Eighty-Six
Clarence, New York
Kozak accepted the USB key with the video from Storemer.
The thought a cop was involved in Jennifer Griffin’s disappearance thundered in Kozak’s mind, and she used that anger to focus on her job. She documented the evidence with Storemer’s signature, telling him that they’d talk to the DA later, but would hold Volk while they investigated.
Storemer informed his client, drove home, passed on the chardonnay, drank two shots of whiskey, and collapsed on his sofa.
At the barracks, Kozak and Carillo set aside Greg Griffin’s messages—thinking Volk’s arrest must’ve leaked to the press—and pushed ahead, copying Volk’s video to their devices, running it, studying the sequence with Lieutenant Becker.
“Why the hell do we not have any record of her being pulled over that night?” Becker said. “I don’t get it. Who made the stop?”
“Look, the plate’s right there but we can’t make it out,” Carillo said.
For an instant, the license plate of the van flashed. Replaying the footage, freezing the frame and zooming in didn’t help. The van’s plate was not clear enough to read. Rubbing his lips, Becker went to his office, made calls, then returned.
“Our video forensic experts in Albany might be able to get the plate,” Becker said. “But they need the original key. Do the chain of evidence paperwork. I’ll get an evidence tech and a unit to deliver it to them ASAP.”
Moments later, a state police patrol car, siren wailing, lights flashing, raced to Buffalo Niagara International Airport. The key was delivered to a waiting state police Cessna 206. The plane lifted off for the one-hour flight to Albany to get the key to the New York State crime lab.
At the barracks, the investigators moved fast, reaching out to Erie County, Buffalo PD, every area state and federal agency and security firm with service vehicles.
They’d requested urgent checks of unit logs, duty rosters, calls, traffic stops, and checks of fleet records that would identify and put a van in Ripplewood Creek at the time of Jennifer Griffin’s disappearance.
Time ticked by, the responses started coming back with one after the other being negative.
They’d go back, review what they had, and request any commercial security video for a white van in the area at the time.
They considered the possibility the van was part of an undercover operation. Still, it was unlikely to make a traffic stop.
“What about car service companies, towing companies, couriers, repair contractors?” Carillo said.
“The lights they use are usually yellow,” Becker said.
Kozak searched on her tablet.
“You know,” she said, “anybody can buy emergency red and blue police lights online.” She slid her tablet for Carillo and Becker to see a display of models for sale. “They could easily pass for the real thing, to convince someone to pull over.”
“It could’ve been someone posing as a cop,” Carillo said.
Kozak cupped her hands to her face.
She took a long breath, glanced at Jennifer Griffin’s photo on her phone, praying against the odds that she was alive.
Eighty-Seven
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
Jake placed his Firelight Mega Striker drone on the grass.
He exchanged excited glances with Carter.
This was the first time they were going to fly it in Carter’s backyard.
It was twice the size of Jake’s, with a lush green lawn bordered by a chain-link fence and an unlocked gate that opened to a forest strip. Save for the sporadic wink of chrome, the trees hid the traffic flowing on Wild Orchid Lane, an artery with no residential or commercial development that paralleled the woods.
Jake and Carter went through the drone’s preflight checks. The propellers were secure. The battery was in place. The drone’s camera lens was clean.
Jake secured his phone to his controller, connecting it to the feature that let him view and record whatever his drone’s camera captured.
He extended the controller to Carter.
“Want to go first?”
Carter gave a nervous laugh.
“No, you go. You’re a better flyer than me. I’ll watch.”
“Okay.”
Jake switched it on and the quad’s propellers hummed to life.
Carter’s dad, Nate, was near the garden shed cleaning his lawn mower; he looked up and smiled at the boys as Jake piloted the drone’s gentle liftoff.
Jake had it climb about twenty feet and hover there.
When he flew it in his yard, he did so many liftoffs, squares, circles, figure eights, never climbing much higher than the rooftop of his house.
But the short flights sharpened his flying skills.
Today he’d put them to the test.
Today he’d use his drone to try searching for his mom because something was happening. Jake could tell by the way his dad seemed so tense this morning, like he was up all night, and by how even when his dad talked, his voice sounded worried.
“See how high you can go,” Carter said, now standing with him, watching the view on Jake’s phone.
Easing the controller’s sticks, Jake sent the drone shooting straight up to nearly a hundred feet with a fantastic view of the neighborhood.
“Whoa! Awesome!” Carter said. “Are you recording?”
“Yup.”
“Go over your house.”
The drone picked up all the vehicles now collected on the street in front of Jake’s house. Jake then had it descend to capture the huddle of TV newspeople with some looking up and aiming cameras at it.
“What’s going on at your house?” Carter said. “Looks serious again.”
Jake studied the screen without answering. All he knew was that something was wrong. His mind held one thought.
She’s not dead! My mom can’t be dead.
Maneuvering the control sticks, Jake pulled the drone away fast, directing it to fly over the forest to look there.
Maybe she fell back there? Maybe she’s hurt? We have to find her.
Carter, his eyes on the small screen, didn’t see the tear rolling down Jake’s cheek as they watched the traffic moving on Wild Orchid Lane on the other side of the woods. That’s when they saw a vehicle had pulled off to the shoulder at the edge of the forest directly behind Carter’s house.
As the boys studied the roof of the vehicle, their view became obscured with branches.