“Look at these, please. Pictures we took today. I’m telling the truth.”
Hesitating, she inched forward, keeping the gun on Jeff. She took the items with her free hand, then backed away. As she looked them over Jeff told her everything-about Lee Ann, the trip, everything. He explained all the events that brought them here, to this moment.
“Tell me where my wife and son are. I’m begging you.”
Jeff saw that her eyes were blue, a bit glassy, as he searched them for her reaction. With each passing second her hardness started to fracture. As she blinked back tears her mouth began moving and she spoke, in a whisper, to herself. Jeff struggled to hear, certain she’d said, “I told Donnie it’s freakin’ wrong, stupid.”
“Please,” Jeff said. “I’m begging you. Are they okay? Are my wife and son hurt? Please.”
On the verge of tears, she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Shut up! Your shit’s got nothing to do with us!”
“It’s your SUV. It’s registered to this address.”
“It was stolen three weeks ago when I went to the Neverpoint Mall. I’ve been scared the fuckers who took it would come here.”
“Then we’re on the same side. We both need to know what happened.”
“Sheri, you need my help?”
A woman’s voice came from just inside the sliding doors to the deck. A large woman in her fifties with long white hair stood in the dim light. She was wearing an oversize Mets T-shirt and tapped the tip of a baseball bat into the palm of her left hand.
“Did you call Donnie?” Sheri asked the older woman.
“I left him a message. Did you find out who this asshole is? Want me to help you with him?”
“No, I’ve got this.”
But Sheri’s voice quavered; her hands were shaking, signaling that she was losing her internal struggle to regard Jeff as a threat. He needed to search the house, then he’d alert Cordelli and Ortiz.
“Sheri, I told you the truth,” he said. “If what you told me is true, let me look through your house for my family, then I’ll go.”
“I told you we got nothing to do with that.”
“I need to look. Put yourself in my shoes.”
As she weighed Jeff’s argument, he pressed his case further.
“Sheri, listen to me-I need to find my family. Let me look and I’ll go. No matter what you do, your SUV is linked to my family’s disappearance and police will be coming here. I can let them know you helped, or I can let them know you hid something. I think you have a good heart. I don’t believe you want to kill me because I’m telling you the truth. I need to find my wife and son.”
After studying his face she swallowed, then lowered her gun.
“All right. Belva! Bring the kids out back. This won’t take long.”
“Are you nuts, girl?”
“It’s my damn house. Do as I say!”
It was a small bungalow; the reek of cigarettes and stale beer hung in the air. The kitchen table was cluttered with plates, butter knives, an open bag of cookies, a loaf of white bread and jars of jelly and peanut butter. When Jeff entered the living room it became evident why Sheri might not call the police. The coffee table was lined with empty liquor bottles, beer cans and small clear plastic bags containing something organic.
There were newspapers open to want ads with jobs circled.
“Since Donnie got laid off at the plant, it’s been hard,” Sheri was almost apologizing to Jeff. “The mortgage, car and credit card payments are piling up. We’re looking for jobs but it’s hard, and then with the SUV stolen, that took the cake.”
Holding her gun at her side, Sheri kept her distance as she escorted Jeff in his room-by-room search on the main floor bedrooms. He recognized the intrusive aspect of a stranger in her bedroom and those of her children but it was eclipsed by the outrage forced upon him. He looked in closets, under beds, in the basement and he tapped on walls until he was satisfied that Sarah and Cole were not here. When they’d returned to the living room Jeff’s cell phone rang.
The display showed a blocked number.
His heart rate soared when he answered.
“Jeff, this is Detective Cordelli. We’ve located the SUV.”
“What about Sarah and Cole?”
Sirens and the rush of the road indicated Cordelli was in a car.
“No confirmation. We’re en route to the scene now.”
“What’s the location? I’m coming.”
“You sit tight at your hotel-we’ll keep you posted.”
“Tell me the location, Cordelli!”
“Jeff, look, we’re not there yet. I don’t know exactly what we have.”
“It’s my wife and son, tell me! I’m a firefighter. I’ve been to ‘scenes,’ Cordelli, bad ones. Other people will be gawking at the site. I have a right to be there, you know I do.”
“Jeff, I’ll call you back.”
“No, I need to know.”
At that moment Sheri and Jeff heard a distant siren that was approaching her area. Jeff figured that the police might also be acting on the Dalfinis’ address. If that was the case, he didn’t want to wait for them.
“Tell me the location now!” Jeff glanced out the window down the street. His cab was still waiting. “I swear I’ll get it, one way or another.”
Cordelli let a beat pass before relenting.
“Got a pen and paper?”
Cordelli recited the location. Jeff copied it on the newsprint border of a newspaper on Sheri’s coffee table.
“What was that all about?” Sheri said.
“The NYPD have found something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know exactly but I have to go.” Jeff collected his wallet and things from Sheri. “If it comes up, I’ll tell the police that you tried to help me.”
Sheri said nothing.
Concern deepened the worry lines on her face and she tried to absorb all that had taken place as Jeff hurried out of her home and trotted down the street to his cab.
14
The 2010 GMC Terrain burned within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in the loading area of an abandoned warehouse at the fringe of a derelict industrial section of Brooklyn Heights.
Officers in a marked NYPD car patrolling the zone were first to spot it. They’d called it in with the plate number. By the time crews from Engine 205, Ladder 118, arrived the SUV was engulfed, the blaze blasting outward and skyward, turning the vehicle into a mass of ferocity.
The inferno crackled and hissed, discharging sparks and flakes of melted debris. Firefighters stretched a line, keeping a safe distance using the reach of the hose stream. Explosions can propel white-hot fragments with bullet force. Like all first responders, they knew every call could be their last. Their firehouse had lost eight members in the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.
Cordelli and Ortiz pulled up amid the sirens and lights of more arriving emergency vehicles. They were directed to Fire Lieutenant Van Reston. A crowd was collecting at the yellow tape that cordoned the area. Cordelli had to shout over the rattle-roar of the pumper.
“What do you have?”
