They Disappeared - Rick Mofina

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linked to my family’s disappearance and police will be coming here. I can let them know you helped, or I can let them know you hid something. I think you have a good heart. I don’t believe you want to kill me because I’m telling you the truth. I need to find my wife and son.”

      After studying his face she swallowed, then lowered her gun.

      “All right. Belva! Bring the kids out back. This won’t take long.”

      “Are you nuts, girl?”

      “It’s my damn house. Do as I say!”

      It was a small bungalow; the reek of cigarettes and stale beer hung in the air. The kitchen table was cluttered with plates, butter knives, an open bag of cookies, a loaf of white bread and jars of jelly and peanut butter. When Jeff entered the living room it became evident why Sheri might not call the police. The coffee table was lined with empty liquor bottles, beer cans and small clear plastic bags containing something organic.

      There were newspapers open to want ads with jobs circled.

      “Since Donnie got laid off at the plant, it’s been hard,” Sheri was almost apologizing to Jeff. “The mortgage, car and credit card payments are piling up. We’re looking for jobs but it’s hard, and then with the SUV stolen, that took the cake.”

      Holding her gun at her side, Sheri kept her distance as she escorted Jeff in his room-by-room search on the main floor bedrooms. He recognized the intrusive aspect of a stranger in her bedroom and those of her children but it was eclipsed by the outrage forced upon him. He looked in closets, under beds, in the basement and he tapped on walls until he was satisfied that Sarah and Cole were not here. When they’d returned to the living room Jeff’s cell phone rang.

      The display showed a blocked number.

      His heart rate soared when he answered.

      “Jeff, this is Detective Cordelli. We’ve located the SUV.”

      “What about Sarah and Cole?”

      Sirens and the rush of the road indicated Cordelli was in a car.

      “No confirmation. We’re en route to the scene now.”

      “What’s the location? I’m coming.”

      “You sit tight at your hotel—we’ll keep you posted.”

      “Tell me the location, Cordelli!”

      “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

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