They Disappeared

by Rick Mofina

  “Please,” Brewer said.

  Sheri surrendered the door, her thoughts racing as she managed to make it to the sofa.

  Brewer sat beside her; Klaver sat in the chair, holding a file folder.

  The two cops exchanged cool, clinical glances that touched on concern.

  “Sheri,” Brewer began, “this is the part of our job we hate.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap, hard, and stared at them, bracing for the worst.

  “Remember those pictures we showed you of the victims of the fire in your SUV?”

  Sheri would never forget the awful images.

  “As you know, we identified one, Omarr Aimes, the man whose name you gave us.”

  She didn’t move.

  “We’ve identified the second victim.”

  Sheri’s knuckles whitened.

  “Our crime scene people and the medical examiner’s office were able to get a few fingerprints. Sheri, I’m so sorry but the prints are consistent with your husband, Donald Dalfini.”

  Sheri did not react.

  “I have material from the victim for you to confirm.”

  Brewer took the folder from Klaver, opened it to several enlarged photos of a tattoo, a small tattoo that said SD & DD Eternally, and a man’s gold wedding band engraved with the same inscription.

  “Will you confirm the deceased as being Donald Dalfini, your husband?”

  A great bubbling groan erupted from the pit of Sheri’s stomach with such volume Klaver would later tell other cops that he swore it rattled windows.

  “Yes, that’s Donnie,” she managed before sobbing. Brewer attempted to console her for several minutes.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” he said. “Is there anyone we could call to be with you?”

  Sheri did not respond.

  She hugged her midsection indicating she was about to vomit and did so as Klaver got a large potted plant under her chin. Brewer helped her to the bathroom. Klaver then called Sheri’s mother-in-law while Sheri cleaned herself and regained a degree of composure before returning to the sofa.

  Klaver had taken the plant outside and hosed it for her.

  Brewer and Sheri waited in the awkward silence until Brewer spoke.

  “Forgive me for asking you at a time like this,” Brewer said, “but is there anything more you can tell us about Donnie and Omarr, about any other people who may have been involved in any way?”

  Sheri was pressing clouds of tissues to her face.

  “Are you going to charge me? Because I won’t survive now, not without my kids, I just won’t.”

  “If you continue to cooperate, I give you my word I will do all I can to ensure the D.A. knows.”

  Klaver returned and passed Sheri a glass of cold water. She thanked him.

  “Before this happened, Donnie called me and said he was going to make ten thousand dollars if he helped Omarr.”

  “Helped him with what?”

  Sheri stared at her tissues, then at a picture of her and Donnie with the kids at Coney Island.

  “Help him with what, Sheri?”

  “I had nothing to do with any of it.”

  “Sheri.”

  “That job I told you about was to help pick up something for some foreign guy.”

  “What foreign guy? Did he say who, or where, or have a phone number?”

  She shook her head and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 33

  Manhattan, New York City

  The pressure to clear the case was mounting.

  Under the media glare it was growing into a hydra.

  Several aspects worried investigators: the murders, the brazen abductions and the chase. But most troubling was the discovery of the microdetonator, made all the more chilling because it had surfaced when more than one hundred and fifty world leaders were in town for the UN General Assembly.

  But NYPD Lieutenant Ted Stroud remained calm.

  He’d faced nightmares before, he thought a few short hours after the press conference when he’d arrived at the FBI’s New York headquarters at Twenty-six Federal Plaza in Lower Manhattan where he showed his ID at the FBI security window.

  Riding the elevator up to the case-status meeting, he glanced at the photo he’d tucked in with his own: U.S. marine corporal Kirby Stroud in his dress blues. Killed in Iraq in 2007 at age twenty-five and buried in Arlington.

  He blinked at it for several floors.

  Kirby was his son.

  Yes, Stroud thought, drawing inspiration from the picture, he’d faced nightmares in his life and he was still standing.

  He closed his wallet, stepped off at the twenty-eighth floor and headed to the boardroom. It was a large one with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Already, some thirty people had taken their seats around the cherrywood conference table.

  Stroud knew most of the players with the NYPD, the FBI, the Secret Service, Homeland, Port Authority, State Police, ATF, Customs and the TSA. He nodded to them, settled into his seat and reviewed his files when Ken Forsyth, FBI supervisory agent with the NYPD–FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force, entered.

  It was determined that because the case was deemed to be related to terrorism, the JTTF, with the support of all other involved agencies, would control the investigation.

  “Let’s get started.” Forsyth began the meeting with introductions of those at the table and those on the line in Washington, D.C., and other locations. “We believe we have discovered the threads of a plot,” Forsyth said.

  “First, I’ll state the obvious—absolutely no information on this case is to be released without authorization.” Forsyth’s eyes went around the table. He knew many investigators had cozy relationships with members of the press. “Everything said in this room and subsequent case-status meetings is classified. If certain facts were passed to the public they’d give rise to alarm, create panic, weaken our case, which could thwart us from saving lives. We must maintain the integrity of the investigation. Is that understood?”

  Throats cleared but no one spoke as Forsyth continued.

