Amid the Shadows

by Michael C. Grumley

  Christine screamed and instinctively pushed Sarah into the stairwell and stared at the elevator doors. Sarah held on tight to Christine, looking into the stairwell with a frightened look on her face. Shocked and horrified, Christine stared at the elevator and covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh my god! OH MY GOD!”

  Several people came running out of their offices. They reached the elevator just in time to see smoke and dust seeping through the twisted doors.

  10

  Griffin and Buckley left the small building and walked back toward their car. Other than a few pictures from Barbara Baxter’s desk and a colleague thinking she was supposed to see someone in New York, they did not have much more than when they arrived.

  As they reached their white unmarked car, Buckley’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered.

  “Buckley here.” After a moment, he mouthed the word Roberts to Griffin.

  Griffin instinctively pulled out his own phone to find it dead again. “God dammit.”

  “Yeah,” Buckley replied. “I’m with him right now…we’re just heading back from Albany.”

  “What?!” he said, freezing with one hand on the driver’s door handle. “When?” After a long pause, he replied with a simple “Okay.” and hung up. He looked immediately to Griffin. “Get in the car, Danny!”

  Buckley opened his door quickly and jumped in behind the wheel.

  “What is it?” Griffin asked, peering through the passenger window. The sound of Buckley starting and revving the engine was all he needed to jump in.

  Buckley floored it, and the car shot out onto the four lane boulevard.

  “What? What the hell is it?” Griffin instinctively grabbed the siren, reached outside, and stuck it to the roof of the car.

  Buckley was still accelerating as he wove in and out of other cars. “There’s been an accident at the Human Resources Building on 8th.” He looked at Griffin. “At Social Services.”

  11

  Christine looked at Sarah’s tiny figure and then returned back down the hallway. “She’s asleep.”

  Griffin and Buckley nodded as she sighed and collapsed down onto her couch. She was dressed in sweat pants and a large Patriots T-shirt. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were red, betraying how exhausted she was.

  “How are you?” Griffin asked.

  Christine closed her eyes and shook her head. “I just can’t believe it.” She was quiet for a moment and then looked at Griffin, sitting across from her on a chair. “It was so horrible. Did they find anything yet?”

  “They’re still looking.”

  She shook her head again. “I’ll tell you what, if it weren’t for Sarah being afraid of elevators…I mean if she hadn’t insisted we go down the stairs instead…god, it would have been us.”

  Both Griffin and Buckley looked at each other as she reached forward and picked up her tea cup. They were thinking the same thing.

  “And Sarah.” Christine made a halfhearted chuckle and leaned back on the couch sideways, folding her feet beneath her. “I can’t believe what that girl is able to deal with. I mean look at me, I’m a total wreck. While she’s six and already asleep.”

  Christine suddenly remembered something and looked around. “Where’s Cassie?” She eyed the cat’s food bowl which was still half full. “Have you seen her?” she asked the detectives.

  They both frowned and looked around the room. “Uh no.”

  “She’s a tough cat,” Griffin said reassuringly.

  Christine remembered how Griffin used to say that a lot.

  Buckley took a step forward. “When we got here, you said you had something to tell us?”

  Christine looked away from the food bowl as if coming out of a trance. “Yes, I do.” She took another sip of tea and set the cup down again on the table. “Someone called me today, at the office. Someone who wanted to say something but was afraid of the police.”

  They both looked at her attentively. “Who?” Griffin asked.

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, she,” Christine repeated. “She said she was a friend of Barbara Baxter.” She looked at Buckley who was already scribbling on his notepad. “She said they were friends and she had been worried about Barbara.”

  “Worried how?”

  “She said Barbara had been acting weird lately, when she suddenly decided to take some time off.”

  “Jobs get stressful,” Griffin said. “Maybe she needed a break.”

  “That’s kind of what I said,” Christine replied. She picked up her warm cup again and nestled it between her hands. “But she told me Barbara had done some things that didn’t make sense. For one, she yanked Sarah out of school in the middle of the day. Then she disappeared with just a day’s notice. The caller said that Barbara had never done either of those things before.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Yes,” Christine said slowly. “And that is where it got a little weird.”

  Buckley stopped writing and looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Christine took a deep breath. “She said that Barbara was afraid for her. For Sarah,” she quickly clarified.

  Griffin’s brow furrowed. “Sarah’s mother was afraid for her? How close is this friend?”

  “Pretty close, I think.”

  “How do you know?” Buckley asked.

  Christine looked at him. “Because of what she said next.” She glanced back down the hall and lowered her voice slightly. “She said there was something special about Sarah.”

  “What does that mean, special?”

  “I don’t know. The woman said that Barbara Baxter had brought it up a few times but would never go into detail. I got the impression that this wasn’t something Barbara would share with just anyone. I could be wrong, but that was the feeling I got.”

  “A woman we met today at Barbara’s work said something similar,” Griffin said. “She talked about how wonderful Sarah was; how she was a such an incredibly nice little girl.”

