The Red Syndrome (11 page)

t was already dark when I left the building; we'd been holed up in that
office all day. I was happy to get some fresh air. A gusty wind was
blowing from the East River. Discarded Styrofoam cups and other
debris swirled. I walked a few blocks north to my empty but cozy loft in
Chelsea. The only living creature waiting for me was Snap. My kids were
away in college, and my apartment was just as I had left it that morning.
I didn't miss the old days when, upon returning home from work, my
wife, now my ex, would be barking at me while my dog was wagging his
tail. Now only Snap was waiting, wagging his tail and jumping. I bent
down to greet him and he licked my face all over.

A paid dog walker takes Snap out during the day, and I wasn't eager to
go back out into the elements for his nighttime walk. I fixed myself a
drink and dropped on the couch to read the newspaper, but it quickly
became clear that Snap was not going to let me settle into my peaceful
evening. Leash in his mouth, his begging eyes bore into mine.

"Okay," I relented, stroking his rich reddish brown coat. "Let's go."

Before stepping from my building, I zipped up my coat and turned up
my collar as protection from the wind. But once outside, I realized the
wind had already died down. Now it felt delightful by comparison, and
my mood lifted as I set out for my ritualistic walk with Snap. It felt good
to get the blood flowing after the long day working inside, and the walk
was certainly better for me than the drink I'd left behind forming a condensation ring on my end table.

Going up Tenth Avenue, as we approached Chelsea Park my eye was
drawn to a MISSING poster affixed to a lamppost. My neighborhood is
just north of Ground Zero. Except to retrieve Snap, I was barred from
returning to my own apartment for days following the 9/II attacks. And for many weeks after that, outsiders were kept from entering our neighborhood, lending an eerie ghost-town atmosphere right in the heart of
one of the most vibrant metropolises in the history of humankind. Before
9/II, I'd walk past MISSING posters with almost as much indifference as
I'd ignore flyers for vitamins, adult education classes, and rock concerts at
neighborhood bars. But 9/II forever changed that. Suddenly the city was
plastered with posters that became impromptu, unofficial, and painfully
inadequate memorials to the moms and dads, friends and lovers who had
gone off to work one Tuesday morning never to be seen again. I started
reading every poster I came across, sometimes recognizing the same ones
in different corners of the city. People felt so helpless; they couldn't think
of anything else to do, because there was nothing more that could be
done. Their loved ones were gone, but it had all happened so quickly,
unexpectedly, and violently, they couldn't find a way to let go. Not yet.
Each eight-and-a-half-by-eleven, computer-generated flyer represented
an individual life with children still to be tucked in bed, career goals to be
pursued, dreams to be realized, or even dashed, but over the course of a
natural lifetime. Typically they featured a photograph of the deceased and
a thumbnail sketch of his or her life, loves, and work. Ultimately came the
chilling phrase "last seen entering the Twin Towers," followed by the
hollow plea that the reader please contact So-and-So with information.

Living so close to the tragedy perhaps made the event even more real
for me than for those watching the news from afar, as did my work for
the Justice Department. For over a decade my cases had more and more
come to involve suspected terrorist activity. Investigations of money trails
left by white-collar criminals who had fled the United States with illgotten gains, or by narcotics traffickers who were trying to pollute our
streets with drugs, were increasingly leading, sometimes quite unexpectedly, to organized terrorism connections. But reading those MISSING
posters, more than anything else, transformed the attack for me from a
collective massacre to the destruction of individual, beautiful human lives.

My reaction to MISSING posters pre-9/II had been reasonable enough
as a practical matter. Why even look at them? What are the chances that
I'd ever see the child on the poster or, if I had, that I'd recognize her? How was I to know whether the missing man hadn't simply abandoned a selfdeluding spouse? But 9/11 made me realize that while these weathered
pieces of paper might be useless as a law enforcement tool, they can reveal
dramatic stories. Someone was deeply emotionally connected to the
missing person, and wanted him or her back.

I tugged on Snap's leash and told him to sit, which he dutifully did.
This particular poster featured a color photo of a middle-aged man, about
my age, in jacket and tie and wearing sensible, office-worker eyeglasses.
First impressions are more often right than wrong, and this guy struck me
as a paper pusher or bean counter.

MISSING! HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? read the bold type above his image.
Underneath were his particulars:

It took a second for my mind to register what I had just read. Eagle
Bank! I had never had any dealings, professional or otherwise, in my
entire life with the place before joining the task force, and now here it was
cropping up again from an entirely different source. The name Lipinsky
meant nothing to me, and my brain told me the chances were that the
guy was involved in some domestic dispute or misunderstanding, but my
gut reminded me that the biggest breaks of my career have tended to
come from the most unexpected sources. An investigator would have to
be lazy or burned out not to pursue such an unexpected connection. This
guy Lipinsky almost certainly had nothing to do with our investigation,
but merely taking an active interest in his disappearance would give me a
line of inquiry into the world of Eagle Bank that no one else on the task
force was pursuing.

