Say the Word(62)

PS: Be careful. He’s a bad man.



I sat for so long the sun set and gave way to full darkness outside the cafe windows. Miri’s words played on a never-ending loop in my mind, stirring within me a tidal wave of guilt, despair, and fear so strong I worried I’d be pulled under, never to resurface.

They can’t know I talked to you.

I’ll disappear like Vera.

Be careful. He’s a bad man.

Had I put an innocent child’s life in danger with my foolish insistence to get involved? My intentions had been pure, of course, but did that matter when Miri, a fourteen-year-old girl, was afraid for her life?

Her request was a double-edged sword. If I went back to see her, I might endanger her further; if I followed her wishes and stayed away, I’d live in a constant state of worry that something awful had happened. Either choice would slice me open.

No matter how much I wanted to make sure she was okay, I couldn’t risk another trip to Two Bridges. If she was right, rather than just paranoid, my presence in her neighborhood might make her situation worse. But I couldn’t just walk away from this — not now that I knew girls were disappearing by the handful.

Santos.

The police officer who watched the young girls. He was the only clue I had to go on. I hoped it would be enough, as I rushed from the cafe to the closest subway platform. It was time to do some research.





***


I quickly discovered that finding Santos might be a bigger feat than I’d originally estimated. He was one, small navy-uniformed needle in the mountainous haystack that was the NYPD.

Hunched over my laptop with one hand clutching my phone to my ear and the other holding a very full glass of wine, I tried to convince my best friend that I wasn’t crazy.

“You’re nuts,” Fae said, snorting into her receiver.

I was off to a good start. “I’m not nuts!”

“You honestly think Vera’s disappearance has something to do with the NYPD?”

“Miri said Vera isn’t the only girl who’s disappeared. And, Fae, the stuff I’ve been reading…” I trailed off, eyes peeled on the screen in front of me. “It’s messed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you know the NYPD employs over 50,000 people? That’s more than the entire FBI! And there are thousands of stories posted online about police brutality and internal corruption on the squads.”

I heard Fae exhale a long huff of air.

“I’m not making this up, Fae. I’ve been reading this stuff for the past few hours, and there are more on-duty murders and cover-ups than you can imagine. Just go online, it’s all there at your fingertips.” My voice was intent. “Plus, did you know $4.6 billion dollars from last year’s city budget went solely to fund the police force? Our freaking mayor referred to the NYPD as the ‘seventh largest army in the world.’ Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?”

“Excessive, maybe,” she agreed. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you sound like a crazy conspiracy theorist.”

“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I muttered into the phone.

“Don’t quote Lord Acton to me,” Fae protested. “I was a freaking History major in college.”

I sighed. “Well, I found a picture of Santos and it’s beyond creepy. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you see it.”

“Maybe,” Fae said, humoring me. “I have to go, the delivery guy is here with my Chinese. Promise me you won’t obsess over this all night.”

“Yep. I promise,” I agreed, rolling my eyes as I hung up.

Clearly, I wasn’t going to get much support from Fae. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was on to something.

My first hour of searching had been spent mainly sloughing through internet archives filled with useless factoids and anecdotes about the police force. I hit my first stroke of luck when I typed the name Santos in combination with my NYPD search and found a story from last August on the New York Daily News website. The article itself contained useless information on new city transit laws, but it was accompanied by a photo of a man in a navy blue uniform surrounded by a group of small children. One of the little girls, who was no more than five or six, was wearing his peaked officer’s cap and giggling at the camera as the brim fell down over her eyes.

The caption read: Officer Martin Santos, fifteen year NYPD officer and investigator for the narcotics unit, shares a laugh with neighborhood kids on their way to school in Little Italy early Friday morning.

Officer Santos wasn’t “sharing a laugh,” or even looking at the camera; his gaze was focused intently on the laughing girl wearing his cap. Despite the matte photo, his eyes appeared to gleam with excitement and one corner of his mouth was lifted in a knowing smirk.

My stomach turned at the sight of him.

If I had to describe Santos with one word it would be nondescript. He was utterly unremarkable, average in every way — medium height and build, with slicked-back dark hair and brown eyes so light they were nearly colorless. He was maybe in his late thirties or early forties; stocky without being overweight, his hair thinning out but not balding, and his features plain but not unattractive.

He was someone you wouldn’t look twice at if you passed him on the street.