The day she had dreaded was here.
The day part of her had died when her daughter was killed hadcome again with an armed invasion and four grim-faced detectives standing in herhome at four in the morning.
Louella May Bell knew.
“I have a card in my purse.”
She swallowed and went to stand but her knees gave out.
Brewer and Cordelli caught her, set her gently back in herchair.
Suddenly Shereesa flew to her and the two held on to eachother.
“It’s just us now, child, just us.”
19
Jeff Griffin was too tense to sleep.
He dozed, awakened and then drifted into that torpid state between consciousness and fantasy.
In his darkest hour he found a flash of happiness: a vision of himself with Sarah, Lee Ann and Cole together. It passed in brilliant light like a dying star before the horror descended, crushing him until he woke to the nightmare.
On the luggage rack at the foot of their bed, he saw Sarah’s sweater, a folded top and pants. On the neatly made bed beside him, Cole’s underwear, shorts and T-shirts.
These were the remnants of yesterday.
He was alone in the aftermath.
It was 6:20 a.m.
He grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand, thankful it was fully charged.
No messages. No texts. Nothing.
He called down to the front desk. A man answered.
“No, sir, there are no messages for 1212.”
Jeff placed the handset back in the cradle. Pain hammered from the inside of his skull; his stomach was cramping from having not eaten for some twenty-four hours.
He started the room’s coffeemaker, then took a shower. Images of the car fire and corpses swirled in the water’s rush until he remembered Cordelli’s caution.
Stepping from the shower he thought,
Okay, that was breakfast.
Jeff ate the food and drank black coffee, deciding he would call Cordelli for an update. Maybe the cops had a lead from the fire victims? As Jeff reached for the hotel phone, it rang.
His heart skipped.
“Is this Jeff?” a woman’s voice asked. “Jeff Griffin?”
It was not Sarah.
“Who’s calling?”
“Melissa Mason from the
Melissa Mason was caffeine fueled and fast-talking, with a New York accent. Cordelli had told him that police were going to put out a public appeal for help on the case late last night.
“Yes, this is Jeff Griffin.”
“Jeff, I’m writing a story for the
“No.”
“Do you any idea who would do this?”
“No.”
“Can you detail for me exactly what happened near Times Square yesterday?” Jeff hesitated, then told her. Melissa punctuated his recounting of events with “uh-huhs,” then asked more questions and went over their background. “Sarah’s a teacher? And you’re a mechanic and a volunteer firefighter in Montana? And Cole is nine? Is he your only child?”
That one stopped Jeff cold. But he answered.
“We had a daughter, Lee Ann. She died at six months.”
“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” Melissa said. “This whole ordeal has gotta be horrible for you. What thoughts are going through your mind?”
“I want them back. I don’t know who did this, I don’t know why. I want them back.”
“I understand. Um, Jeff, I’d like to come to your hotel with a photographer to take your picture, would you agree?”
“I don’t know, I-”
“We’ll go big with Sarah’s and Cole’s pictures. It’ll help find them, Jeff. It’ll go on our site, and on the streets, everywhere. It won’t take long. We can be there in forty-five minutes, maybe sooner. We’ll try sooner.”
“All right.”
“Do you have a cell phone number, an email address?”
Jeff needed to keep his cell phone clear.
“Just use the hotel number.”
After the call Jeff switched on the TV in time to catch a local New York City morning newscast. Sarah and Cole stared back at him.
He didn’t move except to adjust the volume as the female anchor read the news.
The story cut to a reporter in his twenties downtown.
Stop-action images of Sarah and Cole being taken quickly into the vehicle played as the reporter’s voice carried over them.
The report showed shaky cell phone video of the SUV burning.
