Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

“As hard as it is for you,” Cordelli had warned him last night, “you have to sit tight and let everyone do their job.”

To hell with that.

“I need a few minutes, please,” Jeff called back.

He glanced at his nightstand, which held his personal laptop and his hard copy of all the images Chu and Cassidy had worked on.

But there was more.

He started his laptop. Last night, Cassidy had finally come up with a list of restaurants licensed by the city that began with L and prioritized those remotely resembling Lasa or Laksa.

The stylized image had stemmed from the logos Jeff had recalled from the discarded wrappers and cups in the van. Precincts would use the list for the canvass. But this was not the only lead investigators were chasing. Late last night, Cordelli and Ortiz had reiterated how upward of twenty agencies were going all out on every aspect of the case he could imagine.

That was good, but Jeff was not going to sit in this room and watch soap operas and game shows while time ran out on his family, not after he’d been so close- so goddamned heartbreakingly close -to rescuing Sarah.

I slept, did absolutely nothing, while Lee Ann died alone in the next room. Nothing is going to stop me from finding my family.

More knocking at the door.

“Not dressed yet!”

During last night’s session, Jeff had glanced over Cassidy’s shoulder at his laptop screen and made mental notes on the list of restaurants, cafes and coffee shops Cassidy was preparing.

Later that night when he was alone, Jeff used that information and his own laptop to go online and develop his own list. He was confident that his list was similar to Cassidy’s. It was tricky and challenging but Jeff had succeeded in downloading the list to his cell phone.

He was set.

He checked the battery strength of his phone. It was good. He collected his paper map, wallet, ball cap, glasses, then left his room for the elevator.

Manhattan, New York City

Getting a feature film, TV show, commercial or anything like that shot in New York City required permits.

And depending on what was involved, those permits required forms to be completed, fees to be paid and supporting documents to be provided to the mayor’s office of Film, Theater and Broadcasting.

That’s plenty of red tape, Brewer thought as Klaver parked their Crown Victoria on Fifty-third Street. The mayor’s redbrick office of film was not far from Broadway and where they did Late Show with David Letterman.

“This could be like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Klaver said.

“Humor me, right now it’s our best long shot,” Brewer said as they took the elevator to the sixth floor, then walked down the hall to the office of Betty Bonner, permit coordinator.

“Larry, you old flatfoot! Give me a hug,” Bonner, a woman in her late fifties wearing a loud print dress, orange-framed cat eyeglasses and hoop earrings, greeted them. Her bangle bracelets jingled when she hugged Brewer. “Is this your partner, the one who never talks?”

“Detective Klaver.” Klaver extended his hand. “Larry tells me that you two go way back.”

“We worked traffic together in another life, before I retired to the movie business and the job turned Larry into the crackerjack crime fighter and the bastard he is today.”

“Are we good to talk here, Betty?” Brewer asked.

“Follow me. I’ve got things set up.”

Bonner led them into a small meeting room and a table with file folders arranged in neat stacks.

“So you’re looking for someone involved as crew named ‘Rama’ or ‘Zeta’ who may be Russian, or Albanian?”

“Let’s say Eastern European.”

“But you’re not sure if it’s a feature, TV movie, TV episode, commercial, music video?”

“No.”

“Domestic, or international production?”

“Not sure.”

“That’s a tall order, so let’s get going. Okay, these-” Bonner set her hand on all white files “-are all permits of everything still in production. And these-” she touched yellow folders “-are option permits, while these-” she touched blue folders “-are all ongoing international productions.”

Bonner picked one up.

“Now, each of the permit folders and each of the international production folders contain any required visas, for temporary worker visas for non-U.S. citizens.”

“That’s a lot of folders,” Klaver said.

“Domestic and international productions commonly employ non-U.S. citizens, depending on their profession or skill.”

“Isn’t this computerized?” Klaver asked. “Can’t we just run a few keyword searches?”

“No, because most of our records are original,” Bonner said, “this is the best way to do this without a warrant. These are essentially public records. Now, you will find contact numbers of crew chiefs. And I have contacts in immigration and the State Department that can help us further once you nail something down.”

The detectives spent the next hours reading quickly through every folder, sorting through every permit, scouring crew lists. They sifted through forms, applications, copying down names and phone numbers.

By the time they’d completed the last file they were frustrated.

Nothing resembling Zeta or Rama with a connection to Albania, Russia or any Eastern European country had surfaced.

“Looks like we lost here,” Klaver said.

Brewer massaged his tired eyes.

“No. No. We haven’t exhausted this lead yet. We’ll keep going,” he said, consulting the names and numbers he’d copied. “Let’s start calling a few of these location managers. Somebody knows something about this guy on a set or location somewhere in this city.”

Somewhere in New York City

Bulat Tatayev bent over the worktable.

He studied a map of New York City, took a pencil and made a small neat X on a Manhattan street, then marked a second X on the map several blocks from the first one.

Reflecting on all the new and careful changes, adjustments and recalibrations he’d made to calculations that he’d labored on over the past few weeks, Bulat sipped the take-out coffee one of the men had picked up from the Slavic place nearby.

It was good, for coffee made in America.

Swallowing the last of it, Bulat pushed aside any trailing bittersweet thoughts of Zama. The fool had to be removed. At this stage of the operation all liabilities had to be eliminated. Nothing could jeopardize their work.

Nothing could be permitted to stop them.

He needed the woman and boy alive to make the new recalibrated operation work.

Bulat crushed his cup and glanced at Alhazur, the man to his right, talking softly on a cell phone. The backup plan to obtain the component was in play and everything hinged on it. When Alhazur ended his call he hesitated to speak.

“Well?” Bulat asked. “What is the status of the device?”

“It has arrived here from Europe safely and the courier has just departed Newark for Manhattan.”

“Good, you lead the pickup team. We’ve salvaged the operation. A few more steps and we’ll launch.”

Alhazur lit a cigarette and drew on it hard.

“There’s a problem,” Alhazur said. “Our sources tell us the contact in Amsterdam has just been killed. They suspect Russian security agents. We don’t know how close they are to us, or if they’ve alerted American intelligence. What if they put surveillance on the courier?”

Bulat held up his hand to stem Alhazur’s suppositions as he absorbed the complication and analyzed it.

“We proceed,” Bulat said.