Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

“Glen, where are your people at with the origin of the backpack?”

Glen Healy, a security director with the Transportation Security Administration who oversaw airport screening and checkpoint operations for the New York area, loosened his tie.

“In working with the airlines, this is the best we have at this time. As we know, the Griffins flew from Billings, Montana, connected in Minneapolis-Saint Paul to LaGuardia. The bag mix-up was just an erroneous grab from the carousel. We’ve also learned that other airline tickets may have been purchased for a passenger Hans Beck. At first we believed he’d arrived at LaGuardia, via Montreal and Paris.”

“Was that wrong?” Forsyth said.

“No, but here’s the complication. It turns out there may be more than one person traveling as Hans Beck. Our updated investigation shows he may have also entered through JFK, linked to one of several flights originating from four potential locations and airlines served by Kennedy-an Aeroflot flight from Moscow to terminal one, one from Pakistan International Airlines out of Lahore to terminal four, a Turkish Airlines flight out of Istanbul to terminal one and one with Uzbekistan Airways, to terminal four. It is unclear how it happened.”

“Maybe they used decoys as part of the scenario?” Forsyth asked.

“We can’t rule it out,” Healy said. “We are working with the airlines, scrutinizing all passenger manifests, records and surveillance of airport baggage check-in, drop-off and handling.”

Forsyth went to NYPD Lieutenant Ted Stroud and his team for the status of leads arising from the SUV used in the abduction and its ties to the investigation of a global auto theft ring by the D.A.’s Organized Crime and Rackets Bureau, the NYPD Auto Crime Division and the Insurance Frauds Bureau.

“I’ll turn that over to Detective Brewer, who is leading that aspect,” Stroud said.

“With respect to our investigation on the two deceased-Donald Dalfini and Omarr Aimes-confidential sources arising from inquiries on Omarr Aimes led to Florence Payne, aka Mary Ballard, aka Miss Tangiers, an exotic dancer, thought to be the last to see Aimes.

“We interviewed Payne, who indicated that on the night before his death, Aimes took a cell phone call from a man she referred to as-” Brewer read from his notebook “-‘Zeta’ or ‘Rama.’ She said, ‘It maybe had something to do with making a movie, that some guy named Zeta or Rama, some crazy Albanian or Russian, had a job for them that was big easy money.’

“We’ve investigated records through the mayor’s office of Film, Theater and Broadcasting. Subsequently, we’ve contacted location managers and we’re waiting to hear back for leads in this direction.”

“Thank you, Detective Brewer.”

Forsyth then turned to Cordelli.

“Detective Cordelli, you’re working with Jeff Griffin on any subsequent leads based on his contact with the suspects. What do you have?”

“Working with Detective Lucy Chu, one of our forensic artists, we compiled a series of images based on what Griffin saw in the van. Using that material we’re in the process of canvassing targeted locations for leads.”

Forsyth glanced at his files, spotted a note and frowned.

“Excuse me, I’ve received this from our agents with you, but am I to understand Griffin left his hotel unescorted and we’ve lost track of him?”

Cordelli cleared his throat.

“That’s correct. But I remind everyone he is not in custody.”

“Has he been contacted again by the suspects?”

“All indications are that he has not had any further contact.”

“But we don’t know what he’s up to or where he is?”

“No, but it was the FBI who were assigned to him this morning.”

“I don’t care,” Forsyth said. “Lieutenant Stroud, were you aware that we’d lost Jeff Griffin?”

“No, I was not.” Stroud glared at Cordelli. “Triangulate his phone. Track him down. He should not be out of our sight.”

“We’re done for now.” Forsyth recapped his pen, closed his folders.

As the meeting broke up, investigators checked their phones while standing to leave.

Detective Brewer was the last to remain seated. His full attention was on his phone and the message he’d just received from Chuck Pennick, a location manager from Los Angeles in New York working on a film. Betty Bonner, Brewer’s ex-partner in the film office, had said, “If anyone knows what’s going on here, it’s Chuck.” Betty said Pennick was plugged into all foreign productions and crews.

Brewer read Pennick’s message.

Detective: I heard a foreign crew was working without permits in a warehouse in the Bronx maybe making porn, or horror, or thriller. It’s all rumor but I can try to find out more, if you like.

Purgatory Point, the Bronx, New York City

“You’re sure it’s in here?”

Minutes after Jeff’s cab had left the Major Deegan Expressway, it rolled into a wasteland, making him doubt this was the location of the restaurant’s address on the printout.

“Yeah, man, relax,” the driver said. “I told you, my ex grew up here. I sent the bitch four years of support payments to this freakin’ zip code. It’s cool.”

But what Jeff saw was an industrial graveyard of abandoned factories and decaying warehouses built in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. They passed a crumbling tool factory, then a shirt factory that had been established in 1889, according to its massive decaying sign.

On the way out of Manhattan, the driver had explained how “the Point” used to be a grim section of the southwest Bronx, with the Harlem River to the west, and the East River to the southeast. You could see Rikers Island out there, and across the river you could see the planes lifting off and landing way out at LaGuardia. The cab now weaved through along hulking public housing projects, dingy apartment buildings and squat houses on deserted streets.

“A lot of people are on welfare and there’s a lot of crime,” the driver said. “I guess it’s getting better. People have fixed up big chunks and stuff. Most people here, like me, are Puerto Rican, but in the past few years a lot of art pothead student types and a lot of Eastern Europeans, Albanians, Turks, Chechens, Bulgarians, Russians, people like that, have moved into the neighborhoods and it’s been good, or so friends tell me. I live in Yonkers now.”

Jeff saw the architectural and esthetic changes emerging as they came to the revitalized business district. There were blocks of tree-lined sidewalks with inviting benches, neo-Victorian streetlamps adorned with hanging planters bursting with flowers. Older buildings had been converted to condos and lofts above new galleries, specialty shops, boutiques and offices.

“Here you go.” The driver nodded to a sign that read Vakhiyta’s Kitchen.

“Go another block and drop me there.”

“Okay.”

Before Jeff got out, he paid the driver and gave him another twenty.

“Can you stay here and wait for me? I’ll need a ride back.”

“Sure.” The driver handed him a card with his cell phone number.

Jeff adjusted his ball cap and dark glasses and headed for the restaurant. Since his face and identity had been published after the press conference he couldn’t risk being recognized.

Come on, this is crazy. I’m out of my mind to think this will amount to anything except pissing off Cordelli, Brewer and the FBI.

So what? I refuse to do nothing.

Vakhiyta’s Kitchen was old-world plain. The name was painted on a wooden sideboard over a weatherworn brick storefront. It had dirty windows with half-drawn shades. A yellowed menu was taped to the glass-front door under the Open sign.