Cordelli and Ortiz scanned the area for surveillance cameras. It didn’t look promising. They went to Officer Marktiz, the uniform who’d called it in.
“Any witnesses?”
“Naw.” Marktiz shook his head as he retrieved more tape from the trunk of his car. “Nobody stepped up, nobody around. Nothing. We’ll help with a canvass.”
Cordelli and Ortiz knew coming into this that it didn’t look good.
The vehicle used in the abduction of Sarah and Cole Griffin came up stolen, now it had been torched—all premeditated.
“They must’ve had a switch car ready,” Ortiz said. “I don’t like this, it’s all too methodical. Now we could have homicides. I do not freakin’ like this.”
“Yup.”
Thick smoke clouds churned from the wreck as crews doused the flames. Cordelli and Ortiz turned as a gust sent a choking column their way. When they turned back, Cordelli faced an old problem walking at him: Detective Larry Brewer.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
Cordelli had worked with Brewer a few years back. The guy’s ego was bigger than Yankee Stadium and fit with his near-inhuman aura. Brewer’s utter baldness accentuated his bulging black eyes and his pointed ears, earning him the nickname “Diablo.”
“What’re you doing at my scene, Cordelli?” Brewer’s jaw worked a wad of gum.
“We’re on a case.”
“You’re contaminating my scene. We’ve got an ongoing undercover operation with the task force.”
“We’re working an abduction—mother and son—and that’s our vehicle.”
“I saw your alert. My case takes precedence over yours, we’re taking over. It’s ours now. My captain will advise your supervisor to advise you to skip back to Midtown South and get me your notes.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Larry,” Cordelli said. “We’re going to wait here for Lieutenant Reston to give us the green light on our scene.”
Brewer grimaced, twisting his neck until his Adam’s apple popped. “You’re in our way, Vic.” Brewer stepped into Cordelli’s space just as Brewer’s cell phone rang. He answered it, pointed his chin to the other side of a patrol car and he and his partner stepped away.
“He’s a piece of work,” Ortiz said.
“He’s a slab of misery.”
With the sound of pressured water against metal, Cordelli turned sadly back to the smoldering ruin.
“I’ll bet we have somebody in there, Juanita.”
“I’m praying we don’t. Look.”
Beyond the tape, Jeff Griffin had stepped from a taxi to anxiously survey the scene. Cordelli cursed himself for giving up the address, but Griffin was right—he would’ve found out.
Cordelli had requested two cars be dispatched to the house of the registered owner on Steeldown Road in the Bronx, and he’d hoped the units got to it before Brewer got a chance to claim it.
Now, a firefighter at the wreckage was shouting and signaling for Lieutenant Reston to look into the SUV’s interior. Whatever was inside could not be viewed from a distance. Cordelli saw Reston lean in, saw his face crease before he directed his men to their next steps.
“Damn,” Cordelli said.
It was clear to him what they’d found.
* * *
It was clear to Jeff Griffin, too.
He was experienced with these scenes.
From where he stood, he read Reston’s face and it hit him.
Oh, Jesus.
The dread Jeff had locked in the darkest reaches of his heart lashed against the chains that held it there. He saw the fire crews unfold the large yellow tarps—the universal flag of tragedy, the confirmation of death. He watched them take care positioning the covering. Protecting the scene while respecting the dignity of the dead.
He was familiar with the funereal procedure.
He’d performed it himself.
He knew what happened to fire victims—how their skin cracked, how their bones broke, how the skulls could shatter and how the bodies could be burned beyond recognition.
Sarah and Cole.
He began shaking, pierced by one thought.
I have to see them. I have to see for myself.
Everything went white.
Time froze.
He could not immediately remember physically getting as close as he did to the SUV’s charred remains before hands seized him and dragged him back while he screamed for Sarah and Cole. All he saw was the brilliant yellow sheet. All he could imagine was the horror under it. He didn’t know how much time had passed or how he came to be in the rear seat of a police car with his hands covering his nose and mouth, blood roaring in his ears. For a moment or two he’d cried and when he dried his face, the clink of the handcuffs around his wrists alerted him to a man standing just outside the car.
“Mr. Griffin? I’m Detective Brewer. Can you hear me now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m going to start again. You have the right to remain silent....”
15
Manhattan, New York City
Jeff Griffin was placed in a stark interview room at One Police Plaza.
He’d waived his right to an attorney.
Left alone to contend with the agony of no one confirming that Sarah and Cole were dead, all he could do was pray.
Please, tell me it’s not them in the SUV, I’m begging you.
Adrenaline rippled through him.
He flattened his hands on the wooden table in front of him while memories strobed, snapshots of standing near Times Square with Sarah and feeling her arm around him. Tight. We have to hang on and work this out. Snapshots of the joy in Cole’s face as he marveled at the skyscrapers.
They can’t be dead.
By degrees Jeff regained the strength to keep from losing control. He had to hang on. He had to keep hoping, he told himself as events after the fire came into focus. Upon his arrest, Cordelli had rushed to the car, confronting the bald detective, demanding answers.
“Hey, Brewer! Where the hell are you taking him?”
