah, well. All the good ones are always taken.”
She waved good-bye and she and Marc walked back to his car. Back in the warmth of the SUV, she wondered what to do next.
Next to her, Marc looked at her expectantly. “We could knock on some doors. Fake an emergency and talk to some shop owners where Claire had used her credit card?”
Isabelle looked at her watch. She had a bad feeling about tonight. “I don’t think it would help Andy in time.”
“Then I have one more suggestion,” he said.
She looked at him expectantly.
He called Jam on the comm system and synced it with the car’s audio system. “Jam, does Claire often shop in Tribeca or around here?”
“Her credit cards don’t suggest that, no.”
“Okay. Does she have any friends or family in Tribeca?”
“No luck in finding her?”
“No, there’s no sign of her, and I’m unwilling to leave before we’ve tried every angle. Maybe Claire is visiting someone here. Or maybe Kate sent her on an errand. You know she’s completely devoted to Kate. Anything is possible.”
“I suppose,” Jam said.
“Perhaps you should also check if any of the people involved in this case—Kuznetsova, Hampton, Lautrec—doesn’t matter who—live or work in Tribeca?”
“Why go that far?”
“I don’t know. Devotion is a strange emotion. One I encountered many times in interrogation. It’s powerful leverage.”
Isabelle cocked her head at the sudden glint of emotion in Marc’s voice.
“So, you’re saying…” Jam’s voice trailed off.
“Nothing. Just covering all the bases.”
Marc had pulled away as he spoke. He drove slowly through the neighborhood. Isabelle looked out the tinted window, on the lookout for Claire’s chestnut hair, her steady gait.
“I’m running the search,” Jam said. “Might take a while.”
“No problem. We’ll stay in the area.”