  “Interest in this case is intensifying minute by minute,” he said. “The White House has just informed this office that the State Department has received a number of ‘inquiries of concern’ from several foreign governments. At this stage no major events will be canceled.”

  Forsyth moved on with an update. The detonator had been flown to the FBI lab in Quantico where it would undergo further analysis.

  “In relation to the detonator, the FBI is pursing the information passed to us by the NYPD concerning Hans Beck, the subject who made contact with Jeff Griffin over the mixed-up luggage. We’ve determined through passport tracking that in the past seventy-two hours, a Hans Beck of Munich, Germany, flew from Paris, France, to Montreal, Canada, to LaGuardia. We suspect the passport was forged using the identity of a Hans Beck, a civil servant in Hamburg, Germany, who’d reported the theft of his passport and wallet four months ago from a hotel in Vienna, Austria. We’ll continue working with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Interpol on the subject. I’ll move on to you first, Adam.”

  Concern was written on the face of Adam James, a senior agent with the Secret Service, the agency in charge of security for all world leaders attending the United Nations General Assembly. James had already made extensive notes, punctuated with cross-checks with his own files.

  “The detonator is key,” James said. “We’re damned lucky that Jeff Griffin did not hand it over to the suspects. Second, it was an excellent catch by the people at the NYPD lab.”

  James removed his glasses before he continued.

  “This is obvious, but the discovery raises so many red flags. That someone is plotting an attack, that they are either here or on their way. And if we’ve caught this one, how many are
out there that we haven’t caught? We’ve got one hundred and sixty-two world leaders in town. Most of them are in the crosshairs at home. Any one of them could be a target here.”

  James replaced his glasses and returned to his notes.

  “Thanks, Adam,” Forsyth said. “We’re working with other national security agencies, examining all intelligence and all known groups for any links to the case. We’ll share a key-points summary as soon as possible.”

  Forsyth said the task force was running down leads on international elements of the investigation.

  “We are also following up on all credible tips that have come since the press conference ended,” Forsyth said, then checked off other areas, before going around the table.

  The ATF was working on the arson homicides with the fire department’s Bureau of Fire Investigation, the NYPD’s Arson Explosion Squad. They each gave brief reports before Forsyth came to Stroud, whose team played a leading role.

  “We’re looking for connections,” Forsyth said, “connecting evidence to the suspects to give us the full picture. Ted will give us the foundation as to how all of this surfaced with the abductions.”

  Although Adam James came close, Stroud was relieved that there was no armchair quarterbacking, or criticism on their handling of Jeff Griffin, the contact with the suspects and the chase. Too much was at stake.

  Since September 11, 2001, there had been more than a dozen plots by extremist groups to kill New Yorkers. Everyone knew the challenges and the risks. Unlike TV shows, movies and books, nothing in a real investigation was simple or uncomplicated with all loose ends coming together nicely. No, it never, ever worked that way in the real world.

  For the benefit of all investigators, Stroud quickly outlined the chronology of the Griffin abductions and homicides, contact, the chase, the airport bag mix-up and discovery of the microdetonator.

  “Bear with me,” he said. “I’ll explain how this is connected to the major ongoing undercover investigation by my task force, which was formed primarily with the D.A.’s Organized Crime and Rackets Bureau, the NYPD Auto Crime Division and the Insurance Frauds Bureau.

  “Well over a year ago, through confidential informants and intel from the insurance industry, we’d learned about a highly sophisticated, international criminal enterprise. Suspects would steal cars in all five boroughs and neighboring states. In some cases, they worked with legitimate car owners who agreed to have their car stolen, so they could make an insurance claim. In most cases, the cars were new.

  “We’ve made no arrests so far, as our work is ongoing, but this is what we suspect happens—once a vehicle is stolen, the suspects wash its title clean by checking the vehicle identification number of a similar make. Then they create fake documents from out of state to create a new VIN plate and stickers, then reregister the vehicle out of state to sell them offshore, shipping them from various U.S. ports to Africa, Central America, the Middle East, Russia and Eastern Europe.

  “The white 2010 GMC Terrain used to abduct Sarah and Cole Griffin, and which was subsequently the site of two arson homicides, was registered to Donald and Sheri Dalfini of the Bronx. Their reported theft of the SUV was red-flagged and a target of our task force because Donald Dalfini had a history of suspected fraudulent claims. Sheri Dalfini is cooperating with our investigation and acknowledged her husband, who has just been identified as the second homicide victim, did intend to defraud the insurance company by having it stolen by Omarr Aimes, the first victim.

  “Our intel indicates Aimes was associated with the criminal networks stealing the vehicles and that tentacles of those networks are connected to Middle Eastern and Eastern European organized-crime groups.”

  A silence went around the table.

  “Some of these crime groups,” Stroud said, “are known to supply resources to terrorist organizations.”

  “Ted,” James said, “is it possible that a terrorist group used the Dalfini’s stolen SUV to go after the Griffins for the detonator?”

  “That’s possible,” Stroud said.

  “Then they could have hired, or forced, Omarr Aimes and Dalfini into helping with the abduction, then murdered them to cover their tracks?” James said.

