“Sarah!”
He looked up and down the street.
He reached for his cell phone and called Sarah’s number.
“Hey, you disappeared on me,” Jeff said. “Where are you? I’m standing by the souvenir cart.”
He studied the nearest storefronts again: a sports store, an electronics store, a ticket seller, a place fronted with plywood that was under renovation. Had they gone into one? Which one would they enter? He wasn’t sure. He’d told them not to move.
He called her number again. Again, he got her voice mail.
He scrutinized the street. Faces blurred as streams of people dissolved into chaotic rivers amid the smells of perfume, sweat and grilled spicy meat. Human features became indistinguishable as people brushed against him, bumped him.
“Are you looking for your wife and son?”
Jeff turned around to the man in the wheelchair-the man to whom he’d given ten bucks.
“Yes, did you see them?”
“I think they got picked up.”
“Picked up? What do you mean?”
“Well, I saw it from the corner of my eye. I wasn’t focused on it, but it looked like two guys picked them up.”
“What two guys?”
“Two guys sorta helped them into a van or an SUV and they drove off.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“It happened real fast, like everyone was in a hurry.”
“Where?”
“Right there.” He nodded to the spot where Jeff had left them.
Nothing was making sense. Jeff shook his head.
“I doubt that. My wife wouldn’t go with anyone. She doesn’t know anyone in New York.”
“It looked like they were pulling your boy and your wife was trying to stop them and then they took her, too. It was real fast and smooth.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“I’m telling you what I saw.”
“Hold on.”
Jeff went to the ponytailed man selling souvenirs from the cart where Sarah and Cole had browsed moments ago. The man was wearing a tie-dye T-shirt and dark glasses.
“Who?” the man said after Jeff had explained.
“My wife and son. They were just here looking at your cart a few minutes ago. Did you see them go into a store?”
The ponytailed man scratched his three-day growth, then shrugged.
“Sorry, pal. It’s hectic here with people and traffic. People get picked up and dropped off around here every two seconds. I didn’t see anything.”
Jeff turned back to the wheelchair man.
“I think you saw someone else,” Jeff said. “I think they’re in a store.”
“No, it happened.”
“Did they say anything-where they were going, or who they were?”
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“What about the vehicle? What color was it?”
“Silver, white, I’m not sure…white, yeah, maybe white.”
Jeff ran his hand through his hair, unable to dismiss his unease over what this wheelchair guy claimed to have seen.
“I think you’re mistaken and that you saw someone else.”
“I know I saw it out of the corner of my eye, but listen to me-it happened. It didn’t look right. I’m just telling you what I saw because you seem like a nice family. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s your choice.”
The man clamped his hands on his wheels and rolled away.
Jeff took a quick breath, reached for his phone and tried Sarah again. But before he pressed her number, he saw something small and shiny in the street, near the curb.
A key ring.
Its clasp was open.
He picked it up. It was looped to a miniature novelty blue-and-white New York license plate with a name on it.
Cole’s key ring.
It was in the gutter, where it would’ve fallen if he’d gotten into a vehicle.
Jeff trembled at the absurdity, the horror, as he looked in every direction searching for something, anything, to subdue the wave of alarm rising around him. This was the edge of Times Square-
He pulled his fingers into a fist around Cole’s key ring.
6
New York City police officers Jimmy Hodge and Roy Duggan were walking the beat: extended Times Square.
Earlier that morning, at the top of their tour, they’d helped two other cops corner a perp after he’d tried to boost a Mercedes on Seventh Avenue. Duggan happily let those two do the paperwork because he and Jimmy had good numbers this month-no danger of a white shirt breathing down their necks for stats.
Now they were back on patrol and a coffee break was overdue.
Duggan, a third-generation uniform with twenty-three years on the street, was telling young Jimmy, his rookie partner of four months, about a deli on Forty-seventh when a white guy in his thirties rushed up to them.
“I need help!”
Instinctively Hodge and Duggan braced while giving him the instant head-to-toe. Worried demeanor, sweaty. Six foot, medium build, muscular, clean-cut, brown hair, jeans, golf shirt with Laurel Montana Volunteer Fire Department insignia. Nothing in his hands but a cell phone.
“What’s the problem?” Hodge asked.
“My wife and son have been abducted.”
Hodge traded a quick glance with Duggan.
“Your wife and your son?” Hodge reached for his notebook.
“It happened a few minutes ago!”
