They Disappeared

“Jeff, look, we’re not there yet. I don’t know exactly what we have.”

“It’s my wife and son, tell me! I’m a firefighter. I’ve been to ‘scenes,’ Cordelli, bad ones. Other people will be gawking at the site. I have a right to be there, you know I do.”

“Jeff, I’ll call you back.”

“No, I need to know.”

At that moment Sheri and Jeff heard a distant siren that was approaching her area. Jeff figured that the police might also be acting on the Dalfinis’ address. If that was the case, he didn’t want to wait for them.

“Tell me the location now!” Jeff glanced out the window down the street. His cab was still waiting. “I swear I’ll get it, one way or another.”

Cordelli let a beat pass before relenting.

“Got a pen and paper?”

Cordelli recited the location. Jeff copied it on the newsprint border of a newspaper on Sheri’s coffee table.

“What was that all about?” Sheri said.

“The NYPD have found something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know exactly but I have to go.” Jeff collected his wallet and things from Sheri. “If it comes up, I’ll tell the police that you tried to help me.”

Sheri said nothing.

Concern deepened the worry lines on her face and she tried to absorb all that had taken place as Jeff hurried out of her home and trotted down the street to his cab.

14

Brooklyn, New York City

The 2010 GMC Terrain burned within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in the loading area of an abandoned warehouse at the fringe of a derelict industrial section of Brooklyn Heights.

Officers in a marked NYPD car patrolling the zone were first to spot it. They’d called it in with the plate number. By the time crews from Engine 205, Ladder 118, arrived the SUV was engulfed, the blaze blasting outward and skyward, turning the vehicle into a mass of ferocity.

The inferno crackled and hissed, discharging sparks and flakes of melted debris. Firefighters stretched a line, keeping a safe distance using the reach of the hose stream. Explosions can propel white-hot fragments with bullet force. Like all first responders, they knew every call could be their last. Their firehouse had lost eight members in the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.

Cordelli and Ortiz pulled up amid the sirens and lights of more arriving emergency vehicles. They were directed to Fire Lieutenant Van Reston. A crowd was collecting at the yellow tape that cordoned the area. Cordelli had to shout over the rattle-roar of the pumper.

“What do you have?”

“Arson, and given the intensity, I’m guessing they used an incendiary device.”

Cordelli took down Reston’s information in his notebook.

“Anyone inside?”

“Don’t know yet. We’ll know soon as we can have a look.”

“Thanks.” Cordelli and Ortiz scanned the area for surveillance cameras. It didn’t look promising. They went to Officer Marktiz, the uniform who’d called it in.

“Any witnesses?”

“Naw.” Marktiz shook his head as he retrieved more tape from the trunk of his car. “Nobody stepped up, nobody around. Nothing. We’ll help with a canvass.”

Cordelli and Ortiz knew coming into this that it didn’t look good.

The vehicle used in the abduction of Sarah and Cole Griffin came up stolen, now it had been torched—all premeditated.

“They must’ve had a switch car ready,” Ortiz said. “I don’t like this, it’s all too methodical. Now we could have homicides. I do not freakin’ like this.”

“Yup.”

Thick smoke clouds churned from the wreck as crews doused the flames. Cordelli and Ortiz turned as a gust sent a choking column their way. When they turned back, Cordelli faced an old problem walking at him: Detective Larry Brewer.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Cordelli had worked with Brewer a few years back. The guy’s ego was bigger than Yankee Stadium and fit with his near-inhuman aura. Brewer’s utter baldness accentuated his bulging black eyes and his pointed ears, earning him the nickname “Diablo.”

“What’re you doing at my scene, Cordelli?” Brewer’s jaw worked a wad of gum.

“We’re on a case.”

“You’re contaminating my scene. We’ve got an ongoing undercover operation with the task force.”

“We’re working an abduction—mother and son—and that’s our vehicle.”

“I saw your alert. My case takes precedence over yours, we’re taking over. It’s ours now. My captain will advise your supervisor to advise you to skip back to Midtown South and get me your notes.”

“We’re not going anywhere, Larry,” Cordelli said. “We’re going to wait here for Lieutenant Reston to give us the green light on our scene.”

Brewer grimaced, twisting his neck until his Adam’s apple popped. “You’re in our way, Vic.” Brewer stepped into Cordelli’s space just as Brewer’s cell phone rang. He answered it, pointed his chin to the other side of a patrol car and he and his partner stepped away.

“He’s a piece of work,” Ortiz said.

“He’s a slab of misery.”

With the sound of pressured water against metal, Cordelli turned sadly back to the smoldering ruin.

“I’ll bet we have somebody in there, Juanita.”

“I’m praying we don’t. Look.”

Beyond the tape, Jeff Griffin had stepped from a taxi to anxiously survey the scene. Cordelli cursed himself for giving up the address, but Griffin was right—he would’ve found out.

Cordelli had requested two cars be dispatched to the house of the registered owner on Steeldown Road in the Bronx, and he’d hoped the units got to it before Brewer got a chance to claim it.

