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“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Ford,” Zimmerman says. “But if what you say is true, you’ve confirmed that you’ve been in touch with her more recently than me. I promise I can get in touch with you next time I talk to her, if there is a next time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like I said, she’s dropped me. For whatever reason, we don’t talk anymore. Odds are you’ll hear from her when she gets out of rehab.”
I turn to Nick. He nods to me.
“Okay, Mr. Zimmerman,” I say, knocking on the glass, telling the driver to pull over. “Thank you for your time. Definitely call me if you hear from Kate. And please let her know I’d like to see her again. You may not be a private detective, but if you hear anything credible about her whereabouts, I’d be grateful. The work of dedicated journalists doesn’t receive its due; I’d be happy to make Ellman Media a significant donation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ford. That’s very kind. If I hear anything, I’ll be in touch.”
“Great.”
Nick lets him out of the car and hands him back his taser.
“Be careful with that thing,” he mutters.
Brendan nods, then goes, jogging toward a subway entrance.
Once we drive off, I turn to Nick.
“What did you get?”
“Zimmerman had two cell phones on him,” he says.
Interesting, but not necessarily earth-shattering.
“Personal and business?” I ask.
Nick shakes his head.
“Unlikely. He had a smartphone and a burner. We cloned them both.”
“Good. Monitor them both personally, Nick. That’s a priority. Update me about any developments immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
We’ll see Brendan’s calls and texts from now on. Whatever he’s doing, we’ll know what it is soon enough. It’s entirely possible Brendan Zimmerman is a dead end — but I don’t think so.
