“Absolutely.”

  “We cannot accept that he’s dead!” Corina said. “Maybe there’s a connection to Zyller and Beckke? I don’t know. We never saw proof that anyone’s hurt him, that anyone has him.”

  “That’s right. We can’t give up hoping.”

  “We’ll never give up. We’ll fight for him together, all of us!”

  * * *

  Listening in the hall, out of sight, Charlotte overheard pieces of her parent’s anguished conversation—“Gabriel can’t be dead!... We cannot accept that he’s dead!” She heard snippets about a dying woman’s confession at Bellevue.

  Charlotte concluded that Gabriel was likely dead.

  No one had told her anything, and she couldn’t bear to hear any more. Charlotte fled to her room, closed the door, then collapsed onto her bed. Minutes later, she texted Vince using her app for self-destructing messaging.

  Hi, Vince responded.

  Gabriel’s dead.

  What? No. That can’t be right. Who told you he’s dead?

  My parents came back from the hospital where police had a woman who took him and she told them before she died.

  You know for sure he’s dead?

  I don’t know. Oh God. Can you help me?

  What can I do?

  You said you met with someone who knows what happened.

  Yes.

  Was it this woman who died?

  It was not a woman.

  Can you find out what happened to Gabriel?

  Vince didn’t respond.

  Can you? she texted. Please!!!

  I’ll have to go back to the person who might know.

  Please, Vince, I have to know if it’s true, because it’s my fault! Vince, please, please help me!

  I’ll help you.

  * * *

  A short time later, Corina and Robert took a moment alone together in Gabriel’s room.

  She touched Gabriel’s pajamas to her cheek. Robert surveyed his football poster.

  “I remember the moment he became ours,” Robert said. “Holding him. He was so small, so tiny. And I thought, with all you’d been through, and all I’d been through, and the way Gabriel came into our lives—the heartache, the joy—he truly was our miracle.”

  Corina took Robert’s hand.

  “We were so blessed,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Turning to the night, her insides twisting, Corina watched the lights of Manhattan’s skyscrapers twinkling and was pierced with dark thoughts. But where is he now? Is he in the ground? Is he in the East River? Is he in some backstreet trash bin?

  No, stop it, she told herself, looking to the tribute on Gabriel’s bed. Some of the balloons had started to deflate, wrinkling the words Courage, Faith and Hope.

  Hope.

  Hang on to it, draw strength from it.

  She squeezed Robert’s hand.

  They would be stronger together, for Gabriel.

  A soft knock sounded on the door and Detective DiMaria entered.

  “One of the networks has breaking news.”

  56

  UNSTEADY FOOTAGE OF a man being arrested on a train at Penn Station by cops in tactical gear filled the large TV screen in Efrem Zyller’s luxury condominium on Madison Avenue.

  The chyron banner across the bottom said: MAN REMOVED FROM DEPARTING TRAIN AT PENN IN MISSING CHILD CASE.

  “...no details on charges, identity or nationality, but sources tell RBNN his arrest is related to the case of Gabriel Corado, the six-year-old son of Newslead Now journalist Corina Corado. The dramatic incident took place on a Boston-bound Amtrak train moments before departure from Penn Station. The boy was not on the train and he has not been located... The search continues...”

  Footage in the breaking news report shifted to a clearer angle on the handcuffed man being escorted to a police vehicle.

  Zyller didn’t recognize him.

  Alarmed by the development, Zyller analyzed his own situation and the steps he needed to take. He reached for his new phone, obtained after the FBI and NYPD had seized all of his devices. He recalled his attorney cautioning him to use it with the expectation that it, too, would be seized.

  “Use it for business and everyday living, do not use it for anything that might be questionable or draw attention. Do not even get a burner,” Spindler had said. “My understanding is that investigators have found nothing detrimental so far on your devices. You will overcome Corina Corado’s allegations, Efrem, if you are careful.”

  Zyller rubbed his bottom lip, eyeing his TV.

  He clicked through channels. Only ReLOX had the arrest story, so far. Zyller figured he could call the NNN desk, check if his people were on the story and request updates, but he dismissed the thought for now.

  Better to keep a low profile.

  He searched online instead.

  The New York Times had a breaking item on the arrest. But the Times advanced it with a revelation no one else had—they raised the possibility of a connection to the case of a woman fleeing pursuers on the High Line before she ran into the path of a truck and died from her injuries. Citing unnamed sources, the Times reported that before she died earlier today, the woman admitted to involvement in the case of Gabriel Corado.

  Who is she? What’s going on?

  Zyller needed more information now.

  Staring at his phone, he wondered: Can I take a risk to get it?

  He was jolted from his thoughts by the chime of his condo intercom and a call from security downstairs.

  “Yes?”

  “Your food order has arrived, Mr. Zyller. Will it be on your account with a gratuity?”

  Remembering that he’d ordered a take-out dinner from a deli nearby, an idea dawned.

  “No, thanks, send the delivery person up. I’ll pay with cash.”