I fished a pen from the pocket of my overcoat and was writing down the wife's name and address when I realized I knew the building she lived
in. It contained loft apartments not very different from my own, maybe
twenty units in all, and was located nearby. I knew the building because
my insurance agent Ed Halloran and his wife, Pam, lived there. After my
divorce she'd tried to fix me up, inviting me over for dinner a couple of
times. The second and last time was with her loudmouthed sister, and the
evening went very badly. Several months after Pam had given up on me
and my romantic life, Ed died unexpectedly from a heart attack. I couldn't
make it to the funeral, I hadn't heard from Pam, and I had no occasion to
contact her.

Much to Snap's dismay, I turned around and pulled him along back
toward our apartment, all the while thinking about how to approach
Pam. I needed to enlist her help with Helen Lipinsky without setting off
any alarms, either in Mrs. Lipinsky's vulnerable heart or with my superiors on the task force.

I have to confess, as an investigator I was making cold calculations in
my head. I was about to contact Pam for the first time in about a couple
of years, and my motivation was that I wanted to use her. If she didn't
know Helen Lipinsky and couldn't help me, the fact that I'd missed Ed's
funeral and never made a friendly gesture to her after her husband died
would rise like an awkward, unpleasant specter between us. But I have
thick skin. And if Pam did know the Lipinskys, she'd be so focused on
their plight that nothing else would matter.

I dialed Pam's number as soon as I'd taken off my coat and shoes. My
drink was still cooler than room temperature, and I took a sip. Pam
picked up on the third ring. I got right to the point, telling her that I'd
come upon the poster and asking whether she knew Helen Lipinsky or
anything about Bernard's disappearance.

Not only did Pam know the woman well, but she'd helped her produce
and distribute the posters. "I've been on my own for some time now," she
reminded me. "I have time, and so I try to help when I can. Helen was at
such a loss. The police told her Bernard's a grown man and he hasn't been
missing long enough for them to get involved, unless there's any sign of
foul play."

I saw my opening. "I'm on my own, too, you know. I never remarried, I
don't have anyone particular in my life now, and the kids are grown. I was
walking my dog, the poster caught my eye, and then I recognized the
address and thought What an amazing coincidence! That's Pam's building!
Maybe she knows these people! You were always so nice to me, having me over
for dinner, trying to fix me up with the right people ... You know I always
felt bad that I missed Ed's funeral but it couldn't be helped, I was out of the
country. So I said to myself, Dan, this is a sign. Pick up the phone and call
Pam. At the very least you can say hello and tell her you were thinking of her and
how she was doing. As for your friend, I'm no cop and I don't know what it
is I could do, but I do know law enforcement and bureaucrats and so if you
think there's anything I might be able to do to help her, let me know."

"Well I can tell you," Pam said, "it didn't help when the police told her
that when a man disappears, he usually doesn't want to be found right
away by his wife. Any kind of direction or guidance you could give would
be an improvement over that."

"So you don't think this was a domestic dispute or a marriage gone
bad?" I had to ask.

"No," she said, then hesitated.

"What?" I asked.

"Her husband seemed troubled during the week before he disappeared."

"Why? How do you know?" I asked.

"She told me that his disappearance could be connected to his work.
He was really upset during the past week."

I had to play my hand very carefully. I couldn't let on that the name
Eagle Bank meant a thing to me. I didn't even mention that I'd seen his
place of employment on the flyer. Besides, my experience as an interrogator has taught me that you get your best information when you let
the person you're questioning provide it without any prompting.

"Where did he work?" I asked.

"At Eagle Bank."

"Do you know whether the bank ran an audit to see if he took off with
any of their money?"

"I'm not sure if they know he's missing."

My gut told me the chances that Lipinsky was somehow connected to
our investigation were getting better and better. "Well, if you think Mrs.
Lipinsky would want to talk to me," I volunteered, "I'd be happy to meet
with you and her."

"Dan, that's wonderful!" she responded with genuine enthusiasm. "When? I can bring Helen to see you anytime. She's just sitting at home
worrying."

"Can you come now?" I suggested. "I have a full day tomorrow at work,
but tonight I'm free."

"We'll be right over!"

She sounded a bit overly hopeful, so I reminded her, "Tell Mrs.
Lipinsky I don't know what I can do, other than advise her about the next
step."

"Understood," said Pam. "That's exactly what she needs. We'll be there
in twenty minutes."

About half an hour later, the doorbell rang and Pam walked in with
Mrs. Helen Lipinsky, a fifty-something woman with gray hair and sad
eyes, now more red than brown. She was holding a wadded handful of
tissues.