They Disappeared

52

Battery Park, Manhattan, New York City

Jeff was running out of time.

He fell in with the passengers disembarking at the ferry terminal, feeling that every minute was working against him. His search across five boroughs for any lead to where the killers had bought coffee and take-out food had yielded nothing.

But he was not defeated.

Cutting through Battery Park near Ground Zero he found a bench and unfolded the color printouts Detective Lucy Chu had made for him. Shuffling through the sharp images, he examined the black boot with a fine line of bright red trim, the duffel bag, walkie-talkies, folded maps, bullet tips in magazines, figures in sweatshirts. He continued with the take-out food wrappers, a take-out bag, take-out coffee cups.

He’d been fixated on the logo.

Was it the key?

Again, he had to accept that his obsession was not founded on any real, logical belief. Besides, the NYPD was going to canvass all the restaurants and coffee shops on Cassidy’s list.

Maybe they already did that? So why am I doing this? Jeff continued searching the pictures. Because I can’t give up, there has to be something I’ve missed, overlooked or haven’t tried.

Sitting there, in the shadow of the new One World Trade Center soaring over the site of the twin towers, his heart was racing. He was not afraid, not in the physical sense. He would stand up to any fight. He’d charged into fire to save people and he would do it again. He was prepared to lay down his life for Sarah and Cole.

What he feared was loss and the things he couldn’t control: Lee Ann’s lifeless body in his arms… Her tiny casket sinking into the earth under the eternal sky… His utter sense of weakness, guilt and helplessness. I can’t understand how a person can suffer a wound like this and live.

Jeff looked up at the tower, then toward the water at the Statue of Liberty, knowing he faced impossible odds but refusing to give up hope that he’d find some way to rescue his family.

I can’t lose them. I can’t lose Sarah and Cole.

A rush of wind rolled in from New York Harbor and tugged the pages from Jeff’s hands, sending them skipping into the park. He rushed after them, collecting them one by one as they bounced deep in the northwest section. He found the last page pressed against a tree; it was the picture of the take-out coffee cups with a stylized L logo. As he reached for it, he froze with sudden understanding. The page was angled and for an instant he saw the L as a V and it hit him.

That’s it!

It was a V. The logo was a V! Yes!

Gripping the page in his hand, his breathing quickened.

The memory, the image from the van, came to him like a crystalline photo. The logo did not represent Laka, or Laska. The logo started with a V and the first letters were V-A-K-H. He was certain. He needed to get online fast. He wasn’t that good at using the phone for internet searches. He kept walking until he was out of the park and on West Street where he came to the Ritz-Carlton. He hurried into its soft lit, spacious lobby and went to the desk.

A man in a gray jacket and tie lifted his head from a keyboard and smiled. “May I be of assistance, sir?”

“Yes, I’m very late and don’t have time to go up to my room, could you please look up a couple of addresses for me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I only have a partial name, I need the proper name and address of a restaurant or coffee shop somewhere in New York, but I only have the start.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult, what do you have?”

“It starts with a V for Vak or Vakh, something European similar to that.”

The keyboard clicked as the clerk launched a search.

“Hmm, I have some Russian places?”

“What are they?”

“They are all excellent, by the way. I have Veselka over in the East Village, and two others. Let’s see, Uncle Vanya is in midtown and the Russian Vodka Room is in Times Square, but technically these don’t start with a V-A.”

“Is that all you have showing? Nothing with V-A-K-H?”

“Hmm, I’m not having much luck. I’m afraid there’s not much showing that fits your information.” The clerk’s brow furrowed and he tapped a few more keys. “Is it in Manhattan, sir?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Because- Oh. Wait. I have something in the Bronx called Vak-not sure if I am saying it right-Vakhiyta’s Kitchen, spelled V-A-K-H-I-Y-T-A, specializing in Eastern European food.”

“Starts with V-A-K? That could be it. Can you give me the address please?”

“Printing for you now.”

“Great, I’ll need a taxi.”

“The doorman out front will arrange for one. Here’s your address.”

Jeff thanked the clerk with a five-dollar bill and rushed for the door.