Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

“Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think!”

“I can’t remember his name exactly, but after the SUV was gone, Donnie never got the money. Donnie couldn’t find the guy. Donnie’s friends warned Donnie not to mess with the guy, to shut up about the money, which we would never see, and that if we told anybody we’d be ratted out to insurance. That’s when Donnie got scared and got his mother’s gun.

“Then out of the blue, friends get word to Donnie that the guy that owes him the money has a one-time high-paying job, or something, that was yesterday.”

“Is this the Bayonne or Elizabeth thing?”

“I don’t know, because I haven’t heard from Donnie since the day before yesterday. I don’t know nothing and I can’t find Donnie. We got bill collectors calling, then this Montana guy scares me to death by showing up at our home looking for his wife and kid and I’m losing my freakin’ mind and now our SUV is-” Sheri began choking on her words “-and those people in the pictures and, Jesus, I don’t know anything…I swear.”

“Who, Sheri?” Brewer said. “Who is the guy that Donnie went to work for, the guy who owed him for the SUV? Give us the names of the people involved, the people who wanted your SUV.”

Brewer slid a pad and freshly sharpened pencil toward her.

“Give us names and if they’re real I’ll do all I can to help you.”

Sheri nodded, brushed the tears from her cheeks, took up the pencil.

“I don’t know-I’m not sure of the spellings.”

“Give us what you can.”

As her tears stained the paper she began printing, slowly and carefully.

Morningside Heights, New York City

3:30a.m.

Tranquil.

Acting on Sheri Dalfini’s information, eight more unmarkedpolice cars rolled into the crime-peppered enclave in the low hundreds, east ofMorningside Park.

Would they find Sarah and Cole Griffin here?

Brewer watched from his window.

Despair permeated this corner of the city where living meantdying a little every day. Here, dreams twisted into rage against the systemuntil they yielded the belief that to survive you have to take what you want. Itwas the same story in neighborhoods like this everywhere, Brewer thought.

This is how it was for Omarr Aimes.

His name was the one Sheri Dalfini had given them. All she hadwas “Omar Big Time,” with Omarr spelled with one r. Brewer ran it through the computers searching variations, aliases, and sureenough, Omarr Lincoln Roderick Aimes, aka “Sweet Time,” aka “Sweet Ride,” aka“ Big Time,” came up. Age, thirty-two.

Brewer was surprised Omarr had lived this long. He’d been shotfour separate times. Started out as a juvie boosting cars; went inside and cameout a hardened banger, working his way up the drug-dealer food chain. Omarr thentook to a righteous cause with some “brotherhood,” which was tied tointernational smuggling networks that had fallen under Brewer’s investigationand the abduction.

Was Omarr a player in Sarah and Cole’s kidnapping?

Klaver eased their Ford to a stop before a marked unit.Cordelli and Ortiz were behind them. A few hours ago the brass had foldedCordelli’s case into Brewer’s operation. Cordelli and Ortiz, who was easy on theeyes, were now part of the task force, assigned to work with Brewer andKlaver.

What a treat, Brewer thought before his concentration wasbroken by the crackle of the radio clipped to the uniformed officer standingpoint by the patrol car.

“Ever think of using your earpiece, sport?” Brewer kept hisvoice low. “They’re not supposed to know we’re coming.”

Earlier, after Sheri Dalfini had given them Omarr, Brewer andKlaver worked the computers and the phones with their confidential informants.It didn’t take long for their C.I.s to point them to Morningside, where Omarrlived under the radar.

They’d alerted their supervisor, who got things moving on awarrant, identifying Omarr as a wanted suspect in the homicides of twounidentified males and the kidnapping.

Given the magnitude of the offenses, the NYPD’s EmergencyService Unit and scores of other police were dispatched to the marshaling pointtwo blocks from the location. Brewer saw all the u-cars but lost count.Uniformed patrols had set up the outer perimeter, deflecting traffic, while thetactical squad set up on the building.

Out of sight, down the block from the building, squad ChiefLieutenant Clint Gatlin locked onto Omarr’s apartment through hisbinoculars.

Third floor, unit 12.

His team of heavily armed officers had already studied thebuilding’s floor plan. They had, in near-silence, swiftly evacuated people fromthe line of fire in the surrounding residences and now waited inside.

Paint blistered along the walls where Gatlin’s squad had takenpositions on the stairs leading up to unit 12, on the landing above it, the fireescape behind it and on the roof.

Gatlin’s information showed that the subject possessedautomatic and semiautomatic guns and should be considered dangerous.

His team would make a forced rapid entry.

After a final round of radio checks, Gatlin gave the greenlight to his squad sergeant.

Within seconds, the team smashed through the apartment’s doorand rear window; their helmet lights raked the darkness as they swept the livingroom, kitchen, stormed down the hallway to the first bedroom where they found anelderly woman awake, alone and afraid in her small bed.

In the second bedroom they found a girl, about six or sevenyears old, alone in her bed, holding a stuffed teddy bear and crying at the biggun-toting men stampeding through her home.

The third bedroom was empty, but men’s boxers, shirts, pants,were strewn about the floor and the bed. Clothes spilled from the dresser.

The bathroom was checked, closets were checked; specialequipment was used to scan the walls and ceiling for body mass. The entire unitwas inspected three times before it was cleared and declared safe.

The squad leader radioed Gatlin, who alerted Brewer.

Brewer, Klaver, Cordelli and Ortiz donned body armor and headeddown the street. By the time they’d entered the apartment building, Louella MayBell, the unit’s rent-payer, was in her robe and seated at the kitchen tableunder guard by the ESU.

“Ma’am, are there any weapons in this home?” the officer askedher.

“I don’t have any guns. You’re the people with the guns.”

When Brewer arrived, he waved the ESU away. He and Cordelli satwith Louella at the kitchen table while Ortiz and Klaver stayed with the littlegirl in the living room. Ortiz looked around as Klaver tried to calm the childby showing her a game with butterflies on his BlackBerry.

“Don’t worry, everything’s okay,” Klaver said. “What’s yourname, sweetheart?”

The girl didn’t respond. She watched the game withoutsmiling.

In the kitchen, Brewer placed the warrant on the table next toLouella, snapped open his notebook and began jotting the date, time,address.

“Miss Bell, we understand you’re Omarr’s grandmother. We’d liketo talk to him. Could you tell us where we can find him?”

Her mournful eyes reflected a life of struggle, anuncomplaining endurance of police trouble concerning her grandson.

“I done told the other men and I’ll tell you the same, Omarr’snot here.”

“We’ve figured that out. Where is he?”

“Why you got to trouble him? He’s doing the best he can. He’shad a hard, hard life. He never knew who his father was. Did you know mydaughter was raped at fifteen when she had him? A year after he was born she wasmurdered. Omarr’s daughter Shereesa means the world to him.”

“That’s the little girl who lives here also?”