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Jeff’s breathing quickened.
Was there something he was overlooking, or forgetting?
One by one images from the morning flowed across Cordelli’s monitor—the street, Cole, Sarah—haunting Jeff as he turned back to Ortiz, who went over her notes. She asked a spectrum of questions, probing a little deeper about Sarah, her job, her disposition, family medical conditions and family history. Jeff told her everything but withheld mention of Lee Ann and its toll. It was too painful, entangled with his own guilt, and irrelevant as far as he was concerned.
“What about my wife’s cell phone?” Jeff asked. “I read somewhere that you guys can track cell phones, that there’s technology to pinpoint where people are through their cell phone.”
“Sometimes,” Cordelli said. “May I see your phone?”
Cordelli turned it on, expertly buttoned and scrolled through its menu and functions. “Is your wife’s phone similar?”
“It’s the same.”
“These are older models. The tracking ability you’re talking about is limited on this type.” Cordelli returned Jeff’s phone and went back to studying the photos, adding, “And as for tracking roaming signals, the phone has to be turned on. Even then, we need warrants to get the phone companies to release that information—but we can expedite them.”
“Is there anything else you can do with the phone?”
“We can get a warrant to essentially clone your phone.”
“What does that mean?”
“Any calls, texts, downloads—received or sent—will also come to us, to a special line with the NYPD, without the caller or sender being aware. It’s like a tap. It allows us to be on top of any communication that might come from the bad guys. Say, a ransom call, or if your wife or son got to a phone and called for help. And we’ll work with FBI for warrants on your hotel or home and work phones in Montana, all numbers associated directly with you or your wife, in case any calls go there.”
“I want you to do everything that helps, yes.”
“We want to be prepared,” Cordelli said. “But the bad guys are smart. They toss the victims’ phones. And they use prepaid disposables that are virtually impossible to track.”
Hans Beck.
“Wait. There was a mix-up with Cole’s bag at LaGuardia. I got a call from this guy, Hans Beck. We had his backpack, he had ours and we met near Penn Station late yesterday and traded them.”
“Anything you can remember about him?”
Jeff described Beck and explained how he’d obtained Jeff’s cell phone number. Ortiz made notes.
“He was kind of weird, nervous,” Jeff said. “His number’s on my phone.”
Cordelli displayed the call list.
Jeff pointed to it.
“Did he threaten you, ask for money?” Cordelli asked.
“No.”
“How was he weird?”
“I don’t know—he seemed preoccupied, like something was on his mind. Maybe it was because he was rushed. He said he had to catch a train.”
“Did you see what was in his bag, drugs, anything unusual?”
Jeff shook his head and Cordelli and Ortiz exchanged glances.
“He could’ve targeted your family for a robbery or ransom,” Cordelli said. “Or it could be nothing. We’ll check out the number but it could be a dead end.”
“Well, what about all these police security cameras everywhere? Can’t you use them to find my wife and son?”
“Yes, we can,” Cordelli said.
“Then do it, goddammit! My family’s life is at stake!”
The detectives let a few tense moments pass in silence as Jeff blinked back his fear, frustration and guilt. He shook his head.
“Jeff,” Cordelli started, “you’re upset, we understand. But we have people looking. We are investigating as we speak. But we need to be confident that you’ve given us all the information we need.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
Cordelli went back to examining the photos.
“Jeff, is Sarah under a doctor’s care? Does she take any medication?”
“No.”
“Does she use illegal drugs? Maybe gamble?”
“What?”
“We have to ask.”
“No.”
“Does she or Cole spend a lot of time online, chatting with strangers?”
“No.”
“What was your wife’s state of mind just before this happened? How would you characterize her demeanor?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m looking at these pictures of you, of her, and I’ve got to tell you, your smiles look a little forced. I’m getting the feeling that there’s some underlying stress in your family.”
Jeff said nothing.
“Tell us about your family, your marriage. Is it all good out there in Big Sky Country?”
Jeff searched his heart for the answer.
“Who’s this?” Cordelli turned the monitor.
The image nearly winded Jeff. He didn’t know it was there—a beautiful shot of Sarah cradling Lee Ann, who was smiling up at her. Sarah smiled down at the angel in her arms. She’d obviously saved it on his phone.
“You said you have one child? Who’s this, Jeff?”
Cordelli’s eyes were like black ball bearings, shining hard.
“Our daughter.” Jeff cleared his throat. “She died about a year and a half ago. SIDS.”