  Zyller went to his home office, unlocked a desk drawer, withdrew a metal box. It held cash he used for poker nights. Pleased that the FBI hadn’t seized it, he withdrew a rolled bundle.

  A minute later, his doorbell rang, and he opened the door to a man in his late twenties, wearing a jacket, hoodie, torn jeans and Air Jordans. He held a brown paper bag with a check stapled to it.

  “Thanks. What do I owe you?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  Zyller gave him a fifty, ensuring the delivery guy saw the roll in his hand. “Keep the change,” he said, taking the bag.

  “Thank you.” He gave Zyller a half salute and turned to leave.

  “Wait a sec. Maybe you can help me?”

  “Help you?”

  “You have a phone, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My phone just died and I need to make a quick business call. I don’t have a landline and my laptop’s no good—it’s complicated. I’m in a jam. If I give you five hundred—” Zyller saw the delivery guy’s eyes flick to the cash bundle “—can I use your phone to make a call?”

  The delivery guy looked at Zyller, then the cash, then Zyller again.

  “You’ll give me five hundred dollars to make one call?”

  “It’s critical—it’s a contract with a deadline. How about I make it a thousand, five now and five when I’m done and you delete the call log.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Zyller peeled off five hundred in bills, then held it out. Although he seemed wary about the offer, the delivery guy gave in to the promise of easy money and took the cash. He reached for his phone, typed in his password, then handed it to Zyller.

  “Thank you,” Zyller said. “Wait here. I’ll make it quick.”

  Zyller stepped into his condo, shut the door, set the food down, then dialed the memorized number. It rang and rang. Six rings.

  Come on. Come on.

  Finally, it clicked with a low voice saying: “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Zyller said. “I had to borrow a phone.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk until things cooled.”

  “Things have changed. Have you seen the news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the people from Penn and the High Line?”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. But I do know a business opportunity when I see one.”

  “Are you involved?”

  “We’re all involved, Efrem.”

  “Not me! I told you to stand down when things went awry. I called it off.”

  “No, what you did was set something in motion that’s turned into a runaway train, so to speak. And, because of you, I have something of enormous value.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “I’ll go to the police.”

  “No, you won’t, because I’ll tell them about all I’ve done for you and how this all ties to you. It’ll be over for you. You’ll go down with me.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  The line went dead.

  The call sent a chilling fear coiling up Zyller’s spine, leaving him fixed where he stood until his doorbell rang.

  Remembering the phone in his hand, noticing the New York Knicks phone case, Zyller opened the door to the delivery guy.

  “I gotta go. I got deliveries. So, if you could pay me the rest.”

  “Sure, but first, delete the call and the number I called.”

  Taking back his phone and swiping through it, he showed Zyller the last call entry, then the deletion button before he tapped it and the record of the call disappeared.

  Zyller put another five hundred in the delivery guy’s hand.

  57

  SECURITY CAMERAS ALONG the High Line had captured Irina Anna Kortova running in fear during the last moments of her life.

  They also recorded her pursuers.

  Using facial recognition, and passport records, analysts at the NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center identified Sergey Tellev as one of the men chasing her.

  Watching the footage now playing through Lonza’s laptop on the monitor of a meeting room in the 19th Precinct, Tellev was silent.

  Seated beside him was Aleena Shadrin, his Russian-speaking attorney. Born in Omsk, Russia, Shadrin’s family had moved to the US when she was just a child. She’d graduated from Columbia and helped clients with legal issues in the US, Russia, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan.

  Shadrin glanced at the time. It was late into the night. Several hours had passed since Tellev had been removed from the train and was detained for questioning.

  “How much longer? My client faces no charges. All you’ve presented is hearsay. Again, I respectfully request his release,” Shadrin said.

  “He’s not telling us the truth,” Grimes said.

  “Mr. Tellev,” Lonza said, “you entered the US on a temporary B-1 visa. What was your business here?”

  “We’ve been over this,” Shadrin said. “He’s a security consultant and the purpose of his visit was to consult with business associates.”

  “What type of security and for which businesses?”

  “Russian and American-based companies,” Tellev said, “with offices in New York and Moscow. Mostly IT work to synchronize office systems.”

  “IT work,” Grimes said. “Computer stuff.”

  “Yes,” Tellev said.

  “What is your relationship with Irina Anna Kortova?” Lonza asked.

  “My client has stated that he does not know her,” Shadrin said.

  “No?” Grimes said. “Why was he chasing her on the High Line?”

  “I was running to aid this woman. I saw her for the first time on the High Line. She was distraught, talking in Russian about someone following her. I was afraid she may hurt herself, or others.”

  “And yet,” Lonza said, “you were so concerned that you ran off when she was struck, as we’ve seen in the security video. Fled like a guilty man.”

  Tellev was silent and Lonza leaned closer to him.

  “Here’s what you don’t know, Mr. Tellev,” she said. “Before she died, Irina Kortova named Tatiana Galkina, Anton Valiev and you as her accomplices—she revealed your criminal activities.”

  Pausing to process the new information, Tellev looked at Lonza, who entered commands on her laptop.