Now, a firefighter at the wreckage was shouting and signaling for Lieutenant Reston to look into the SUV’s interior. Whatever was inside could not be viewed from a distance. Cordelli saw Reston lean in, saw his face crease before he directed his men to their next steps.

“Damn,” Cordelli said.

It was clear to him what they’d found.

* * *

It was clear to Jeff Griffin, too.

He was experienced with these scenes.

From where he stood, he read Reston’s face and it hit him.

Oh, Jesus.

The dread Jeff had locked in the darkest reaches of his heart lashed against the chains that held it there. He saw the fire crews unfold the large yellow tarps—the universal flag of tragedy, the confirmation of death. He watched them take care positioning the covering. Protecting the scene while respecting the dignity of the dead.

He was familiar with the funereal procedure.

He’d performed it himself.

He knew what happened to fire victims—how their skin cracked, how their bones broke, how the skulls could shatter and how the bodies could be burned beyond recognition.

Sarah and Cole.

He began shaking, pierced by one thought.

I have to see them. I have to see for myself.

Everything went white.

Time froze.

He could not immediately remember physically getting as close as he did to the SUV’s charred remains before hands seized him and dragged him back while he screamed for Sarah and Cole. All he saw was the brilliant yellow sheet. All he could imagine was the horror under it. He didn’t know how much time had passed or how he came to be in the rear seat of a police car with his hands covering his nose and mouth, blood roaring in his ears. For a moment or two he’d cried and when he dried his face, the clink of the handcuffs around his wrists alerted him to a man standing just outside the car.

“Mr. Griffin? I’m Detective Brewer. Can you hear me now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m going to start again. You have the right to remain silent....”

15

Manhattan, New York City

Jeff Griffin was placed in a stark interview room at One Police Plaza.

He’d waived his right to an attorney.

Left alone to contend with the agony of no one confirming that Sarah and Cole were dead, all he could do was pray.

Please, tell me it’s not them in the SUV, I’m begging you.

Adrenaline rippled through him.

He flattened his hands on the wooden table in front of him while memories strobed, snapshots of standing near Times Square with Sarah and feeling her arm around him. Tight. We have to hang on and work this out. Snapshots of the joy in Cole’s face as he marveled at the skyscrapers.

They can’t be dead.

By degrees Jeff regained the strength to keep from losing control. He had to hang on. He had to keep hoping, he told himself as events after the fire came into focus. Upon his arrest, Cordelli had rushed to the car, confronting the bald detective, demanding answers.

“Hey, Brewer! Where the hell are you taking him?”

Brewer had flashed his palm to Cordelli while he ended a cell phone call with “—okay, so we’re good at Steeldown Road in the Bronx.” Then he’d turned to Cordelli. “Step back, Vic. He’s mine now. We’ve got two homicides, this is our operation.”

“He’s got nothing to do with this the way you think, Brewer.”

“You don’t know squat. Just get your notes to me or it’s your ass!”

Brewer had gotten into the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford and closed the door. His partner, Klaver, was behind the wheel. The motor roared and its siren yelped as the Crown Vic left for the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan and NYPD headquarters downtown. They took Jeff up the elevator to a cell-like room where he waited.

Time swept by and he’d stared at the cinder-block walls and at his own reflection in the two-way mirror where he saw a man struggling not to fall into the abyss.

Sarah. Cole.

A click. The door opened. Brewer and Klaver entered.

They dropped file folders and notebooks on the table, dragged and positioned the two empty chairs opposite Jeff, then filled them.

“Are my wife and my son dead?”

The room went cold.

The detectives stared at Jeff.

Klaver was fair-skinned and wore the somber, pointed face of an undertaker. Brewer’s expression burned with the intensity of an embittered cop bereft of compassion.

“The medical examiner and our people are still processing,” Brewer said.

“You can tell me the presumed age and gender,” Jeff said.

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“The remains are in bad shape. We’re awaiting confirmation.”

“Bull. You have an idea who’s in that SUV.”

“I know this is a horrible time,” Brewer said. “We’ll let you know as soon as we can. We’ve been reading your report and statement to Detectives Cordelli and Ortiz. We’ve made a lot of calls here and in Montana and right now we need to ask you a few questions.”

“About what? I’ve been through this with Cordelli, he knows everything.”

“The vehicle is linked to our operation.”

“What operation?”

“We can’t disclose details. A lot is in play right now.”

“What does that mean? What the hell is this? My wife and son were abducted, they could be dead and you don’t give a damn!”

“It doesn’t get any more serious than this and we’ll get through it faster if you help us to help you.”

Blinking back his anger Jeff looked away, shaking his head in disgust.

“This won’t take long, Jeff.” Klaver spoke in the softer voice of the “good cop” and opened a folder. “There are a few things we need your help on.”

Jeff’s silence invited Klaver’s first question.

“Take us back, step by step, to your arrival in New York, up to and immediately after you reported Sarah and Cole had been abducted.”

Jeff inhaled and recounted every detail for the detectives. Afterward, he answered Klaver’s follow-up questions, then Brewer weighed in.