  Christine thought about it and slowly shook her head. “I don’t think that’s what this woman on the phone was referring to.” She shrugged. “It was a different…tone.”

  “What kind of tone did she use?” asked Buckley.

  “I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. It’s just one of those things you feel. I could be wrong. It was just a feeling.”

  Buckley’s phone rang. He excused himself and walked into the kitchen to take the call.

  While he was in the other room, Griffin leaned closer to Christine. “Chris, I’m getting a little worried, for you and Sarah. I think there might be something else going on here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It’s just a hunch. Something is not adding up.”

  Christine did not respond right away. Instead she mulled over what he said. Finally she looked at him. “I don’t want to abandon her, Danny. I know that probably sounds weird coming from me, but right now she has no one else.” She paused. “She trusts me. I don’t know why and I’m not even sure I want to know. Maybe everything changes tomorrow. Maybe we find some family or maybe you find whoever did it and arrest them, but, for now, she needs me and it feels good to be able to help her.” Christine stared down into her tea. “I know it sounds strange, but it feels like maybe I’m growing.”

  Griffin stared at her and smiled. “It doesn’t sound strange, Chris.”

  Buckley could be heard hanging up the phone. He returned from the kitchen with a grave look on his face.

  Griffin looked up. “What is it?”

  Buckley looked at Christine and then back to his partner. “The investigation team says it was not an accident. The elevator was sabotaged. The explosion was not caused by a malfunction; it was designed to sever the elevator cable. And the emergency brakes had been disabled first, which was the screeching you heard.”

  Christine gasped and dropped her cup on the rug, sp
illing the last of her tea. She covered her mouth and looked at Griffin who was now standing above her.

  “That’s it,” he said. “We’re moving you.”

  Thirty minutes later they had three patrol cars waiting outside, and Christine had everything packed for several days. On Buckley’s shoulder lay Sarah, half asleep. Griffin held Christine’s bag and stood behind her as she looked over the apartment one last time. She looked at the three bowls of cat food on the floor, trying to decide if that would be enough. Her cat Cassie was still nowhere to be found, probably because of all of the recent visitors.

  Christine closed the door firmly and locked the deadbolt from the outside. She turned around and looked at the others waiting for her. Three uniformed officers stood on the sidewalk watching the darkened street. She nodded to Griffin who turned and followed Buckley and Sarah down the short walk. As they neared the street, Christine noticed something on the far side of the lawn area. Something under the hedge. She froze and her eyes opened wide. “Oh no! Is that-,” she started to cry. “Is it…”

  Griffin squeezed her arm. “Easy, it’s probably not what you think it is. Let me take a look. Stay here.” Sarah lifted her head off of Buckley’s shoulder and watched Griffin cross the grass. When he got to the hedge, he knelt down to look at the object. The others watched from behind as he knelt motionless for several seconds. Finally his head dropped forward in disappointment. He slowly turned and looked over his shoulder, back at Christine.

  “No!” she cried and ran toward Griffin. He quickly jumped up and raced back to stop her mid-way. Grabbing her arms, he worked to block her line of sight. “Don’t Chris, don’t!” He looked at her tenderly. “I think a dog got her. And you don’t want to see that.”

  Christine had been pushing to get past him but now stopped and looked at Griffin, hearing what he’d said. She kept crying, but through her tears she knew he was right. That would be her last memory of Cassie and it would be more vivid than she could bear.

  Christine lowered her head onto Griffin’s shoulder and continued to cry. Gradually her breathing became less labored, and suddenly she felt something in her hand. She looked down to find Sarah standing next to her, her tiny hand inside of Christine’s.

  Griffin touched Christine’s shoulder gently. “We’ve got to go.”

  12

  The safe location was a nondescript house in a suburban neighborhood, forty minutes outside of Manhattan. The property was larger than usual for the area, and the half acre lot allowed most of the house to be hidden by a large group of beautiful Northern Red Oaks.

  The two cars that transported them, now parked in front of the small house, were unmarked to avoid attracting attention from neighbors. Fortunately, it was late in the evening and few people noticed them come in.

  Christine stood in the small living room looking like she was in a daze. In less than forty-eight hours, she had been assigned a young child to care for, been the target of a deadly attack, lost her twelve-year-old cat, and been forced out of her apartment and into a safe house owned by the city of New York. It seemed so surreal. She struggled to believe any of it had happened, let alone all of it.

  “Christine?”

  She shook herself out of her daze and realized that her name had been spoken several times. She realized Cheryl Roberts was standing right in front of her.

  “Are you okay?” asked Roberts.

  Christine focused on her and nodded. “Sorry…yes.”

  Roberts looked at Christine and then down at Sarah who was standing next to her, still holding Christine’s hand.

  “Look, I know things have been moving fast and that it’s probably all a little disorienting for you. But don’t worry, we’re going to help you through this.”

  Help me through this? Christine thought incredulously. What part exactly?

