Forsaken: A Fallen Siren Novella Read Free

accusingly at Zack. “ You probably don’t have to guess, do you?”
    “You were assigned lead on this case,” Zack says, “and you resent our presence. Maitlin’s request.”
    “Is that what you call it?” Torres snaps back. “A request? More like a demand. He insisted that I call you in. No explanation why. And not as a liaison or consultant. No. He expects you to run the show. And son of a bitch if my boss didn’t fold.” She takes her eyes off the road to look at Zack. “Want to explain why? Because this makes no sense to me.”
    I’m waiting with bated breath. I’d like to know the answer to that, too. Zack gave me no indication while we were on the plane that we’d be walking into a political nightmare. But from where I’m sitting, he had to have known. I assumed it was Johnson and Torres’ boss that decided we should be involved. Now it seems clear it was Maitlan, the father of the kidnapped kid, that requested Zack, and that it was the powers that be who acquiesced. Pretty un-fucking-heard-of. I’m as interested in the answer as Torres.
    But Zack’s response doesn’t appease either of us. “Men like Maitlan are used to getting what they want. It doesn’t have to make sense.” His tone loses its edge, “Wouldn’t this time be better spent going over the details of the case? We read the file on the plane but I’d like to hear what happened from you. You must know more by now.”
    Torres’ glare softens. From my vantage point in the back seat, I see her shoulders begin to relax. She knows Zack is right, it doesn’t matter why we’re here. A child is missing. That should be our focus. She begins to recite the details as if she’s done it a dozen times by rote, her tone dispassionate. “Friday night, Roger Maitlan hosted his annual black-tie party for cancer research. It’s a once-a-year fundraiser, very exclusive. Maitlan and his millionaire friends get together and open their wallets for a cause that is near to his heart. His wife died of brain cancer two years ago. Since then he’s devoted time and resources to finding a cure. The only thing more important to him is his son.”
    “And while Maitlan was using his power and influence for something altruistic, mingling with New York’s upper crust at MoMA, Robby was taken,” Zack interjects.
    “What else do we know?” I ask.
    “Two masked gunman intercepted the doorman as he entered the building during a change of shift. Normally there’s a doorman on duty at all times and the entry’s kept securely locked. The gunmen had it all timed. I wouldn’t say the job was carried out with military precision, but at least one of them had been inside before, was familiar with the procedure for shift change, the location of the cameras.”
    I’m thumbing through the file as Torres is talking. There are photographs of the building and of the views from the lobby security cams before they were shot out. “So, the first thing they did was shoot out the cameras?”
    “No,” Torres answers shortly. “The first thing they did was subdue the doorman coming on duty. They held him at gunpoint, forced him to act like everything was normal even though his wrists were cable-tied behind his back. As soon as they gained entrance, one of the gunmen swept his feet right out from under him. Duct tape was used to bind his legs and cover his mouth. He landed hard, got knocked out. Has a pretty bad concussion. They haven’t discharged him yet. He doesn’t remember much.”
    Zack nods. “The second doorman sustained some injuries as well?”
    “A few cracked ribs and a broken nose while in the lobby. He’s a month shy of retirement, but he went down fighting. According to the surveillance video, he got a punch or two in before the cameras were shot out. Once upstairs, he was cold-cocked but good. When he came to, his hands were cable-tied behind his back, the babysitter dead, and Robby gone.”
    “You’ve questioned him?”
    “Yeah, but he was in a lot