Whatever was going on in there, was happening now.
Glancing at a man walking his dog, who’d stopped to watch, Greg parked his pickup nearby, got out, and went over to the two police cars.
No one was with them.
He maneuvered around the state police car, making his way along a narrow dirt road into the forest, noticing how the overgrown brush had been recently flattened. The air carried a jingle of keys, then crackled with dispatches over police radios. Blue-and-red light flashed among the gaps in the branches. Moving quickly, Greg followed the road to it.
As he came upon another state police SUV, he saw a trooper unspooling yellow plastic tape. Near it, two other uniformed officers were talking. One was using his radio, and as he turned, his eyes found Greg’s.
It was Trooper Rob Menza.
In that instant, Greg caught a glint of sun reflecting on glass behind Menza, recognition dawning as he suddenly beheld it, nearly swallowed by thick covering branches and leaves, the familiar shape of a Toyota Corolla.
A blue one.
He knew the plate number.
Jenn’s car.
“Mr. Griffin.” Menza held up a palm stopping Greg’s progress.
“That’s my wife’s car!”
“Sir, you have to leave.” Menza called to the others. “We have to keep him away.”
Two other officers emerged, each taking one of Greg’s arms.
“Is she there?”
“Sir, you can’t go in there,” Menza said.
“Jenn!” Greg called out, struggling against the officers, radios crackling with calls concerning K-9 and crime scene techs. “Jenn!”
“We have to get you home,” Menza said.
“Is my wife in there?”
“Mr. Griffin.” Menza locked eyes with Greg. “You have to go home. There’s nothing more you can do here.”
His mind reeled, pulling him back to that day when he was ten.
Now we’re going to pray for Greg.
Fourteen
Clarence, New York
That morning, in the Bureau of Criminal Investigation offices of the New York State Police Clarence Barracks, Claire Kozak was reviewing notes on a year-old harassment complaint when a shadow fell across her desk.
Lieutenant Phil Becker stood before her with an envelope in his hand.
“Erie’s tossing the Trailside Grove missing mom case to us,” he said.
“I thought that one was the county’s.”
“Jurisdictional gray zone. It’s ours now and it’s taken a turn.”
“A turn?”
“There’s a scene, a fresh one, just discovered.”
“Where?”
“Blueripple Woods. Not sure what we’ve got, but I’m putting you and Ned on it. You’re the lead, Claire.”
“All right.” Kozak closed her folders.
“Where’s Ned anyway?”
“Kitchen, getting coffee.”
Becker waited then nodded. “You two get out there. Access is from Ripple Valley Boulevard. I’ll send you Trooper Menza’s reports. He’s there. Erie County’s assisting.”
“Okay, Phil.” Kozak gathered a few items to leave.
“Oh.” Becker, remembering, handed her the brown envelope. “This came for you late yesterday. Tracy put it on my desk.”
Kozak paused, recognizing the return address. It was from her lawyer. She slid the envelope into her top drawer and closed it.
“Thanks, Phil.”
After Becker left, Ned Carillo emerged.
“The Sabres need to make some trades for next year,” he said, setting his coffee on his desk, “starting with—”
Kozak pulled Carillo’s jacket from his chair, tossed it to him.
“Hey,” he said.
“We’ve got to go.”
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a new case.”
Kozak updated Carillo on the way out. By the time they got to their unmarked Taurus, their phones and tablets pinged with the file from Becker. Kozak took the wheel while Carillo read aloud through Trooper Menza’s missing person report for Jennifer Griffin. Upon finishing, Carillo showed her photos of Jennifer Griffin.
“She’s pretty,” Kozak said.
“So, she never made it home from her book club meeting.”
Kozak nodded.
“And from Menza’s preliminary look, no luck locating her phone, no activity on her cards or accounts,” Carillo said.
Kozak nodded without commenting, and they retreated into their thoughts. As seasoned investigators, they knew not to get sucked into the frenzy of cases like this because that’s when mistakes were made. You had to remain calm, cool, emotionally distanced, in control.
This was their case.
They’d been partners for over two years and Carillo knew just about everything about Kozak, from how she only drank cold Diet Coke in cans to the fact that you should never, ever, silence a Springsteen song on the car radio in her presence. And Kozak knew more than she cared to about Carillo. He was a fanatical Sabres fan, and loved spicy sausage with raw onions, making it Kozak’s policy to keep Tic Tacs and Juicy Fruit gum in her bag, her desk, and the car.
As she drove, she was pleased to see Carillo had started a log with times, dates, locations, and running notes.
Nearing Ripplewood Creek, they stopped at a red light. While waiting, Carillo pulled out his phone to look through photos of Charlie, his retriever. How long had it been since his dog died?
Kozak turned away, giving him the moment. In that fragment of time, she thought of the brown envelope waiting in her desk. It held her final divorce papers. All she had to do was sign them to end her twenty-year marriage to Wade.
We just grew apart, Claire, Wade had told her.
That was after she’d discovered he was having an affair with their neighbor, Jessica. A woman I used to have over for coffee. Wade and Jessica moved to Brooklyn. Kozak kept the house. So much for vows, hopes, plans, and dreams. Their two teenage boys would live with her, and she’d live her life as a stronger, wiser woman.
She had no choice. That was the hand she was dealt.
Vanity of vanities; all is vanity, Kozak thought.
The light changed. Reflexively she tightened her hold on the wheel.
A short time later, they entered Ripplewood, got onto the boulevard. In the distance, they saw the flashing emergency lights and pulled up to the tangle of police vehicles, news cars, and vans.