He arrived at his Flushing home at seven-fifteen which left him enough time to shave and pull a fresh suit from his closet before heading back to Manhattan. He thought about the Facebook idea as he crossed back over the Ed Koch Bridge and then battled the cross-town traffic all the way to his office. He knew that millions of people were totally hooked on Facebook but he knew literally nothing about it. Even if he had a personal computer at home he wouldn’t know where to start after he turned it on.
Shameka greeted him with a big smile when he got off the elevator. “Good morning, Detective. How was your weekend?”
“Not bad,” he grunted and continued walking. He suddenly stopped and turned around before he reached the squad-room door. “Do you know anything about Facebook, Shameka?”
“A little bit,” she responded. “Why?”
“I might need your help with something,” he said and then turned again for the door and pulled it open. “We can talk later.”
FACEBOOK is not your friend, it’s a surveillance engine.
- Richard Stallman -
Founding Father
Free Software Foundation
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Danski looked up from his computer when Gregory got to the office and pulled two containers of coffee from a brown deli-bag. He handed one to Danski and carried the other to his own desk and sat.
“What?” Danski said. “Was Starbucks closed?”
Litchfield shook his head and batted his hand in the air. “Starbucks is overrated and like you told me, it’s way too expensive.”
“Let me ask you something, Greg. Do you know anything about Facebook?”
Litchfield twisted his mouth. “Not much,” he admitted. “I know it’s a social networking website where people interact by posting comments and sharing photos. I also know that half the people in this country wouldn’t be able to start their day without Facebook. Why do you ask? You thinking of getting a home computer?”
“No, not at all. I think Facebook can help us find Matthew Adams. It might be the answer we’ve been looking for.”
“I see you’re thinking outside the box again,” Litchfield said smiling. “I like that. But what makes you think Matthew’s on Facebook?”
“Actually, I don’t expect to find him there, but I’m hoping his wife has an account. Shameka said she’d help us set up an account if we need her.”
“Shameka’s got enough to do. Call TARU,” Litchfield said referring to the department’s Technical Assistance Response Unit. “They have all the resources you need. They can get whatever information we need in a matter of minutes. Give them a call.”
Danski pulled his department phone book from his desk drawer and then reached for his phone and tapped in their number.
“No problem,” a TARU Detective responded when he explained what he needed. “Our office is at Fort Totten in Bayside. Come on over and we’ll get you started. Ask for Detective Nunez when you get here.”
Danski and Litchfield got to Fort Totten just before noon. When they stopped to pick up a pass at the entrance, a frail, gray-haired civilian gate-keeper told him to follow Bayside Street to Little Bay Road. “TARU’s on the right side; you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, we’ve been here before,” Danski said
An attractive, dark-haired woman looked up from her desk when Danski asked for Detective Nunez. “I’m Danski,” he said. “You said you were familiar with Facebook and might be able to help us.”
Nunez smiled. “Yes, of course, and please call me Olivia.” She retrieved a laptop from a charging station and brought it back to the front desk where she opened an international browser and then navigated to Facebook’s people search page. After entering Audrey Adams’s name, a short list of possibilities appeared, each bearing a photo. They quickly eliminated two because of age and a third because of race, narrowing the search to two possibilities.
“I think we might have something here,” Danski said as he glanced over a profile. “This one looks like a real good possibility. She’s a mother and has a son who has a soccer game this Saturday morning.”
“Sounds like a winner,” Litchfield said and then asked Nunez what the next step was.
“You have two options,” Nunez answered. “You can monitor her account or you could try to become friends with the woman and interact with her. I recommend monitoring. Trying to become friends out of the clear blue might arouse suspicion.”
Danski and Litchfield exchanged glances. “I agree; we’ll monitor it for now,” Danski said.
Danski signed out the computer after Nunez went over some of the features and provided a page of terms commonly used on Facebook.
***
After monitoring Audrey’s Facebook account for three days and establishing that her son’s name was Jason, Danski was able to put together a hazy profile. “Apparently she spends her time running between visiting her mother in a nursing home and driving Jason to school and soccer games,” he told Litchfield.
Litchfield pursed his lips. “Her mother’s in a nursing home, you said.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t say which one or where it’s located.”
“Does it say anything about his mother?”
Danski scanned the account and then shook his head. “There’s no mention of her here,” he said and then turned away from the computer and reached for his coffee. “Audrey talked about a parent-teacher meeting on Thursday evening. Unfortunately, we don’t know what school the boy attends or even what town they live in.”
He reached for his phone again and called the Board of Ed. They told him that all elementary schools have their parent-teacher meetings on the same night.
Litchfield chin-nodded to the laptop. “Let me take a look at that.”
Danski turned the computer around and slid it across his desk. “Good luck. Maybe you’ll see something I missed.”
“I see something already,” Litchfield said almost immediately. “Audrey told one of her Facebook friends that she stops at the Dunkin Donuts on Mott Avenue for coffee a couple of times a week.”
“Mott Street is downtown in Chinatown,” Litchfield said.