“You and Sarah had lost a child. It took a toll on your marriage. You were planning to separate and were arguing about it at the time of Sarah and Cole’s disappearance, is that correct?”

“What is this?”

“Is that correct?” Brewer said.

“Yes, I told Cordelli everything.”

“Not quite everything,” Brewer said.

“Did you accuse Neil Larson of having an affair with your wife?” Klaver continued.

Jeff was stunned at how they’d found out and how they were using it.

“Jeff?”

What was happening?

“Did you accuse Neil Larson of having an affair with your wife?”

Brewer watched Jeff swallow hard before answering. “Yes.”

“And did you confront him in a school parking lot where he worked with your wife, to the point others had to restrain you?” Brewer asked.

Jeff hesitated at the twisting of the truth.

“Yes.”

“And did that form part of your argument with Sarah just before you reported that she and Cole had been abducted?”

“Yes.”

“So you confirm these facts?” Brewer said.

“Yes.”

“What’s your relationship with Donnie and Sheri Dalfini?” Brewer asked.

“Relationship? I don’t know them. It’s their SUV.”

“How did you get their address in the Bronx?”

“I went to a store, Metro Gifts or something, and got them to let me look at their security camera. It was pointed at where Sarah and Cole were standing and I got the plate. Then I searched the plate online and took a cab to the address.”

“Why didn’t you check with the police first?” Brewer asked.

“I had the feeling that no one was looking for my family.”

Brewer and Klaver paused to consider Jeff’s answer.

“Jeff,” Brewer said, “as a firefighter you’ve been to death scenes. You probably know a lot of people in law enforcement back home in Montana. You probably know something of investigative procedures.”

Jeff said nothing, uneasy at the picture being drawn around him.

“You seemed to get out to Steeldown Road very fast to talk to Sheri Dalfini about her stolen SUV. Almost as if you wanted to get to the Dalfini residence before police but immediately after you’d reported Sarah and Cole’s abduction. And then you got to the fire at the speed of light.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It just doesn’t look right to us at this stage,” Brewer said. “It just doesn’t add up.”

The floor shifted under Jeff as realization rolled over him with seismic force.

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

Brewer shifted his lower jaw. In all his time and over all the cases he’d worked he’d come to respect one abiding rule: at the outset of an investigation everyone lies, and when the facts and pieces of evidence emerge, the lies melt like dirty snow in the rain.

“Jeff, I want you to be straight with me here,” Brewer said. “When you believed your wife was maybe fucking Neil Larson and going to leave you I bet it hurt, what with just losing your baby and all. And I’m thinking that maybe you fantasized about making sure Sarah never left you, that maybe you came up with an elaborate foolproof plan. You take her to a location, step away, the cameras record it—”

“What! That’s crazy!”

“Maybe something went wrong, or you didn’t know who you were dealing with.”

“This is insane! Tell me who was in that SUV!”

Glaring at Jeff, Brewer reached for his BlackBerry, entered a command.

“This was in the SUV, Jeff. It matches the description in your report.”

He slid the device to Jeff, carefully studying his reaction as Jeff looked at the crisp photograph of what remained of a New York Jets ball cap. Only a ball cap. Half consumed by fire, half scorched, but clearly identifiable, small, white with the green jet patch on white, familiar to Jeff as the one they bought for Cole.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Christ, no.

Jeff looked at it until it blurred.

They’re gone.

Jeff ached to pull Cole and Sarah from the darkness.

Sitting there in that small police room, the shock of seeing Cole’s burned ball cap propelled him back to Montana and the morning he’d found Lee Ann.

Her little face all blue, her mouth a tiny O.

His futile efforts to save her.

He thought of his baby daughter with Sarah and Cole and that moment he saw the three of them through the window from his pickup in the driveway.

That perfect moment.

He struggled to hang on to those images but they were gone.

Jeff put his face in his hands and in that cold, hard room he never felt the heat of Brewer’s and Klaver’s stares as Brewer slowly slid back his BlackBerry. Chairs scraped; the detectives gathered their files.

“We’ll leave you alone to consider matters,” Brewer said.

The door opened to ringing phones, conversations and the squawk of walkie-talkies. Above the din Jeff recognized Cordelli’s voice in a fragment of conversation. “Brewer! Did you get my message? My supervisor called yours and—”

The door closed, leaving Jeff alone, adrift in a sea of torment. Minutes passed with the same questions hammering against his skull: Who would steal his wife and son? Who? Why? His confusion and grief coiled into anger.

He would find them.

Whoever did this, he would hunt them down.

The door handle clicked.

This time Brewer entered with Cordelli.

“You can go now. Cordelli will take you out,” Brewer said.

“What?” Jeff threw his question to Cordelli, then back to Brewer.

“Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch,” Brewer said.

Jeff swallowed.

“What about my wife and son? Can I see them?”

“It’s not them,” Brewer said.

“It’s not them?” Jeff absorbed the news.

“The medical examiner just confirmed the remains belong to two adult males. We’re still working on identifying them.”

“What the hell is this? You show me my son’s cap, you lead me to believe my family’s dead, you accuse me of planning this whole thing. What is this?”

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