While Everyone Was Sleeping Read online

  “The information was fresh when Latimer investigated the case. I don’t know how much more we’ll be able to come up with after five years have passed,” Litchfield said. “People move, they die and they forget things.”

  “We’ll see,” Danski said. He read from Latimer’s final report which was a summary of his findings. “The child was taken in the middle of the night. There were no signs of forced entry and no witnesses. There are ten apartments on the third floor, and over a hundred in the whole building. The majority of the tenants interviewed were age sixty or older. They all said they were asleep at the time of occurrence. The apartment has an open terrace but it’s not accessible from the outside.”

  “How about a doorman?” Litchfield asked.

  Danski shook his head. “There’s no doorman, but they have a security camera in the lobby.” He held up a cassette that showed the case number and the boy’s name in bold letters. “I didn’t get a chance to view the tape yet, but according to Latimer’s notes it shows a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat – one of those floppy bush-hats the soldiers wore in the boonies in Nam.”

  Litchfield nodded. “He would have been able to fold the hat and stick in his pocket when he got outside to change his appearance.”

  “The tape shows the man in the bush-hat walking across the lobby floor at two o’clock that morning with his head down and turned away from the security camera. He was carrying a medium size duffle bag in his left hand and a young boy slung over his right shoulder.”

  Litchfield nodded, “That nails down the time. The bag might have contained the boy’s clothing or some personal items he took from the apartment, like the kid’s favorite toy or a teddy bear.”

  “Possibly,” Danski said.

  “The million-dollar question is who was the man wearing the bush-hat.”

  “He’s like the one-armed man,” Danski said. “According to Latimer the security tape was an old one that was probably recycled a hundred times. He found it to be of little value except to establish a time-line. The tape didn’t capture the boy’s face, but there was no question it was Jacob Whitlock because no other boy his age lived in the building at the time.”

  “All these buildings put cameras in the lobby to make the tenants feel safe and secure, but they don’t bother to change the tapes,” Litchfield said shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Other than being a possible deterrent, they’re totally useless. And when you come right down to it, they’re actually only saving pennies.”

  “Latimer had TARU freeze a few frames from the tape and then showed them to the tenants when they canvassed the building. But due to the poor quality of the tape nobody was able to identify the man.” Danski held up the cassette again. “We can look it over ourselves later but I don’t expect it to be any help.”

  “Obviously, the perp was aware of the security camera and did his best to avoid it,” Litchfield said. “What about Mister Whitlock? What did Latimer say about him?”

  “Susan’s a widow,” Danski said. “Her husband died sixteen months before the boy was taken. His name was Martin”

  Litchfield nodded. “Yes, I remember her mentioning that on Friday. What about relatives?”

  “Jacob’s an only child. Susan has one sibling, a sister that lives on the West Coast somewhere. Martin had a brother Peter who lives on Long Island’s North Shore - Cold Spring Harbor, I believe. Latimer interviewed him by phone. Peter said he and Martin had been estranged for several years when Martin died. Their parents’ estate was the root-cause of the problem. Peter inherited the home in Cold Spring Harbor and a summer place in the Hamptons. Martin received the remainder of the estate which included property in the Catskills and more than three million dollars in stocks and bonds.”

  Litchfield gave a quick whistle. “That’s a big inheritance for both of them.”

  “The father owned a shipping company. Latimer said Peter didn’t hide his resentment over the inequitable distribution of assets as he called it, but he said he regretted the fallout after learning of Martin’s death.”

  “Did he talk about Susan or Jacob?”

  Danski shook his head. “He told Latimer he was aware that Martin had a son, but he never saw or met the boy. He knew all about Susan being an interior designer with an affluent clientele and a home office.”

  Litchfield sipped his coffee and then put his cup down and sat back. “So, Susan put Jake to bed at eight o’clock and checked on him before she went to bed at ten.”

  “Correct,” Danski said.

  “She has a third-floor apartment that’s got an open terrace, but according to her, the building is secure.”

  “Correct again,” Danski said. “Supposedly the place is impenetrable. The apartment was locked and air-tight according to Susan’s statements to Latimer. Nobody could get in or out without opening the locks on the door. She made a point of saying it was double-locked. There was a dead-bolt lock in addition to the door knob lock and that’s the reason she always felt safe there. She said the same key opens both locks.”

  Litchfield ran his open hand across his mouth and then exhaled loudly. “The bottom line is that four hours after Susan went to bed the security camera in the lobby shows an unidentified man carrying a boy out of the building.”

  “Correct,” Danski said.

  “Did Latimer have any suspects?”

  Danski shook his head, “Not one. The problem here is that Susan’s personal and professional worlds appear to be very small. The whole cast of characters includes Francine her housekeeper, her assistant Delores DeMarco, and a building superintendent named Otto that Latimer interviewed several times. There’s also a list of Susan’s clients, some extremely wealthy, some upper middle-class.”

  Litchfield nodded. “All princes, no paupers.”

  “The perp could have been someone Susan knew, or he could have been a total stranger,” Danski said. “There’s no way to tell which based on the information we have to go on. Someone might have stalked Susan and Jake for weeks or months before the kidnap. She told me she had the feeling that someone was watching her.”