  “That’s one theory,” Forsyth said.

  “But to be so bold with a daylight abduction?” A Port Authority investigator was doubtful. “Then a chase. Wouldn’t that blow any operation?”

  “It could be a risk they were willing, or needed, to take,” Forsyth said. “It could mean that the people behind it are prepared to be martyrs for their operation, which likely involves that microdetonator.”

  “I agree and I don’t like where this is going,” James said. “We’ve got the president and the first lady due for arrival in less than forty-eight hours.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Somewhere in New York City

  He was going to kill Cole.

  In the hours after the man was shot dead before their eyes, Sarah was still trembling. Her breathing had leveled as she held her son, feeling his adrenaline rippling through him. She brushed her tearstained cheek on his head and tried to understand all that had befallen them.

  Why is this happening?

  The question haunted her.

  As Sarah and Cole waited in the awful dread, Sarah’s thoughts pulled her back to that day when she was ten years old, sitting at her desk in school in Billings.

  Mrs. Millet had rolled down the big map and tapped her pointer on Antarctica. Tyler Memford whispered, “I’d never go there because it’d be like falling off the bottom of the world.” The vice principal appeared at the classroom door, all stern-faced, asking for Sarah, giving rise to giggles and whispers—You’re in trouble.

  The vice principal escorted Sarah to the office. She thought it strange that he’d put his hand on her shoulder but it was a good thing because seconds later everything turned into a dream and she couldn’t remember if she’d remained standing for much longer.

  The principal’s office was a forest of people. When she’d entered they’d ceased talking with the words “…they can’t reach any relatives yet…” hanging in the air. Principal Whittle kept rubbing his hand over his chin. The school nurse, her face wrinkled with worry, clutched her own locket. There was a police officer and two state troopers who kept twirling their hats in their hands. Sarah felt everyone’s attention on her, transferring the weight of impending doom. As one of the troopers squatted down, his utility belt gave a leathery squeak. The nurse joined him and tenderly brushed Sarah’s hair while searching her eyes as if the words she needed were there.

  “Sarah, sweetheart, we have some very, very bad news….”

  The nurse took Sarah into her arms. Sarah stared at the flag, then the room turned red, white, then blue with blazing stars like heaven, spinning and spinning as the nurse and the trooper told her how a tanker truck had crashed into her parents’ car at the edge of the city where they’d been shopping for a new fridge.

  “God took them, Sarah. They were killed. I’m so sorry.”

  The funerals, the cemetery, the strangeness of her mom and dad’s untouched bed, clothes, dishes, the streams of relatives, friends of her parents, church ladies—the aftermath was all one long blur, so intense she could not remember moving to Laurel to live with her uncle Burt and aunt Ginger.

  Like falling off the bottom of the world.

  Sarah’s aunt and uncle were kind and loving but for the first few years Sarah felt incomplete, like part of her had been amputated.

  She was a shy student in high school, but through her part-time waitressing job at the mall, she had a lot of friends.

  She started going steady with Kenyon Rupp.

  In her senior year, Sarah secretly dreamed of becoming a teacher, marrying Kenyon and starting a family. But that dream ended here in New York on the class trip whe
n Kenyon broke up with her in Central Park.

  Then, like an answered prayer, Jeff Griffin saw her crying and started talking to her. Jeff was in her class. He was a nice guy, sensitive. In Central Park he’d confessed to her that he’d always liked her and told her to forget Kenyon.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah, everything’s going to be all right.”

  And it was.

  Jeff had rescued her.

  In many ways, Sarah believed the rest of her life started at that moment in Central Park with Jeff.

  When they’d returned to Montana, they started dating and eventually Sarah became a teacher and Jeff became a mechanic and firefighter. They got married, had Cole and they saved for their dream home. Then she had Lee Ann, their little girl. Sarah’s life was perfect. She was so blessed, so buoyant with joy, she was walking on air.

  But their world exploded when they lost her.

  Why is this happening?

  That question had haunted Sarah again as they struggled through the excruciating pain, the utter desolation and emptiness, the guilt and anger.

  In the weeks and months after Lee Ann died, Sarah fell into the habit of sitting alone in the dark aching for her daughter to come back. Sarah could still smell her, hear her in the night crying for her; she could feel her in her arms.

  But her arms were empty.

  Sarah was convinced that she was cursed. She’d lost her parents. She’d lost her baby. Was she going to lose Cole and Jeff? For months she feared that each time Cole or Jeff left the house, she would never see them again.

  Lee Ann’s death had consumed Jeff, too.

  Weakened by grief and guilt, he’d grown distant and paranoid over Neil Larson, over everything. Jeff the fixer, the rescuer who saved lives, was helpless and so blinded by pain he was willing to destroy what was left of their family.

  But now, with everything they had left at stake, they had to fight.

  Sarah believed with all her heart that her last-minute plea to Jeff in their hotel restaurant had worked. She believed it because she saw it in his eyes in the van when he risked his life to save her. And she believed it because she heard it in his voice echoing through this hell. “I love you, Cole… I love you, Sarah… We have to fight to hold this family together….”