  “This is what our computer experts found on your phone and your tablet that were seized after your arrest,” Lonza said.

  The video of Kortova and Robert in the Philadelphia hotel room played. Then the brief video of Gabriel and Charlotte entering Central Park.

  “Our people tell us a hidden camera was placed in Robert Tanner’s hotel room. And in Manhattan, the old security system on a building on Central Park West was hacked to obtain the video footage of Gabriel Corado and his sister entering the park.”

  Shadrin made notes as Lonza continued.

  “Our analysts concluded that these videos were manipulated, and the hack was completed on the devices in your possession, Mr. Tellev. It’s strong evidence of your involvement.”

  Knowing that the law allowed police to use deceptive methods to determine the truth, Lonza looked at her notes.

  “We’ve spoken with Tatiana Galkina and Anton Valiev. They’ve confessed their role, and yours, in the extortion against Robert Tanner, as it relates to a multibillion-dollar condominium.”

  Grimes, like Lonza, maintained a poker face, knowing that the other two accomplices had not yet been located.

  “And we have a team processing your last known address in the city at Brooklyn Plaza Court,” Lonza added. “Extortion and kidnapping a child are extremely serious crimes. You face life in prison.”

  “As you know, Sergey—” Grimes stood “—criminals who harm children are not well regarded in prison.”

  “Tell us where Gabriel Corado is,” Lonza said.

  “We know you’re involved.” Grimes placed his hands on the table, drawing his face close to Tellev’s. “Where is the boy?”

  Tellev never removed his eyes from Grimes.

  “If you guarantee me immunity from charges,” Tellev said, “I will tell you what we did.”

  DAY 5

  58

  SUNRISE OVER BROOKLYN.

  Wheels humming under them, Grimes guided their unmarked SUV over the Manhattan Bridge. Lonza took another hit of stale precinct coffee from her commuter cup and searched the early light bathing Brooklyn’s skyline.

  Dismissing the tension in her neck, she blinked at a memory; that autumn day before Eva was sick. She and Tony had taken the kids to the park. Eva and Marco got down in a pile of leaves begging her and Tony to cover them. They did and after a few seconds of ruffling, the kids were gone. But she could hear Marco giggling and Eva’s squeals of laughter, until they faded, and she looked at Gabriel Corado’s face on her phone and concentrated on the case.

  It was now the fifth day of his disappearance.

  A few hours ago, their interview with Sergey Tellev halted so the US attorney could weigh Tellev’s request for immunity from charges in exchange for information about the boy. Lonza and Grimes used the time to check Tellev’s last address, Brooklyn Plaza Court near Flatbush.

  “Not far from my place,” Grimes said, parking next to the Crime Scene Unit van in front of the brick building. They were met by a woman tugging off gloves at the rear of the van’s open doors.

  “Jean Linski, CSU. You guys the leads, Lonza and Grimes?”

  “That’s right,” Grimes said. “Got anything for us?”

  “Let me lay it out for you.” Linski reached for her laptop. “ESU found nothing after they’d secured it. Canine picked up nothing. The downside is housekeeping went through the unit after he checked out. See?”

  She played a video of the extended-stay suite, basic with bed, bathroom, kitchenette, counter, TV and desk.

  “That presents a challenge. Our people worked through the night, processing. And we worked with cleaning staff, tracking all trash, linen. We halted all garbage pickup. Got people sifting through everything, with an eye to articles worn by the boy.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing so far that puts the boy in the unit.”

  “So do we rule this out—” Lonza nodded to the building “—as a crime scene?”

  “No, we can’t. Because we’re still working on things. We’ve got to test and swab everything we can, like hair, fibers. A lot of testing. Just because we haven’t found anything yet doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  Lonza’s phone vibrated with a text from Lieutenant Weaver. Time to come back.

  * * *

  At the 19th precinct, in the interview room, they resumed sitting across from Sergey Tellev and Aleena Shadrin.

  “The US attorney is unwilling to make any deals, or take charges off the table,” Lonza said.

  Tellev took a moment to absorb the decision.

  “Why not?”

  “The case against you is strong. You will be going to prison. However, if you provide information that leads to the safe return of the boy, that would be considered. But nothing more. Do you wish to proceed?”

  Shadrin then asked, “What did Galkina and Valiev tell you?”

  “We’re not going to reveal that.”

  “Did you make a deal with them?” Tellev asked.

  “Mr. Tellev,” Lonza said, “do you wish to proceed?”

  Shadrin requested a private moment with her client. The detectives left for about twenty minutes, then Shadrin signaled for them to return.

  “My client will tell you all he knows,” Shadrin said.

  Tellev spoke, with the detectives occasionally interrupting him to clarify a point.

  “We needed Tanner to authorize a positive report on the building,” Tellev said. “One that would not result in extensive repair requirements. Kortova posed as a friendly source to provide Tanner documents and arranged to meet him at a hotel, where a drug, similar to GHB, was surreptitiously placed by one of our team in his food at the bar.”