Gone Tomorrow

an organizer or dispatcher. Maybe even the big boss himself. If it had been a cell phone number, it would have been no good to me. No good at all. Cell phones can be anywhere. That’s the point of cell phones.
    But it wasn’t a cell phone number. It was a 212 number.
    A Manhattan landline.
    Which would have a fixed location. That’s the nature of landlines.
    The best method of working backward from a phone number depends on how high up the food chain you are. Cops and private eyes have reverse telephone directories. Look up the number, get a name, get an address. The FBI has all kinds of sophisticated databases. The same kind of thing, but more expensive. The CIA probably owns the phone companies.
    I don’t have any of that stuff. So I take the low-tech approach.
    I dial the number and see who answers.
    I hit the green button and the phone brought up the number for me. I hit the green button again and the phone started dialing. There was ring tone. It cut off fairly fast and a woman’s voice said, “This is the Four Seasons, and how may I help you?”
    I said, “The hotel?”
    “Yes, and how may I direct your call?”
    I said, “I’m sorry, I have the wrong number.”
    I clicked off.
    The Four Seasons Hotel. I had seen it. I had never been in it. It was a little above my current pay grade. It was on 57th Street between Madison Avenue and Park Avenue. Right there in my sixty-eight square-block box, a little west and a lot north of its geographic center. But a short walk for someone getting off the 6 train at 59th Street. Hundreds of rooms, hundreds of telephone extensions, all routed out through the main switchboard, all carrying the main switchboard’s caller ID.
    Helpful, but not very.
    I thought for a moment and looked around very carefully and then reversed direction and headed for the 14th Precinct.
    * * *
    I had no idea what time an NYPD detective would show up for a night watch, but I expected Theresa Lee to be there within about an hour. I expected to have to wait for her in the downstairs lobby. What I didn’t expect was to find Jacob Mark already in there ahead of me. He was sitting on an upright chair against a wall and drumming his fingers on his knees. He looked at me with no surprise at all and said, “Peter didn’t show up for practice.”

Chapter 29
    Right there in the precinct lobby Jacob Mark talked for about five straight minutes, with the kind of rambling fluency that is typical of the truly anxious. He said that the USC football people had waited four hours and then called Peter’s father, who had called him. He said that for a star senior on a full scholarship to miss practice was completely unthinkable. In fact to make practice no matter what else was going on was a major part of the culture. Earthquakes, riots, wars, deaths in the family, mortal disease, everyone showed up. It emphasized to the world how important football was, and by implication how important the players were to the university. Because jocks were respected by most, but disrespected by some. And there was an unspoken mandate to live up to the majority’s ideals and change the minority’s minds. Then there were the straightforward machismo issues. To miss practice was like a firefighter declining a turn-out, like a hit-by-pitch batter rubbing his arm, like a gunslinger staying inside the saloon. Unthinkable. Unheard of. Doesn’t happen. Hangovers, broken bones, torn muscles, bruises, it didn’t matter. You showed up. Plus Peter was going to the NFL, and increasingly pro teams look for character. They’ve been burned too many times. So missing practice was the same thing as trashing his meal ticket. Inexplicable. Incomprehensible.
    I listened without paying close attention. I was counting hours instead. Close to forty-eight since Susan Mark had missed her deadline. Why hadn’t Peter’s body been found?
    Then Theresa Lee showed up with news.
    But first Lee had to deal with Jacob Mark’s situation. She took us up to the second floor squad room and heard him out and asked, “Has Peter been officially reported missing?”
    Jake said, “I want to do that right now.”
    “You can’t,” Lee said. “At least, not to me. He’s missing in LA, not in New York.”
    “Susan was killed here.”
    “She committed suicide here.”
    “The USC people don’t take missing persons reports. And the LAPD won’t take it seriously. They don’t understand.”
    “Peter’s twenty-two years old. It’s not like he’s a