They Disappeared

24

Manhattan, New York City

At the Crime Center, analyst Renee Abbott reached for her World’s Greatest Mom mug, took another hit of strong coffee and whispered another prayer.

It’d been a long time-too darned long-since they’d lost Jeff Griffin near Penn Station. That’s where the roaming signal from his cell phone had vanished. Since then, Renee kept a vigil on her monitor and the huge flat panels on the data wall. She was in direct contact with the IT wireless guys who had cloned Griffin’s personal cell. Renee hit a button on her console.

“I still got nothing, Artie,” she said into her headset’s microphone.

“Yeah, not a bleep, nada,” Artie said. “He must have it off.”

“The leads said Griffin picked up a new cell at the gift shop on West Thirtieth-the suspects left it for him.”

“Yeah, these guys are smart. We can’t find him,” Artie said.

“This is not good. I don’t like it.”

As they spoke, Renee clicked through the new images of Griffin that had been captured by the security cameras at the gift shop. They’d been circulated to everyone operational. These pictures were less than an hour old. Renee zoomed in on Griffin’s face. A handsome, decent-looking guy, under colossal stress, she thought, going to the photos of his wife, Sarah, and son, Cole.

“Heads up.” Artie’s voice betrayed an urgent tone.

Renee’s monitor showed a blip on the map.

“Is that him, Artie, at West Fourteenth and Seventh Avenue?”

“Bingo. He’s back on the personal. He tried a call, now he’s taking a call from a Montana number. I’ll get back to you. I’ve got to advise the leads. We’re so close now.”

Renee checked satellite mapping, geocodes and alerted people in the sector. She’d barely finished doing that when Artie came back on.

“He’s on the move again. Going north, signal strength is spotty,” he said. “I think he’s on the Seventh Avenue Line going north. Yes, it was the subway. He’s already off at Eighteenth. Signal is good.”

“I can see he’s moving,” Renee said. “I’ll get units rolling, stand by.”

Detectives Joe Finnie and Sean Maynard were fresh this morning. First shift on after a few days off, following five nights on.

They’d closed a carjacking beef and an assault in Clement Clarke Park. They were heading out of the Tenth Precinct for a follow-up interview on the assault when their lieutenant reassigned them to the kidnapping. That was just under an hour ago.

“The mom’s a looker. Nice-looking family.” Maynard was behind the wheel of their unmarked unit. He’d glanced again at the photos on the screen of his partner’s netbook. “What do you think?”

“I always wanted to go to Montana,” Finnie said.

“They’ve been circulating this stuff for nearly an hour now. It’s a needle-in-a-haystack thing.” Maynard bit into a bagel as he drove. “What are the odds we’ll see action on this down here, Fin?”

Finnie studied updates on his small computer.

“Better than you think. Turn this thing around.”

“Why?”

“They got something on our guy, on West Eighteenth and Seventh. We’re almost there. No lights, no siren.”

Finnie’s cell phone rang. It was Renee Abbott at the Real Time Crime Center, confirming that their unit was live and unmarked in the hot zone.

“We are,” Finnie said, “and I’ve got your photos and description of the subject.”

“He’s proceeding eastbound on West Eighteenth Street, in the three hundred block. By your twenty, you should have a visual.”

Maynard wheeled their unmarked Crown Victoria onto West Eighteenth Street. They slowed to a near-stop, creeping along in the three hundred block, scrutinizing the sidewalks of the narrow street.

Traffic was nil.

All seemed sleepy here. A van was stopped at the end of the street.

“Who’s that?” Maynard indicated a man approaching the van.

Finnie took small binoculars from the console. He focused on the man and van down the street. He glanced at the photos from the gift shop. Shirt color, pants, body build, all matched.

“That’s him, Sean.” Finnie grabbed his phone, which was still open to Renee at the center. “We’ve got him, please advise?”