“No, she said Mott Avenue. That’s in Far Rockaway,” Danski said. He stood and went to Litchfield’s desk. “I don’t know how I missed that. Far Rockaway is my old stomping grounds.”
“Good, so you’re familiar with the area.”
“Absolutely, I know Far Rockaway like the back of my hand.”
Litchfield read further, “She said she ran into her high school English teacher there yesterday. She claims she had a huge crush on the guy back in the day and she couldn’t get over how old he’d gotten since then.”
“If she stops there a couple of times a week she probably lives in that general area,” Danski said.
“You’re not thinking of staking out the Dunkin Donuts, are you? We don’t even know what the woman looks like.”
“No, that’d be a waste of time,” Danski answered. “But if we cruised that same area after ten o’clock when most people are settled in for the night, we might spot Matthew’s van. We know the plate number and we know it’s a white Ford F150 van. We can take a ride over that way tonight if you haven’t got anything going on. Does Gavin have a game tonight?”
“Tonight’s our last game,” Litchfield said. “But I don’t have to be there.”
“Sure, you do. Sandra’s pregnant; she needs you to be there with her as much as you can. Don’t worry about it,” Danski said. “This is light work. I can handle it on my own.”
He went back to his desk and updated the information in his report. “I grew up in Far Rockaway, and I worked the summer detail in the hundred and first Precinct a few times when I was in uniform, so I know that whole beach scene and the surrounding area. I know every nook and cranny, and every side-street and back-street. I’m anxious to get over there and cruise the area for a few hours tonight. I can stop by and see my mother while I’m the area. You can join me tomorrow night.”
> Litchfield called Sandra at four o’clock and said he was on his way home. Danski remained behind reviewing some of the other cases he was assigned to investigate. He would have to decide which case to investigate after they find Jake. He was about to leave the office and head to Far Rockaway when his phone rang.
“Danski,” he answered.
“This is Jim Frazier, Detective. I don’t know if you remember me or not. You gave me your card the other day and told me to call if I heard from Matt Adams again.”
“Yes, of course I remember you. Has Matthew been back there again?”
“No, but he called me about an hour ago. He said he has a job coming up where he’s going to need a pair of spackler’s stilts. He remembered that I had a pair and he asked if he could borrow them. I told him, yeah, sure, come on over and get them.”
“When’s he coming for them?”
“He said he’d call first. The job’s not for another week. Oh, one other thing, Detective. When we got talking I told him the police came around asking about him. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Danski said trying to hide his disappointment. “That shouldn’t make a difference. Get back with me when he calls again.”
“You got it, Detective.”
When he disconnected Danski called Litchfield and filled him in.
“That’s good,” Litchfield said. “It looks like things are finally starting to fall into place.”
“Yeah, we’re connecting a bunch of dots, but we still haven’t got this guy in custody. I’ll let you know when I hear from Frazier again.”
“And call me right away if you spot Adams’ van tonight and I’ll get right over there,” Litchfield said.
Danski spent hours cruising the business district and the residential areas of the remote beach town until after midnight, without a sign of Matthew Adams’ van. Before heading home, he spotted a sector car and told the officers inside it what he was after.
“It’s a white Ford van,” he said and provided the plate number. He gave the officers his card and asked them to call if they spotted it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A light in a front window of Marsha Bank’s fourth floor apartment went off at exactly ten o’clock. A minute later another light went on in a window to the right of it. It went off seconds later. Matthew knew from working in her apartment that the first window was a recessed ceiling light in Marsha’s living room; the second one was a bedroom table-lamp. He stepped out of the damp doorway and tossed his empty water bottle in a waste basket near the curb and then went back to the doorway and waited. He would spend another forty-five minutes there, giving Marsha enough time to fall asleep, before making his move.
A slim, attractive sixty-five-year-old woman, Marsha set time aside each morning for an exhausting twenty-minute cardio-workout in her bedroom before showering and getting dressed for work. For good measure, she also stopped at a nearby ladies-only gym three times a week after leaving her office at four each afternoon. It had been her regular routine since losing her husband Ralph six years ago to a heart condition that was exacerbated by his excessive weight, wide girth and his refusal to do anything about it. Through exercise and diet, Marsha shed twenty-five pounds during the year following Ralph’s death, returning her to her high school weight of one hundred ten pounds. She had not dated since Ralph’s death, but a new agent in her office was showing a lot of interest in her.
The day Matthew installed an audio system in her apartment Marsha mentioned that she always goes to bed at ten and rises at six o’clock which gives her time to have breakfast before taking a brisk walk to her office six blocks away on Lexington Avenue.
“It’s a routine I got into after my husband died,” she told Matthew and added that being physically active contributed to her being a very sound sleeper.
Matthew had only spoken with her twice, once when he was there to give an estimate and again when he did the installation for her. On both occasions the only jewelry she wore was a slim gold chain around her neck, an inexpensive watch and a gold wedding band. She never mentioned having a boyfriend and he saw no signs that another person lived in her apartment with her.
