Cheektowaga, New York
Ned Carillo lived alone in a bungalow built with hope in the gloom of the 1930s. It sat under towering maples at the fringe of Cheektowaga.
Since buying the place ten years ago, he’d put on a new roof and vinyl siding, and installed a new furnace.
He liked this house; he was comfortable here.
Even if I only have ghosts for company.
It was early evening, and Carillo was in his kitchen making a sandwich of super-crunchy peanut butter, banana slices, and iceberg lettuce. He poured a glass of ice-cold milk.
Returning to his desk, the soft echo of the creaking hardwood floor awakened memories, the stillness underscoring Charlie’s absence. No padding of his paws, no jingle of his collar, or lapping water from his bowl. He’d been gone for two months now, a friend who’d given Carillo unconditional love for twelve years.
Old age and a weak heart, the vet said.
And Carillo still missed Kelly.
It’d been five years since they broke up. Carillo thought they were happy together and had never envisioned it ending, but it did. He had to smile to himself, because every Christmas, Kelly sent him a card from San Francisco, always writing something like: “You’ll always be part of my life. Nothing will change that. Treasure what we had and have a great New Year, Ned.”
Carillo had carried on, trying a few dating sites, even went out a couple of times. Nothing came of it.
Enough sentimentality; the past was gone and he was alone. Besides, he had more important issues before him. Settling in at his desk, he bit into his sandwich and got back to work. It didn’t matter where he was—in the field, at the office, or home—when he was on a case, he was on it twenty-four hours a day.
A number of leads had arisen in the Griffin investigation. Carillo consulted his notebook and the files on his laptop. The revelation of Jennifer’s bruising that her book club friend, the former nurse, had provided needed to be followed. The bruising was a concern when juxtaposed with Greg Griffin’s appearance in the time immediately after he’d reported his wife missing.
Carillo called up the photos state trooper Menza had taken. Greg appeared on the screen, face streaked with dirt, hair messed, T-shirt soiled with grime, the backs of his hands marked with bloodied scrapes. Greg had attributed those scrapes to removing a traffic cone wedged under his truck when he was looking for his wife. The analysis was still to come.
Thinking for a moment, Carillo reached down to pet Charlie but he wasn’t there. Absorbing the stab of loss, he went to the interview notes, excerpts of statements from the son, Jake.
...I heard them arguing about money and stuff. ... They would argue about bills and my dad’s business maybe moving to Arizona. ... Sometimes in the last couple of months, she’d just sit alone, not reading a book or looking on her phone, just sitting alone all quiet...like she was sad about something.
Then he went to statements made by Greg’s sister, Kat, about Jennifer.
“I don’t know, a feeling, I guess. She just seemed a little sad to me.”
When they asked Greg if he and his wife argued, he’d said: “Yes. Don’t all married couples argue?”
Carillo paged through his notes.
Greg had acknowledged his family was facing financial stress; that he was the beneficiary of the $300,000 life insurance policy on his wife.
Pull these factors together, Jennifer’s bruising, Greg’s scrapes, and the apparent tension in the household, and the concern deepened.
Carillo scrolled through reports and messages.
They needed data from the Griffins’ phones, computers, and devices but the forensic cyberexperts were still working on them.
Finishing the last of his sandwich and milk, Carillo brushed crumbs from his hands and analyzed the disturbing circumstances. Jennifer was last seen at 10:46 p.m. Greg reported her missing some six or seven hours later, giving him a big window of opportunity. There was the mystery hooded figure, their face obscured, who appeared to be watching her in the Korner Fast video. Was that Greg? Could be nothing, could be something. Statistically, in these types of missing spouse cases, the “nearest and dearest” were involved.
Carillo’s doorbell rang.
He opened the door to Kaylee Treen, his thirteen-year-old neighbor from across the street, standing on his step with a small dog in her arms.
It looked like a white Lab.
“Hi, Mr. Carillo. We just got back from my Uncle Roy’s farm and we got some puppies. I thought you might want one and my mom said to ask.”
Looking over Kaylee’s shoulder, he saw Rebecca Treen wave from the sidewalk.
The pup looked to be a couple months old. It had a sweet face and was licking Kaylee’s while squirming in her arms.
“Gosh, well, this is sudden.”
“Want to hold him? He’s a boy.”
Kaylee put the dog in his arms before he could say anything. Feeling his warmth, his excitement, he drew the pup’s nose to his, cooed, and returned him to Kaylee.
“Tell you what,” Carillo said. “This is a wonderful, thoughtful offer, Kaylee, and I thank you. I can’t say yes or no right now because I’m busy with work. Can you keep him a little while then I’ll check back with you?” Carillo smiled then looked to Rebecca, who nodded.
His phone rang.
“That’s work,” he said.
“Okay,” Kaylee said, giggling, almost singing as she left with the pup, “but I know you’re going to want him.”
“Carillo,” he said into his phone, closing the door.
“Ned, it’s Resnick in Comms. Buffalo PD called us. They got something on their anonymous tip line concerning your missing mom. I’m sending it to you and Kozak now.”
Thirty-One
Amherst, New York
“You’re not defeated, Claire.”
Pen in hand, staring at her divorce papers, Kozak heard her late father’s voice.
Dominic Kozak had come to America from Poland with his parents at age five, learning English at school, then as a teen working as a security guard before becoming a cop and Buffalo PD detective. He’d pass on family history to Claire with stories of relatives who worked as slave labor under the Nazis.
“No matter what you face in life, others have faced worse. You never give up because as long as you’re breathing, you’re not defeated.”
She adjusted her hold on the pen, the same ballpoint she used to make her grocery list and sign off on things for her boys. Then she swallowed and signed her name, ending her marriage to Wade Mitchell Ferron.