Dead Connection

“I’m sorry. There’s some misunderstanding. He saw her earlier in the week.”

“He told me he was having dinner with her again tonight.”

“No. We agreed to take things slow. I want to ease him into Stephanie’s life.”

“But I just talked to him a few hours ago. Wasn’t he supposed to see her?”

“He told you that? No. We talked a long time after he brought Stephanie home the other night. He’s supposed to call to schedule something next week. I haven’t talked to him since.”

Ellie thanked Miranda for her time, cut the call short, and began redialing Flann’s number. Once, twice, three more times. Straight to voice mail. His phone was turned off, and she was beginning to worry. Her brother was in the hospital. Her partner had lied to her and was missing. If they had gotten to Jess, could they have gotten to Flann too?

She sat at the edge of Jess’s bed. He looked at her like he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at her. “Just go, Ellie. Seriously, do what you need to do, but you’ve got to promise me to be careful. I got a good thing going with the Vicodin here, and all your stress is seriously harshing my mellow.”

After a few minutes of repeated “are you sure’s?” Jess threatened to have the attending nurse call security if Ellie did not leave him to rest.

“If I arrange to fax some pictures here, do you think you can find the energy to take a look at them and maybe give me a text message?”

“Now that’s my baby sister. Yeah, I think I can handle it. I didn’t get enough punches in to hurt these babies,” he said, wiggling his fingers.

ELLIE SPLURGED for a cab to the precinct, not wanting to lose her cell phone signal on the subway in case Flann called. As she checked her phone for incoming calls one last time before she paid the driver, a thought suddenly hit her, and she felt stupid for not realizing it earlier: Flann’s phone might be going directly to voice mail simply because he was somewhere without a signal. It still left her questioning why he lied to her about seeing his daughter, but at least it shifted her thoughts from the more unnerving possibilities she’d conjured.

She settled herself in front of a records terminal and began printing out copies of the photographs she wanted Jess to see. Vitali Rostov was first. He had no criminal record, so she pulled his New York driver’s license photograph. Next, she ran off the photographs of the two men who were on Lev Grosha’s list of approved inmate visitors: Ivan Ovinko and Mark Jakov. She numbered the photographs with a pen – one through three – then faxed them to the hospital along with a note for the security guard who had promised to shepherd the fax to Jess’s room.

As she watched the pages feed through the fax machine, she took a deep breath. Now came the hard part. Waiting. She checked her phone. No new calls. She tried Flann again. Still straight to voice mail. Where was he?

A folder rested on Flann’s desk, its contents spilling out slightly. She recognized it as the folder Jason Upton had sent to the precinct after running a background check on Ed Becker. She opened it and found three documents that had not been there originally.

One was a copy of a New York DMV boat registration for a 1995 Gibson 5900 Cabin Yacht, registered to Ed Becker. The second was a copy of title information on the same boat, documenting ownership transferring from a man named Luke Steiner to Ed Becker the previous March. The third document was a fax addressed to Detective Flann McIlroy, dated that afternoon, from the law firm of Larkin, Baker & Howry, where Jason Upton worked.

On the cover sheet was a handwritten note: Got your message. Sorry I missed you, and sorry I missed the boat. Goes to show there’s always somewhere else to look. Here’s the registration if you don’t already have it. Call me if you need anything else. He had left a telephone number with a cellular phone area code, followed by the initials J. U. Attached was a copy of the same DMV boat registration that Becker had apparently printed out on his own before receiving Upton’s fax.

Ellie tried to call Flann again. Still straight to voice mail. She stared at the registration for Ed Becker’s 1995 Gibson 5900 Cabin Yacht, then Googled “Gibson 5900” on Flann’s computer. She double clicked on the first result and pulled up a listing of a 2002 yacht. Asking price: a quarter of a mil. She let out a whistle, then checked a few more listings. The cheapest 1995 she could find was still $160,000. How did a retired cop afford a boat like that? It certainly explained why Flann had been curious, but what led him to ask Jason Upton about the boat in the first place?

She remembered Upton’s computer tutorial about cookies. She used the computer’s mouse to click on the history of Flann’s Internet Explorer, then clicked on a folder marked today. Beneath an entry for “images.google,” a name popped out at her: Ed Becker. She clicked on it.

The screen changed to a collection of small photographs. A number in the top right-hand corner of the screen indicated that she had pulled up more than five hundred matches. She searched Google Images again, this time for “Ed Becker New York.” That narrowed it to a manageable thirty-two matches. She browsed the photos. A kid graduating from high school. A paleontologist reconstructing the skeleton of a T. rex. Some guy with a smile and a rifle next to a really dead Bambi.

She clicked over to the next page of photographs. Between a head shot of a bankruptcy lawyer and a poster for the movie City Hall was a group photograph that caught her eye. It was too small to make out faces, but the text beneath the picture read, Bronx Yacht Club Activities. She clicked on the photograph to enlarge it.

Retired NYPD Detective Ed Becker stood third from the left, beer in hand, on the deck of a sailboat. A description beneath the picture read, Blue Cup Regatta.

Ellie returned to Flann’s history and saw a listing for the Bronx Yacht Club. She clicked on the link to pull up the club’s Web site. The home page announced, “Welcome to the site of the Bronx Yacht Club, located in the nautical community of City Island, New York.” A separate entry in Flann’s browser history showed that he also visited a Web site about City Island itself.

City Island. City Island. Where had she just seen something about City Island? She rummaged through the clutter scattered across Flann’s desk until she found what she was looking for: the list of Internet cafe locations that Enoch used to access the FirstDate server. Every spot was in Manhattan, except one – an Internet cafe called JavaNet on City Island, New York.

She opened Mapquest, then entered the address of the Bronx Yacht Club and requested directions to JavaNet. Only a quarter of a mile separated the two.

She continued scouring the papers on Flann’s desk, hoping to find something to confirm her suspicions about where her partner had gone. Resting inside his top desk drawer was a sealed envelope marked “Ellie.” She ripped it open and read the note inside:

Ellie – Tomorrow morning I will tell you whatever I learn tonight about Ed Becker, and you will undoubtedly be angry that I did not invite you on my snooping adventure. I will explain my reasons, and you will accuse me of holding out on you once again. Then I will show you this note to prove that, unlike some moments in the past few days, I am sharing my island with you. I have every intention of sharing any and all information with you, but I have good reasons for acquiring it on my own. I know you hope I’m wrong – I do too – but I need to check on Becker. As you know, the NYPD can be a harsh place for cops who check on other cops. There’s no need for you to be associated with my snooping. But I promise, I will tell you everything I know tomorrow. Now that you’ve read this, do you forgive me, or shall we go another round? Your partner, Flann.

She read the letter again, so frustrated she wanted to tear it to pieces. I hope you’re wrong. That’s what she’d said to him when she called him from the car and he voiced his concerns about Becker. He’d written this note after that phone call.

She dialed Flann’s number again, but this time it did not go into voice mail. It rang. Then an answer. A loud humming sound in the background, then Flann’s voice: “Can’t talk,” followed by a click. She hit redial immediately, but the call went directly into voice mail this time. She tried twice more, but no luck. Flann must have turned off his cell after Ellie had finally made it through.

The noise in the background had been familiar. And loud. She pulled up a map of City Island on the computer screen. The Bronx Yacht Club was near Pelham Bay Park, not far from LaGuardia Airport. It was also not far from