At ten-forty-five he stepped out of the shadows again, but quickly stepped back into the doorway when a precinct radio car turned the corner and rolled down the street slowly. When the cruiser stopped mid-block, it made him wonder if someone had noticed him lurking in the shadows and called the police. But when the interior light went on, he realized the officers were taking a coffee break. When they drove on ten minutes later Matthew stepped out of the shadows again. He kept a close watch on Marsha’s windows as he crossed the Street and went into her building.
He was aware of the two security cameras in the lobby. He spotted them the first day he was there for the estimate and was careful now to avoid them as he crossed the lobby floor. He bypassed the elevators and headed for the staircase. When he reached the fourth floor, he walked quickly down the hallway, and had his Ullman picks ready when he reached apartment 417. He slid the first pick in and eased it to the back of the lock, then slowly pulled it forward trying to get a feel for the order necessary to pick the pins. He started with the back pin and applied a small amount of pressure to the tension wrench, manipulating it in a clockwise motion, the same direction as turning a key. He slowly lifted the pin and felt for movement in the lock. The tumbler moved slightly and set the pin in position. This feat would have taken a novice picker several minutes to complete, but Matthew had picked so many locks over the last few years that it had become second nature.
Once inside the apartment he stood in the darkness for several seconds allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When he was fully acclimated, he crept down the hallway to Marsha’s bedroom and stood in the threshold watching her for several seconds listening to the cadence of her snore before advancing. She was a right-side sleeper which, in this case, was to his advantage because she was facing away from her dresser where he would be sorting through her jewelry box and dresser drawers.
He turned quickly and tightened his grip on his heavy black flashlight when Marsha suddenly turned over in her sleep. He did not want to hurt the woman, but he was willing to smash the flashlight against her head to quiet her if she woke up and saw him. He exhaled contently when she began to snore lightly again.
Chapter Thirty
Danski’s desk phone rang as he removed his jacket and draped it across the back of his chair the next morning. He noticed the yellow light blinking when he got closer and quickly glanced around the office to see if anyone in the squad room was calling him. When he saw Quinn standing behind the glass partition that separates his office from the squad room, he grabbed the phone.
“Yeah, Boss.”
“I need to talk with both of you,” Quinn said. “Bring your coffee and the Whitlock case folder with you, we might be here for a while.”
Quinn gestured for the detectives to sit when they got there. Wearing a grim face, he pealed back a few pages on his wall calendar and tapped his finger against a date that was circled with a red marker. Danski recognized it as the Friday that Susan Whitlock came to their office and asked for his help.
Quinn coughed to clear his throat. “We’re into week nine in the Whitlock investigation, and I’m catching a lot of heat about it. The Chief of Detectives has been all over my ass ever since I mentioned at a Comstat meeting that you guys had reopened the case.” He held up a fistful of DD5’s. “You’ve developed a lot of information but I don’t see any indication in your reports that an arrest is imminent or that you’re really getting closer to locating the boy. Please tell me if I missed something.” He held up his hand before Danski could answer. “Yeah, I know what you’re gonna say, Steve. You were in Florida for a few days on the Santana case. I realize that. But except for that your full attention has been on the Whitlock case.”
“We expect to close this case with an arrest very soon,” Danski said. “We believe that Ja
ke is alive and we will get him back to his mother before long.”
“Are you saying we should discontinue the investigation?” Litchfield asked.
Quinn pushed the reports aside. “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all, Gregory. I’m saying there comes a time when an investigation comes to a stand-still and you have to be able to recognize that and be prepared to put the case aside for a while and move on to another case in the meantime.”
“We’re not at that point,” Danski said. “We’re making progress.”
“I think you guys are in denial,” Quinn said.
Danski shook his head. “I disagree, Captain. As I said, we’re making progress. We feel very strongly that an arrest is in the wings.”
“You keep telling me you’re making progress but you’ve been at this for three months and you don’t have anyone in custody. I’ll be discussing this case at the Comstat meeting later on today so let’s go over everything again to be sure I have my facts straight.” Quinn ran his fist across his mouth. “Okay, from the top, beginning with the victim’s mother. She was your first suspect, but she no longer is.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Danski replied. He wasn’t in the mood to review the entire case, but he had no choice.
“We got some bad vibes early on. Something told us Susan wasn’t being a hundred percent truthful with us on several crucial points which led us to believe she may have killed Jake and disposed of his body, possibly a week before reporting him missing.”
Quinn nodded. “Yes, I noted that in your report. But you abandoned that thought a week later and then you had a new suspect – Susan’s husband Martin.”
“Yes, we learned that Susan lied to us about Martin being dead. She told us he was killed in a hunting accident in Africa. She told Latimer the same thing.”
“A week later you ruled Martin out as a suspect.”
“Yes, we discovered that Martin was very much alive and living in a small town in the Catskill Mountains on property he inherited from his parents. We drove there and questioned him. He seemed truthful and forthcoming. He told us he grew suspicious that Jake wasn’t his biological son and brought him to a DNA diagnostic test center where he learned his suspicions were correct. He left Susan immediately and it was her idea to tell everyone that Martin was killed in a hunting accident.”
While Everyone Was Sleeping Page 13