  Danski drained his coffee mug and then winced at the cold, bitter remains. “Let’s go take a ride over there and get a first-hand look at the place.”

  “Maybe you should call first to make sure she’s there,” Litchfield said.

  “It shouldn’t be necessary,” Danski said. “She works from home and she told me she’s usually up at seven.”

  The captain’s door opened as Danski stood and pulled his gun from his desk drawer and threaded his belt through his leather holster.

  “Where are you two going this early in the morning?” Quinn asked.

  Danski gave his partner a quick glance as he buckled his belt and then sat on the edge of his desk and faced Quinn.

  “We’re working on a kidnap investigation that came in late Friday, Boss. It’s a five-year-old case involving a four-year-old boy that was abducted from an apartment on the Upper East Side.”

  Quinn looked confused. “That’s strange. I go over all the cases before they’re assigned, and I don’t remember seeing that one.”

  “It’s a self-generated case,” Danski said. “The mother came in here Friday afternoon at a quarter to four. She was an emotional mess, crying her eyes out. The case originated in the Nineteenth Precinct and when they didn’t get anywhere with their investigation, it lay dormant in their files since early 2014. I cleared it with the precinct detective unit’s supervisor. He said the case was going to be sent over to us in another couple of weeks anyway.”

  “Yeah” Quinn said pinching his lips together to hide a smile. “I know all about it. I just got off the phone with their commander a few minutes ago. He wishes you luck finding the boy, but he said you don’t have much to work with.”

  “Yeah, we realize that,” Danski said.

  “I want to ask you something before you go anywhere, Steve. Didn’t we have a discussion about you guys selecting cases you want to work on?”
<
br />   Danski gave a sheepish grin. “I didn’t have much choice this time, Boss. The woman was very upset. She said nobody was trying to find her son, and when I brought the case up on my computer screen, I saw she was right.”

  “And you wanted her to know that somebody cared about her and her little boy, right?”

  “Exactly,” Danski said. He held up the file. “We need to get started on this right away.”

  “I remember the Whitmore kidnap well,” Quinn said before the detectives could leave. “I followed it in the newspapers every day after it went down. It was also a big topic at the Comstat meetings at the time. As you know, that’s where precinct commanders are called to task on trouble spots and conditions in their precincts and squad commanders give progress reports on the cases their detectives are working on.”

  “I can understand why this case got their attention,” Danski said.

  “I felt for Jack Morris when he had to stand up and admit defeat pretty early on,” Quinn said. “Jack was the commander of the Nineteenth Squad at the time. His detectives had nothing to go on. Major Case Squad stepped in at one point to lend a hand, but they also got nowhere. There were no ransom calls or notes, no communication of any kind with the kidnappers. There wasn’t even a call from any of the regular screwballs that call and claim they’re holding the victim and say they want some outlandish amount of money before they’ll return him. The story was front-page news the week the kid was taken, but I’m sure you know what happened. As time went on it was pushed to page three, and so on as the weeks passed by with no headway being made. Morris’ detectives tried to keep Jacob’s face in the spotlight hoping someone would say, yeah, I saw that kid in the park or in a supermarket or at a bus stop somewhere. But, like most other prime stories, when the trail went cold, suddenly the newspapers didn’t have room for it anymore.”

  Danski raked his teeth across his lower lip and then shook his head. “The kid disappeared in the middle of the night and no one saw anything. All they had to go on was a grainy tape from a security camera in the lobby.”

  “Do whatever you can with the case,” Quinn said. “Don’t drive yourself crazy if you don’t get anywhere right away.”

  “We’re on our way over there now to take a look at the kidnap scene five years after the fact.”

  “Keep me updated,” Quinn told them.

  Chapter Three

  The cruiser’s front right tire brushed against the curb as Danski pulled to a stop in front of Susan Whitlock’s apartment building. “Third floor,” Danski said when they got out. “She has an open terrace like most of the other apartments facing 67th Street.”

  Litchfield scanned the building and counted the floors. “Yeah, I see that.”

  “Susan said the apartments are not accessible from the outside.”

  “Looks like she’s right about that,” Litchfield said. “The only way someone could access her terrace is by going to the roof and attaching a grappling hook to something solid like an air-conditioning unit or the edge of the roof and then lowering himself seven stories to Susan’s apartment.”

  “And that’s about a hundred-foot drop,” Danski said.

  “At least,” Litchfield said. “Let’s go inside and take a look.”

  Once inside the building Litchfield went to the tenant directory and ran his finger down the list of names. “Whitlock’s in apartment 316.”

  “Let’s go talk with the super before we do anything,” Danski said.

  “He’s on the first floor, apartment 1R.” Litchfield pointed to a short, dimly-lit hallway to the right of the elevators. A service-elevator was another twenty feet further down the hallway.

  “It’s been five years,” Danski said as they crossed the lobby floor. “This super might not be the same one they had back then.”

  Litchfield disagreed. “When building superintendents move into a building it’s usually for life,” he said as they headed down the hallway.

