LITMIR.BIZ

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alleged, they were taken—what’s going on?”

      “Nothing’s going on, Mr. Griffin. We’re opening an investigation. We’ll do all we can to help you locate your wife and son.” McBain replaced his glasses and made a few strokes on his computer keyboard. “All right, Detectives Cordelli and Ortiz will talk to you. Officer Breedo will take you up to the squad.”

      As they headed upstairs, Jeff told Breedo that he could not understand why everyone was skeptical when he needed their help.

      “A lot of people mislead us,” Breedo said. “Or change their story.”

      Arriving on the floor, Breedo led him down a hall to the fluorescent-lit squad room and a maze of government-issue metal desks. The walls were lined with file cabinets and clipboards holding crime reports, crime stats, corkboards with maps, wanted posters, shift schedules. One schedule had huge block letters: UN DETAIL SHIFT. A large flat-screen TV, mounted to the ceiling, was tuned to an all-news channel reporting on the UN meeting.

      The area was abandoned except for one guy in plain clothes hunched at his desk, talking loud on the phone. The day shift was out. Jeff’s mind raced. Minutes ago he was walking down the street with his family. Now here he was, walking through a police squad room. Breedo stopped at two conjoined desks, then rolled over a cushioned swivel chair.

      “Have a seat. I’ll find Cordelli and Ortiz.”

      Jeff surveyed the desks. Their sides were pushed against a wall, under a well-used board displaying memos, calendars and personal items.

      To the left: a framed degree from Long Island University for Juanita Ortiz, a newsletter photo of a beaming female cop in formal blues receiving her shield under the headline Detective Second Grade. There was a snapshot of a man and woman with a little girl, about five, by a mountain lake. The girl had an orange butterfly on her finger.

      On the right side of the board: a framed degree in Criminal Justice for Victor Cordelli from Saint Joseph’s College, a framed autographed photo of a man with two members of the New York Yankees on either side. There was some kind of award for Detective Cordelli—First Grade for “Exceptional Duty” in the NYPD Intelligence Division. No photos of a wife or kids. There was a card with an array of vulgar handwritten notes: “Hey, Cordelli, condolences on twenty freakin’ years with the NYPD.”

      Each desk had a computer monitor and keyboard. Here, Jeff saw file folders fanned over desks, and notebooks bound with elastic and neatly stacked. On one of the desks was a splayed copy of the New York Daily News with the same headline he’d seen in the boxes a short time ago while walking with Sarah and Cole from the hotel to where— Oh, Jesus!

      He ran his hand over his face.

      They just disappeared! They can’t be gone! Who would do this? Why? Why aren’t police rushing to search for them?

      “Mr. Griffin?”

      He turned to a woman in her mid-thirties, tawny hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a dark blazer, matching pants, white shirt, looked sharp.

      “Juanita Ortiz, and this is Vic Cordelli.”

      Both detectives carried brimming coffee mugs but managed firm grips when they shook his hand. He declined their offer of a drink. They sat down. Juanita turned to a fresh page in a new notebook.

      “I’m sorry, we just cleared another case last night,” Ortiz said. “And we know you told the patrol officers everything but we need you to tell us what happened.”

      As Jeff recounted the morning, Cordelli leaned back in his chair. He was wearing jeans, a polo shirt, his ID and a shoulder holster holding a gun. He had a goatee, was about Jeff’s height, but was wiry and revving in a higher gear. Sipping from his mug like he really needed it, Cordelli eyed him over the rim.

      After Jeff finished relating events, Cordelli asked to see Cole’s key ring.

      “And you found this in the street where you last saw them?”

      “Yes.”

      Cordelli turned it over in his hand a few times before returning it. Then he asked to see all the pictures in Sarah’s camera and immediately downloaded them to his computer. From his vantage Jeff could partially see the photos as Cordelli scrutinized them one by one and Ortiz continued the interview.

      “Jeff, will you volunteer all information about credit, bank and cell phones you and Sarah use?” she asked.

      “Of course.” He pulled out his wallet.

      “If this is a robbery,” she said while recording account numbers, “we’ll track charges, withdrawals, maybe get photos from an ATM, that sort of thing. It helps.”

      “Is that what you think happened?”

      “It’s one theory,” Ortiz said.

      “If the men wanted to rob them, wouldn’t they’ve let them go by now? God, they could be doing anything to them.”

      “Take it easy. At this point,” Cordelli said, “we’re not sure what it is.”

      Jeff’s breathing quickened.

      Was there something he was overlooking, or forgetting?

      One by one images from the morning flowed across Cordelli’s monitor—the street, Cole, Sarah—haunting Jeff as he turned back to Ortiz, who went over her notes. She asked a spectrum of questions, probing a little deeper about Sarah, her job, her disposition, family medical conditions and family history. Jeff told her everything but withheld mention of Lee Ann and its toll. It was too painful, entangled with his own guilt, and irrelevant as far as he was concerned.

      “What about my wife’s cell phone?” Jeff asked. “I read somewhere that you guys can track cell phones, that there’s technology to pinpoint where people are through their cell phone.”

      “Sometimes,” Cordelli said. “May I see your phone?”

      Cordelli turned it on, expertly buttoned and scrolled through its menu and functions. “Is your wife’s phone similar?”

      “It’s the same.”

      “These are older models. The tracking ability you’re talking about is limited on this type.” Cordelli returned Jeff’s phone and went back to studying the photos, adding, “And as for tracking roaming signals, the phone has to be turned on. Even then, we need warrants to get the phone companies to release that information—but we can expedite them.”

      “Is there anything else you can do with the phone?”

      “We can get a warrant to essentially clone your phone.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Any calls, texts, downloads—received or sent—will also come to us, to a special line with the NYPD, without the caller or sender being aware. It’s like a tap. It allows us to be on top of any communication that might come from the bad guys. Say, a ransom call, or if your wife or son got to a phone and called for help. And we’ll work with FBI for warrants on your hotel or home and work phones in Montana, all numbers associated directly with you or your wife, in case any calls go there.”

      “I want you to do everything that helps, yes.”

      “We want to be prepared,” Cordelli said. “But the bad guys are smart. They toss the victims’ phones. And they use prepaid disposables that are virtually impossible to track.”

      Hans Beck.

      “Wait. There was a mix-up with Cole’s bag at LaGuardia. I got a call from this guy, Hans Beck. We had his backpack, he had ours and we met near Penn Station late yesterday and traded them.”

      “Anything you can remember about him?”

      Jeff described Beck and explained how he’d obtained Jeff’s cell phone number. Ortiz made notes.

      “He was kind of weird, nervous,” Jeff said. “His

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