  Griffin came into the room from down the hallway. He had insisted on inspecting the entire house himself. “How you doin’ Chris?” he said, falling in behind Roberts.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  The small room was filled with old, but relatively clean, furniture. The carpet was about twenty years old judging from the color and shag, and on the far wall was a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the carpet was put in. A wide-open doorway led into the kitchen where a nice granite countertop clashed with the old kitchen table. Behind that was the back door with a window and faded curtains. Through the curtains, she could see the outlines of the security bars on the outside.

  Roberts hoisted a small duffle bag up onto the old coffee table. She unzipped it and pulled out several articles of clothing. “I stopped at the store and got some things for Sarah.” She fumbled through some of them. “Some pants, shirts, undies, and socks. There should be enough to last several days. I also got her a jacket.” She pulled it out and showed Christine. “Since we don’t know how permanent this warm weather is.” Roberts looked down at Sarah. “Do you see any outfits you like, honey?”

  Sarah just shrugged and moved further behind Christine.

  Griffin came closer. “Listen Chris, I know this all seems crazy, but don’t worry. We’re gonna find out who did this.” He motioned to the room behind him. “This is just to keep you comfortable and out of sight. Keep in mind that there’s over a thousand safe houses in New York, which means if anyone’s looking, you won’t be easy to find.”

  Christine was sure Griffin’s comment was supposed to make her feel better, but it didn’t.

  Roberts nodded. “That’s right. And no one knows you’re here, except us.” She moved past Buckley to the front window and drew back the curtain. “You’ll have two patrolmen watching from a car across the street, twenty-four hours a day. If you need them, just flick this switch near the door. It turns on the porch light. If they see that porch light come on, they’ll be here in seconds.” Roberts looked back to them. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  Christine thought again how every time someone talked about how safe they were, she felt more nervous.

  After a few more minutes of instruction on how things worked, what they should turn on, and what they shouldn’t turn on, the three officers seemed satisfied.

  Griffin gave Christine’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this guy. Just stay here and relax.” He looked down at Sarah. “And get to know each other.”

  With that they backed out and shut the door, waiting for Christine to lock the deadbolt behind them.

  Once outside and back to the cars, Roberts turned to Griffin and Buckley. “Ramirez has an update on the technical investigation. You guys cover that, and I’ll see if I can find any witnesses on the elevator job.”

  Michael Ramirez was a technical expert and one of the department’s best in computer forensics. He had been with the NYPD for three years after moving over from a stressful consulting position in the private sector, culminating in a system meltdown which he had been warning his client about for months. He decided to try something a little more fulfilling.

  At six foot one inch, with a barrel chest and shaved head, Ramirez did not fit the geek image by a long shot.

  Griffin and Buckley walked into his lab, at almost 10 p.m., to find Ramirez at his desk with a hard drive connected to a thick cable. He was slowly and methodically “peeling back” bytes from the drive that had been written over several times in hopes of making the data unreadable, a common situation during financial corruption investigations. What he had been able to recover so far was not going to help the banker’s case.

  “Hey guys,” Ramirez said, saving his progress and looking up.

  “Hi Mike, appreciate you staying late. We were told you have an update for us on the Baxter case.”

  “I do indeed,” he said and pushed his chair back from his desk. Ramirez spun around and slid a few feet over until he was in front of another keyboard and screen. “So I took a look at all of her stuff: credit card activity, financials, phone records, the whole thing.”

  Griffin and Buckley
knew what Ramirez had done used to take days with a warrant, but now could be accomplished in hours or even minutes.

  Ramirez logged into the second computer and ran down a list of cases, until he got to the one with Barbara Baxter’s name. Typing in a few commands, he brought up a list of line items.

  “This looks like a bill,” said Buckley.

  “It is. Her cellular bill actually.” From the top he scrolled down several lines, highlighting a few. “I didn’t spot anything unusual in her call records, but I noticed these lines in the carrier’s system logs.”

  Griffin looked closer at the screen. “Those don’t look like calls.”

  “They’re not,” Ramirez replied. He swung his chair around to face the detectives. “They’re identification queries, or what you might call triangulation calls.”

  “What are those?”

  “A triangulation call is when a carrier uses multiple towers to zero in on a cell phone’s location.” He shrugged. “You can think of it like a cellular search light.”

  Griffin looked at Buckley then back to Ramirez. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means someone was looking for Barbara Baxter, as in her physical location.” He turned back to the monitor. “Normally, I would not have caught that, but some strange characters in the logs got me curious. But that’s not the best part.”

  “What is the best part?” Griffin asked for the both of them.

  “The best part is when I asked the carrier for more detail, they didn’t want to tell me, even though they have to. It was the first time I’d run into that. My guess is, whoever was requesting these queries wanted it kept quiet.”

  “Did the carrier reveal who they were?”

  “They did.” Ramirez slapped his enter key and printed out a few pages for them. “Care to take a guess who it was?” he asked with raised eyebrows.