  The name Fischer was printed on a narrow plastic name-plate under the peephole. The detectives had their gold shields and ID ready when a short, stout man with dark hair and a wide mustache answered the door eating a chicken wing.

  “Mister Fischer?” Danski asked.

  The man raised the chicken wing in deference. “Call me Otto. How can I help you, Detectives?”

  “We’re with the Cold Case Squad,” Danski said. “We’re investigating the disappearance of Jacob Whitlock five years ago. Were you the building’s superintendent at that time?”

  “I certainly was. I’ve been here for almost twelve years,” he said as a gray cat was suddenly alongside him, rubbing his neck against Fischer’s shin.

  “That was a real shame what happened,” Fischer said. “Little Jake was a sweet kid.”

  Danski noted how Fischer spoke of Jacob in the past tense.

  “I’m glad the police are investigating the case again,” Fischer said. “I spoke extensively with the detective that was originally assigned to the case.”

  “That would be Detective Latimer,” Danski said.

  “Yeah, right, Latimer. I liked Latimer. He was a little rough around the edges, but he was very thorough. He asked a million and one questions I never would’a thought of.” Fischer laughed. “Sometimes he asked the same questions forty different ways.”

  Danski smiled. He knew detectives who used that same technique. When they have a person of interest, they ask the same question in different forms hoping to get a different answer.

  “There really wasn’t much I could tell him,” Fischer said. “I saw Mrs. Whitlock just before dinner time the night before Jake was taken and not again until that day when the detectives came here and she went to the police station with them. I guess they brought her there to look at some mug shots or to show her pictures of some seedy-looking criminal types that might have been hanging around the building during the days before the kidnapping.”

  “And were there any of those type people to your recollection?”

  Fischer shook his head. “No more than usual.”

  “Detective Latimer reported that a man with a wide-brimmed hat was seen on the building’s security tape that night,” Danski said.

  “Yeah, Latimer showed me the tape and asked if I recognize the guy or if I ever saw him hanging around the building. The tape was crummy; it was like looking out your window during a blizzard. I told Latimer I never saw the guy before, but I said I would keep an eye out for him after that, but he never came back.”

  “It’s been five years,” Danski said. “Has anything come to mind since that time that might be related to the case, something you might not have mentioned to Detective Latimer the first time around?”

  Fischer shook his head. “I’m sorry, Detective. I spoke with Latimer a dozen times. I told him everything I knew.”

  “We need to take a look at the roof?” Litchfield said. “It would be good if you came with us in case we have any questions.”

  “Of course,” Fischer said. “No problem.” He tossed the chicken bone into his vestibule and shut the door when his cat chased after it. “Let’s take the service elevator,” he said and pointed further down the hallway. “It goes from the basement all the way to the roof. The passenger elevator in the lobby only goes to the tenth floor, and then you’ve got to climb another flight of stairs to the roof.”

  The heat and blinding morning sunshine hit the detectives full-force when Fischer unlocked the steel-clad door and pushed it open. It was like a spotlight on a dark stage. Danski shielded his eyes with his notebook as they stepped out onto the rooftop.

  Before walking the perimeter, they went directly to the side of the building seven stories directly above Susan’s apartment hoping to find something Latimer and his team missed five years ago. Danski inspected the two-foot high ledge for scrape marks that might have been left by a grappling hook if the kidnapper actually had lowered himself from the roof to Susan Whitlock’s terrace. He quickly ruled out that possibility.

  “
There’s no way the perp accessed Susan’s apartment from here.” Danski concluded and then shook his head and grimaced. “It would have been way too dangerous.”

  “Suicide,” Litchfield said.

  “The guy would have to be a circus performer to pull off a stunt like that,” Danski said. “Especially in the middle of the night.”

  “We need to take a look at the basement now,” Litchfield said after they walked the perimeter. “Have there been any structural changes down there since Jake disappeared?”

  “No,” Fischer said as he got into the elevator and pulled the scissor-gate closed. “If anything, there’s less clutter down there now. When Latimer said he was done with the basement I put a notice on the bulletin board next to the mailboxes letting the tenants know they had thirty days to clear out anything that’s been down there for more than a year. I figured if they hadn’t used something in a year it was just gonna rot down there.”

  “Good reasoning,” Danski said and bent his lips. “Do you have that kind of leverage around here? “

  “Leverage?”

  “Yeah, are you able to implement a system like that on your own without needing management’s okay?”

  Fischer smiled. “My brother-in-law Henry owns the building.”

  Danski nodded. “I see.”

  “I wish Detective Latimer would come back here again so I could show him what I’ve accomplished since the last time he was here,” Fischer said when they reached the basement. “I think he’d be proud of me. I was embarrassed by the mess and the clutter that was allowed to accumulate down here. I was tripping over things all the time. Whenever I needed to get to something I had to climb over old bicycles with flat tires and rusty chains, stacks of cardboard boxes and stained, moth-eaten recliners – stuff that nobody was ever gonna use again. We got fined one time when a meter reader wasn’t able to get to the box.”

  “I’m impressed,” Litchfield said as he glanced around the basement after Fischer turned on six overhead florescent lights.

  “Yeah, it looks good now,” Fischer said. “But you should have seen it back then.”