“I’m so sorry,” Juanita said tenderly as Jeff’s attention flicked to the snapshot of Juanita and the girl with the butterfly.
“My condolences,” Cordelli said. “But how would you characterize your marriage since then, up to the point these pictures were taken here, this morning? Would you say there was stress in your family this morning before Sarah and Cole disappeared?”
Jeff swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
“Were you arguing?”
“Yes.”
Cordelli shot a glance to Ortiz: bingo.
“What were you arguing about?” Cordelli asked.
Jeff stared at the image with restrained anger and said slowly, “I need you to help me.”
“We are helping you,” Cordelli said. “But we need the truth, all of it. What were you arguing about before Sarah left with Cole?”
“We’d been having a hard time since we lost our daughter. Cole has always dreamed of seeing New York City, so we came here to give him the trip and to talk about our future.”
“Were you going to stay together, or separate?”
Surprised at the accuracy of the question Jeff said nothing.
“Losing a child can lead to divorce—it happens,” Cordelli said.
“It’s what we were talking about this morning,” Jeff said.
“So it would be fair to say your marriage was strained up to the point they disappeared?”
“I told them to stay right where they were while I bought new batteries for the camera.”
“Jeff, is it conceivable that Sarah was a little ticked at how your conversations were going and needed some time alone?”
He stared at Cordelli, knowing how it looked to him, but knowing the truth, still feeling Sarah’s arm around his waist, holding him tight.
“No.”
“I need you to be honest with us, Jeff. Would Sarah have any reason to harm Cole?”
“God, no! I’m telling you, no. I told you at the start, she’s a loving mother, a schoolteacher, a good person. She’s incapable of doing any of the things you’re suggesting.”
Cordelli shot a glance to Ortiz, leaving matters open but signaling an end to the interview.
“Okay, Jeff,” she said. “Be assured, we’re on this, leave everything with us. Meanwhile, we suggest you go back to your hotel, in case Sarah returns. We’ll stay in touch with you and we’ll ask you to call us, should anything change.”
“If Sarah shows up,” Cordelli said, “please return to the station house with her and Cole so we can sign off.”
Cordelli started repositioning file folders on his desk.
Clearing his desk.
That was all that Cordelli was interested in, Jeff thought later when he’d returned to the street and started looking for a cab.
Jeff would call the hotel and their room to check on Sarah.
But he had no intention of returning and doing nothing.
8
New York City
Time hammered against Jeff.
As his cab cut through the midtown traffic he watched the muted backseat TV monitor—reports on Broadway, the Mets, a triple murder in Brooklyn and more on the UN meeting in the Lower East Side.
Amid the horns, sirens, the chaos, he tried to think.
He called the hotel room, then the desk for messages—nothing.
His hope sinking, he turned to the city, the sidewalks, scanning the crowds, studying faces until details melted away. He understood the skepticism of the NYPD, knew how things looked to them.
Bad.
Because they were bad.
They’d said they were investigating but Cordelli and Ortiz likely thought Sarah took Cole for a few hours of shopping because she was pissed off. The detectives probably didn’t put much currency in the witness, a street guy, and were reluctant to give it much effort. Deep down Jeff believed they had doubts about his report. He didn’t trust them to make it a priority.
As his taxi rolled through the city, his misgivings resonated with his memories of himself at fifteen. His parents were killed when their tour bus crashed in the Canadian Rockies and he went to live with his grandfather near Billings.
In the months after the estate was settled, Jeff was given his father’s Ford pickup truck. Traces of his cologne were still in the truck; the steering wheel was worn from where his big hands usually held it. Jeff cherished the pickup because it was his connection to his mom and dad.
Jeff got his learner’s license, and when he drove the truck with his grandfather, it felt like his parents were in the cab with them. Jeff treasured the Ford, washing it and changing the oil himself. With that truck he learned how to fix things, to become self-reliant, to endure the deaths of his parents.
Then one day the truck was stolen from his grandfather’s driveway.
Jeff was devastated. They’d reported the theft to police, who’d promised to “leave no stone unturned” in recovering it. But days, then weeks, passed with no news. Jeff convinced his grandfather to let him search for it by driving him to truck stops, auto shops, bars and diners in nearly every town in Yellowstone County.
Weeks passed. Then, as if guided by fate, they’d spotted a Ford pickup at a mall near Ballantine where they’d stopped to shop for shirts. It was Jeff’s. It had a different plate and was all primed like it was going to be painted but it had the same tiny spiderweb fracture in the rear cab window and the chip in the left rear bumper.
