Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

“A bag and a cup, maybe two cups.”

A cell phone rang, breaking Jeff’s concentration.

As Cordelli turned to take the call, Chu frowned and Jeff used the interruption to go the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Inside, he turned on the cold water, letting it fill the sink.

He met himself in the mirror. The tiny veins in his eyes were red with strain. Anguish carved deep into the wounds on his face. He hadn’t slept. He was still shaky from his fall. Adrenaline still rushed through him. His head throbbed and he shook out three aspirin from a new plastic bottle and swallowed them.

Events replayed before him.

Everything.

Holding Sarah. Holding Lee Ann. Losing Lee Ann. Losing Sarah.

Was I wrong? Did I make a horrible mistake not giving the killers their property? But they did not show him Cole. Where was Cole? Oh, God, tell me what to do.

It was all Jeff could think of as he emptied the sink only to refill it again and again.

“Jeff.” Chu was knocking on the door. “Are you well enough to resume?”

“Yes,” he said. “I need a minute.”

He splashed cold water on his face, dried it and returned to his chair.

“Good. Now, you were recalling details of items in the van.”

Jeff took a moment as his thoughts veered.

“There was something about the shoes. One man had a fine, bright red line where the top was stitched to the sole.”

Chu flipped to a new page. She knew to go with the flow of her witness’s recollection, to not disturb it but guide it, coax it along. Her hand whisked over the paper, working fast as Jeff described the dark round-toed boot with the bright red stitching.

“Like this?” Chu flipped a sketch.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Anything more on the boots?”

Jeff shook his head.

Chu made notes, then went back to her pad and flipped to a new page.

“What about the items in the van, the take-out bag and cups?”

“They were coffee cups, like paper or Styrofoam coffee cups.”

“Were they from one of the big fast-food chains, or coffee chains?”

Jeff concentrated, slowly shaking his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“Anything distinctive you can remember?”

“An L, a stylized L. ”

“Printed or cursive?”

“I think cursive.”

“Any other letters, symbols, colors?”

“I’m thinking a word, a partial word, like Lasa, or Laksa. Blue lettering or black letters in a white or yellow-colored cup, I think. I can’t be sure.”

“Okay, what was the attitude of the cups and the bag? Standing up, on the side, crushed? Were there lids?”

“Black lids, they were on their sides, like they were empty and the bag was tossed on its side, a used white napkin at the top. I think that’s it. Everything happened so fast.”

“I understand.” Chu nodded, concentrating as she drew.

She and Jeff worked that way for the next ninety minutes, going over detail after detail, and one by one, Chu’s images piled up.

Neverpoint Park, the Bronx, New York City

Sheri Dalfini was at her kitchen table, raking her fingers through her red frizzy hair and going out of her mind.

Damn you, Donnie. What the hell am I supposed to do, huh? Saleena can’t stop bawling. “Where’s Daddy?” Benjamin thinks we’re getting a divorce. Quit being an asshole and call me.

Sheri lit another cigarette, dragged long and hard on it. The smoke filled her lungs, helping her relax, but not enough.

It had been too long since she’d last heard from Donnie. Those NYPD pricks had threatened to take her kids.

This was serious shit.

Sheri calculated the time before her next shift. She needed another beer to help her think. She’d seen the latest news, how their SUV was tied to this double homicide and kidnapping.

Beside the overdue bills and collection notices were copies of the Post and Daily News. This Omarr Aimes, who died in their SUV, had to be Big Time, the name she’d gotten from Donnie, the name she’d given up.

That guy-Jeff Griffin-who was in her yard, was on TV. It was all part of this big case with his wife and son.

Oh, Jesus.

Sheri was scared.

She took a long pull on her beer and tried to relax.

A few reporters had called her. She told them to go to hell and took Saleena and Benjamin to Belva’s place. But what was she supposed to do now? Get a lawyer? She’d helped police, told them what she knew. That should be the end of it.

Oh, God. I told you this was a stupid, stupid idea, Donnie.

To have the truck stolen for the insurance and some cash to get out of debt? Dumb. Donnie’s jackass friends didn’t have a clue who this Omarr Big Time was, or how dangerous this guy could be.

The doorbell rang.

From the side window Sheri recognized the detectives on her doorstep. The quiet one and that prick Brewer.

Sheri cursed, then took a long drag on her smoke, stubbed it out and went to the door.

What do these assholes want now? Can’t they leave me alone?

“Hello, Sheri,” Brewer said. “Can we come in?”

“This is not a good time. I got to go to work.”

“It’s important that we talk to you.”

“I told you everything I can tell you, Brewer.” Sheri sniffed. “I helped you, so back off and leave us alone.”

She started to close the door. Brewer stopped it.

“We think it’s very important right now that you let us come in, Sheri.”

“Did you come to charge me?”

“No.”

He looked at her, steady, resolved. And in that moment she knew.

A chill coiled up her spine, cutting through her beer-induced haze. It was Brewer’s tone, almost human, and his face, almost compassionate. It was the same with his partner, Klaver. With him she found a weary sadness.

“Please,” Brewer said.

Sheri surrendered the door, her thoughts racing as she managed to make it to the sofa.

Brewer sat beside her; Klaver sat in the chair, holding a file folder.

The two cops exchanged cool, clinical glances that touched on concern.

“Sheri,” Brewer began, “this is the part of our job we hate.”

She clasped her hands in her lap, hard, and stared at them, bracing for the worst.

“Remember those pictures we showed you of the victims of the fire in your SUV?”

Sheri would never forget the awful images.

“As you know, we identified one, Omarr Aimes, the man whose name you gave us.”

She didn’t move.

“We’ve identified the second victim.”

Sheri’s knuckles whitened.

“Our crime scene people and the medical examiner’s office were able to get a few fingerprints. Sheri, I’m so sorry but the prints are consistent with your husband, Donald Dalfini.”

Sheri did not react.

“I have material from the victim for you to confirm.”

Brewer took the folder from Klaver, opened it to several enlarged photos of a tattoo, a small tattoo that said SD amp; DD Eternally, and a man’s gold wedding band engraved with the same inscription.

“Will you confirm the deceased as being Donald Dalfini, your husband?”

A great bubbling groan erupted from the pit of Sheri’s stomach with such volume Klaver would later tell other cops that he swore it rattled windows.

“Yes, that’s Donnie,” she managed before sobbing. Brewer attempted to console her for several minutes.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” he said. “Is there anyone we could call to be with you?”

Sheri did not respond.

She hugged her midsection indicating she was about to vomit and did so as Klaver got a large potted plant under her chin. Brewer helped her to the bathroom. Klaver then called Sheri’s mother-in-law while Sheri cleaned herself and regained a degree of composure before returning to the sofa.