Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

Eason took a slow breath.

It was routine.

Every group threatened to use a world event as a stage for their cause.

But that detonator, the brazen abduction of the mother and her son from Montana, the murders.

It all gnawed at Eason as he stared up at the enlarged backlit map of Manhattan. With blinking lights pinpointing every dignitary and their detail, it was a galaxy of possibilities.

Who is the target?

Manhattan, New York City

Images of the past few hours, the past days, fueled Jeff’s anger.

Sarah’s heart beating against me, almost free.

He held on to that moment as he and Ortiz stepped into the hotel elevator after returning from Central Park to resume working with Detective Lucy Chu, the forensic artist. Cordelli was still there, along with another man Jeff didn’t recognize. Another desk with more equipment, including a laptop and TV, had been set up. A trolley with sandwiches, sliced vegetables, coffee and soft drinks stood in one corner.

“Any word?” Jeff asked Cordelli.

“Nothing yet.”

“Nothing? What about the toy, what’s that all about?”

“We don’t know enough about it yet. It’s being analyzed at the FBI lab.”

“Bull. I think you guys know a lot about it.” Jeff shot his chin toward the TV. An all-news channel was running a report on the case and the United Nations meeting. “It’s tied to this UN thing and plot, isn’t it?”

“That’s a concern, yes.”

“A concern? I told you what the asshole in the van said-that he was going to show the world what it means to suffer. I think you guys know way more than you’re telling me. My wife’s and son’s lives are hanging by a thread. I deserve the truth.”

“Jeff, about twenty law enforcement agencies are doing everything humanly possible to return Sarah and Cole safely and arrest the people responsible.”

Cordelli told him how the FBI and TSA were analyzing Cole’s backpack, how the NYPD were following every tip called in since the press conference. He told him that the Secret Service, which oversees security for the UN event, was helping investigate.

“We’re pursuing every possible angle,” Cordelli said. “Now, Detective Ron Cassidy, here, is from IDENT.” Cassidy rose from his desk and laptop to shake Jeff’s hand. “Ron’s going to work with you and Lucy to get a package of material together for us to distribute to precincts so we can begin a canvass.”

“What sort of package?”

“I’ve finished the images of all the items you noted in the van,” Chu said while typing on her laptop keyboard, “the boots, the take-out bag, the walkie-talkies, the sweatshirt-the ones we worked on. We’re setting up an array and slide show that can also be converted to hard-copy stills.”

“Officers will canvass key areas with the images-” Cordelli nodded to Cassidy “-and Ron’s going to help us sharpen the material. Hang on, you’ll see.”

Chu entered a few commands and a new presentation appeared showing the items Jeff had described in the van. They were vivid images: take-out food wrappers and a take-out bag, take-out coffee cups, a black boot with a fine line of bright red trim, a duffel bag, walkie-talkies, folded maps, bullet tips in magazines, figures in sweatshirts, hoods up, dark pants.

“Hold it,” Cassidy said.

Chu froze the image of the take-out cups. They each had a logo starting with a cursive stylized L that capitalized the partial word Lasa or Laksa in dark lettering on a light-colored cup. Each cup had a black lid.

Cassidy began working on his computer.

“I have access to all of New York City’s licenses for restaurants, cafes, etcetera. I’ll get a list of every one starting with this description and narrow our search to those establishments. To expedite it, we’ll exclude fast-food chains.”

Jeff nodded his satisfaction, then Chu resumed the slide show, coming to other items with Cassidy again, explaining how they would attempt to narrow the canvass, as they did with the take-out containers, by directing police based on the details Jeff had provided.

When they arrived at the image of the boots, they stopped. They were dark boots that covered the ankle. They had rounded toes and they had a thin bright red line where the top was stitched to the sole.

Cassidy analyzed the sharpest one and entered notes into his computer. Then his computer screen split into two. One half held Chu’s image, while the other blurred as if searching.

“I’m using a program to seek a piece of footwear consistent with the sketch. We’re looking at databases of brands, and manufacturers’ designs and outsole producers, importers and exporters who might have something consistent with this impression.”

Minutes went by without any results.

“I was afraid of that,” Cassidy said. “The description is too broad, too vague. I’ll keep trying a few things.”

Cassidy and Chu continued searching, making calls, consulting with colleagues while refining and adjusting their work. By the time they’d finished, night had fallen. Before everyone left, Chu and Cassidy gave Jeff his own hard-copy package and an electronic version of the images to review.

Unable to sleep, Jeff stayed up for hours, examining them with fervor as one by one they flowed before him.

It’s here, he told himself, the key is here.

Morningside Heights, New York City

“Here we go.” Brewer grunted to Klaver.

The bar was at the fringe of the park, not all that far from where Omarr Aimes had lived with his grandmother and daughter.

Brewer and Klaver had used the flimsy lead they’d gotten from Sheri Dalfini on her husband’s last movements with Aimes to mine the NYPD databases. Then they hit the street and worked their confidential informants until they got a name.

Florence Payne.

When they ran her name, they learned that she was also known as Mary Ballard, and, according to their sources, was one of the last people to see Omarr Aimes alive.

Looking deeper into her files they learned about her troubles and that Florence was also known as “Miss Tangiers,” an exotic dancer at the Cold Room, the bar with a strip club in the basement.

Word was that Florence was performing tonight.

It was 1:35 a.m. when the detectives entered the bar.

The joint had vinyl seats patched with duct tape, scarred hardwood floors and chipped brick walls. The basement smelled of beer, drain cleaner and cheap cologne. A bony naked girl twirled around a pole while Tom Jones sang “What’s New, Pussycat?”

This is where dreams come to die, Brewer thought.

“We’re looking for ‘Miss Tangiers,’” Klaver said to a waiter, a man with no neck who was built like a fridge. His droopy eyes rolled to Klaver’s badge, then he nodded to the hall and the dressing rooms.

“Number three,” the waiter said.

The door for number three bore many fractures.

Brewer knocked twice.

“Next show’s in fifteen minutes.” A woman’s voice was muffled.

“NYPD, Florence, open up!” Brewer said.

A silence, then a curse before a toilet flushed.

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You obstructing us, Florence? Want to dance in a cell tonight?”

Another curse before the lock clicked. The door cracked as wide as six inches of chain would allow. A pair of almond eyes stared up at Brewer.

“We need to talk to you about Omarr Aimes.”

“Who?”

Brewer had cued up a photo of Aimes and held up his cell phone.

“Oh, Sweet Time.”

“Yeah, Sweet Time. Open up.”

“I don’t know anything about him.”