Forsaken: A Fallen Siren Novella Read Free Page A

of pain and still pretty shaken up. The babysitter was just a kid, seventeen. She lived in the building and he’d watched her grow up.”
    “Any sign that Robby might have been injured?” Zack asks.
    “No. There was no evidence of a struggle. Then again, the boy is just over fifty pounds. He could have been easily subdued. The only thing we know for sure is that the kidnappers exited through the parking garage with a large duffle, one big enough for a seven-year-old to fit in. The footage showed only their backs, but it’s clearly them.”
    “Why shoot out the cameras in the lobby but not the garage?” I ask.
    Torres frowns. “We don’t know. Maybe they didn’t know about the surveillance in the garage. The building manager reported those cameras were just recently installed.”
    “One dead, two injured,” says Zack. “Not your normal stealthy kidnapping. These guys wanted to send a message.”
    We’re winding through the streets of Manhattan. Despite the traffic, Torres doesn’t miss a beat. “What’s the message?”
    “They’re ruthless,” I mutter, still looking at the photographs. “Forensics find anything?”
    Torres shakes her head. “Nothing yet. They were in and out quickly. Wore gloves. Likely used silencers. No one reported hearing anything when the girl was shot.”
    “Do we have a description of the getaway car?”
     “No. They walked out of the garage. We have no idea which way they went or what kind of getaway vehicle they used.”
    “No cameras on the street?”
    “Not for a couple of blocks.”
    “What about ballistics?”
    “The lab is working on that.”
    Zack has been quiet during this exchange. Now he asks, “And no ransom demand?”
    “Not yet.”
    It’s been years since I’ve been in New York. Some things have changed since the last century, but much has remained the same. I recognize that we’re headed toward the Upper East Side—one of the most expensive and exclusive areas in Manhattan.
    “How’s Maitlan taking it?” Zack asks.
    “Like an ego-maniac who’s used to being in control.”
    We’re paused at a light. Torres rolls down her window and shouts at a young couple who decided to stop in the middle of the crosswalk and argue with one another. Rather than move on, they interpret her attempt to chastise them as an invitation and approach.
    “Can you point us in the direction of Central Park?” asks the wide-eyed damsel. The accent is Southern, her clothing more appropriate for a church picnic than a late summer trek through the Big Apple.
    “Oh for fuck’s sake,” mutters Torres, flashing her badge. “Do I look like a tour guide to you?”
    Zack, ever the gentleman leans forward. “Morning! Where ya’ll from?”
    “Goose Creek, South Carolina,” the man pipes in. “It’s—”
    “North of Charleston,” interjects Zack. “I was born and raised in South Cacalacky.” Despite the chorus of horns around us and the steam coming out of Torres’ ears, he quickly points them in the direction of Central Park.
    Welcome to New York . I watch the young couple walk away as Torres guns the engine, pitching me forward. Some things never do change.
    Five minutes and two turns later, we come up on an imposing building on East 65th Street. Looking skyward, the building rises thirty or more stories. If I haven’t gotten turned around myself, the west facing windows should have a sweeping view of Central Park, which is now less than half a block away. We slow to a snail’s pace. A large contingent of television vans, representing both local and national networks, line the sidewalks in front.
    I take quick inventory. Several crews are actively filming. Uniformed police stand guard at the door. A narrow alley off to the side of the building is blocked off with crime scene tape and a blockade. “The vultures have descended. Can we get past them?”
     “A homicide and kidnapping in this neighborhood is a hard story to keep quiet,” Torres says. “The minute the