I nodded. “Because promises are irrelevant now.”

The sigh that came out of her was frustrated and angry. “Right.”

“I’ve offered to help you,” I said. “I’m not sure what else you need from me.”

“A lot of times when people offer to help, they don’t mean it,” she said. “They want something.”

“I can’t speak for other people, but I’ve been upfront with you about what I’m doing here in Minneapolis from the beginning,” I told her. “You know what I want. And it has nothing to do with you. You’ve given me the help you said you would. I’m offering to help you now. You don’t want my help? Fine. That’s more time for me to work on finding Elizabeth.”

The traffic started moving slowly again, snow fluttering against the windows.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. I want your help. I want to find Marc.”

“The two guys,” I said. “How are they connected to Marc?”

“He owes them money,” Isabel said. “But I don’t know what for. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“How do you know them?”

“Because I’ve helped them both,” she said. “They were both homeless. I fed them. Got them clothes.”

“And now what do they do?”

“Nothing good,” she said. “Same story with a lot of kids. I can keep them warm, feed them, but I can’t always point them in the right direction.”

I knew that was true. It could be a vicious circle. They couldn’t catch a break so they didn’t think they deserved one. They didn’t think they deserved anything good, so all they looked for was the bad.

“What about the father?” I asked.

The traffic loosened and she pressed harder on the pedal. We surged forward a bit. “He’s a…different story.”

“How?”

“They don’t get along,” she said. “I don’t think it was abusive or anything like that. But from the little bit he shared with me, they couldn’t be in a room together more than five minutes without screaming at one another.”

“So what makes that so different?” I asked. “Plenty of that goes around.”

She switched lanes and pointed the SUV toward the upcoming exit. “His father is high profile.”

“How high profile?”

We exited and came to a stop at the bottom of the ramp, the snow gathering in dirty, wet piles around us.

She looked at me. “How high profile would you consider the head of a crime family?”

EIGHTEEN

Isabel guided the SUV to a street on the west side of the downtown area and parked in front a massive stone church.

“I sit here for awhile,” she explained. “Some will come to us. Then we’ll go walk for a bit.”

I nodded.

She reclined her seat a little and stretched out her legs. “Peter Codaselli. Marc’s father. Reputed leader of all organized crime in the Twin Cities.”

“He run a legit business as a front?”

“Sure,” she said. “But not what you’d think. No construction corporations or waste management companies. Finance. He runs an investment group.”

“That’s different.”

She nodded. “Yeah. He’s an interesting character. He’s big on the social scene, passes himself off as a philanthropist, tries to run in those kinds of circles.”

“Tries?”

“Well, he has the money to move in that crowd and, being who he is, no one is going to tell him no or to get lost,” she said. “But there’s kind of a hush-hush quality to it. He’s there, but he’s not really part of the group.”

Two boys, somewhere in their teens, sidled up to the car and Isabel rolled the window down. She gave them each a bottle of water and handfuls of packaged food. “You two good on blankets tonight?”

They both nodded, their eyes moving nervously to me, scanning me, then back to Isabel.

“We got the ones from last week still,” the one kid said, a mop of brown hair escaping from a navy knit cap. “No one took ‘em.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be around tonight if you need me.”

“Thanks, Iz,” the boy said and they disappeared just as quickly as they’d shown up.

“So, it’s kind of weird,” Isabel continued.

“We know for sure the crime-king thing is good?” I asked. “Not just hung on him because he’s some rich Italian guy?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s real. I checked with people in the department. There’s no doubt. And Marc confirmed it, too.”

“He did?”

“Roundabout way, yeah,” she said. “He didn’t come out directly with it, but I asked enough of the right questions and he gave me enough of the right answers to know it’s true.”

The snow pecked at the windshield. “You said he doesn’t mention mom?”

“Nope. No idea who she is.”

“They aren’t married?”

“He’s on his third next ex-wife.”

“Marc’s mom was number one?”

“Yeah, I believe so.”

The snow was beginning to cover the hood, light, white crystals gathering like sand and I thought about Marc. There were any number of ways the son of a Mafia head could disappear, most of them not by his own choosing. Someone looking to unseat his father. Someone looking to send a message. Retribution. They all sounded cliché, but they all also sounded very real.

“You have any indicators before he disappeared?” I asked. “Anything that didn’t seem right?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve been over it each day since he’s been gone. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe he just got tired of helping. Decided to go do something else.”

She nodded slowly. “Maybe. But I don’t think so. He was excited about the job. That it was real and not something being given to him as a handout.”

I shifted in the seat. “How long was he out here?”

“About six months with me,” she said. “I think almost six before that. So close to a year.”

“But he’s nineteen. So he was legal when he left.”

“Yeah,” she said, sighing. “He was. And I don’t think Codaselli was looking for him or wanted him home. Marc went to see him about a month ago. Not sure why. When he came back, he wouldn’t talk about it. But I think whatever relationship they ever had was gone.”

Any time I looked for someone, particularly a kid, I couldn’t get over the fact that parents were willing to let go of their children. Yes, my view was skewed by Elizabeth’s abduction, but I just couldn’t believe so many parents were willing to let their own kids walk away. I saw it all the time and it never got easier to believe.

More kids showed up at the car, most looking cold, tired and anxious. Isabel knew how to talk to them, treated each one differently. She spoke to them as though they were her friends, like she’d been waiting for them to show up because she’d missed them. She had a terrific way with them and it was clear to me why they trusted her.

Because she cared.

“We need to talk to the father,” I said. The last group had moved on and we were alone.

“I figured you were going to say that.”

“You were only getting a part of the picture. The part Marc wanted you to see. We need to see the other parts. Even if they aren’t pleasant.”

She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. “I know. That’s the stuff I’m not good at, though. Asking questions, digging. I hate being invasive. It’s why the kids trust me. I’m not good at it.”

I stared at the window. The snow was coming down in sheets, clinging to everything it touched, the night more white than black now. I thought of all of the people I’d interviewed over the years, asking them tough questions, embarrassing questions, painful questions. How I’d become almost immune to any discomfort they felt in being asked things they didn’t want a stranger to know the answers to. But it was the only way to help them find what they’d lost, even if they didn’t know it in the moment. They’d yell at me, scream at me, threaten me. I would sit there, dead-faced, wishing the tables were turned and someone was asking me tough questions about Elizabeth because they were so close to finding her.

“That’s okay,” I finally said. “Because I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

NINETEEN