“No, I’m fine.” His accent was thick. It would have given him away even if he’d given a false name. He took a seat across from me.
“What can I help you with?” I fixed the crease in my pants.
“I got your name from the Russian community center,” he began and then paused before the next set of words tumbled out. “I’m not sure if you can—help me, that is. I recently met a girl, and I swear I know her. She is either a twin I never knew existed, or she’s a girl that I attended a funeral for back in 2012.”
His statement was unexpected and intriguing at the same time.
“How’d you know her?”
“I used to dance with her. Knew her family as well as I know my own.” He paused before continuing. “She and I started training together when she was four, and I was nine. But I’ve known her since she was born. Unfortunately, the girl I knew died in a car accident with her parents when she was eight.”
“How old would this girl have been now?” I asked curiously.
“She would be twenty-one.”
“And is the girl you believe to be her the same age?”
“Well, I don’t know. She refused to talk to me. I sensed she recognized me and was afraid. Myshka, or Mouse, that’s what we called her, was easily frightened as a child. She had the same look in her eyes. It’s her,” he said with conviction.
“Do you have a picture of her from before and now?” I asked, fascinated by his story.
“Yes. Here’s a photo of her now. I had to sneak that one. And then this is one from a competition we were in together.” He handed me two images, and I studied them. It could be the same girl.
“That was taken right before she died,” he said.
I studied the old and somewhat frayed picture he indicated. The child at the time was tiny—only seven or eight. Her long brunette hair was pulled back from her face. She had a turquoise sequin dance outfit on and was clutching the hand of a younger version of the man sitting across from me with the biggest smile on her face.
Moving the image closer, I compared it to the more recent photo. He had to have taken it at a dance studio. She had on a pair of pink dance shorts and a cropped T-shirt. She was the epitome of a tiny dancer. Her hair was pulled up into a tight bun, and she sat with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her head was tilted to the side.
“You honestly believe this is the same girl?”
“Yes, and if it is, then there’s something else you will need to know before you agree to take the case.”
“Go on, then,” I said, unprepared for what he would show me. He took out two more photos and slid them over. I took them and waited for him to tell me the connection as my heart raced.
“Do you know who those men are?” he asked.
“Yes, this is Mikhail Romanov, the former Sovietnik. And this is his son, the new Sovietnik, Konstantin. What do they have to do with her?” I asked, pointing to the photo of the girl.
The Romanov family was deeply involved with the Russian Mob. The head of the mob—Stepan Fedorov—and Mikhail Romanov had been friends for longer than I’d been alive. As Sovietnik, Mikhail’s job was to oversee and manage the mob’s operations.
He ensured tasks were carried out efficiently and goals met. He was second-in-command and the link between Fedorov and everyone else. His other job of knowing every moving part of the organization made him invaluable. I stared at the photo in my hand and sighed.
“If she is who I think she is, that man is her grandfather. But that man”—he indicated the other photo of the younger Romanov—“was not her father.” His voice grew quiet.
“Excuse me?” I said, breathing out. “If Konstantin is not her father, then how is Mikhail her grandfather?”
“I have no idea. Konstantin Romanov is the only child of Mikhail Romanov, and he has no children.”
“Maybe Mikhail had another child with a mistress.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Regardless, Mikhail is her grandfather.”
“But how can you be so sure of that?” I needed more than just his word before I made any decision.
“Look, I’m taking a tremendous risk here. However, I’m told you’re the best. Can you help me or not?” he huffed, sounding exasperated.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Have you thought about that? Truthfully, I investigate potential crimes with a specific specialty, and this doesn’t fit that narrative.”
