Page 37 of Crosshairs
I chuckled and tried to be polite as I asked about Wendy Robinson’s information.
Walter handed me a sheet of paper with a few more addresses.He said, “The address up in Brewster is her mother. I think that might be a good place to start.”
I lost track of time as I went through notes and answered phone messages. Trilling still hadn’t shown up when I broke out of my tunnel vision. I dialed his phone but got no answer. A few minutes later, he sent a text.I’m at an appointment. Then I have to run by my apartment. I’ll meet you at the office.
Trilling’s lateness was the sort of thing that an administrator like Harry Grissom should handle. But I didn’t want to get my new partner in trouble. I just wanted to find out what the hell was going on with him. On the other hand, it was closing in on noon, and I wanted to get on the road and talk to Wendy Robinson’s mother in Brewster. It would take about an hour to get up to the little town near the Connecticut border.
I decided it was time for bold action. I found Trilling’s home address in Queens and headed over there to catch him when he came home. According to his text, he was headed there before the office. This way we could save some time.
It wasn’t hard to find his apartment building after I came over the Queensboro Bridge. It was a two-story building just off Northern Boulevard. I slipped into a spot on the street nearby.
About twenty minutes later, Trilling pulled up in his FBI-issued Ford Taurus. He didn’t seem shocked to see me.
All I said was “We need to talk.”
Trilling nodded. He said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” A couple of minutes later he was back on the sidewalk with two Miller Lites and a bag from a local deli.
Trilling said, “Sorry. Apartment’s a mess. I’ll share my roast beef sandwich with you if you don’t tell anyone about having a beer in the middle of the day.”
I took the beer and half a sandwich. We leaned on the hood of my Chevy. I was a little curious to see how a young man would decorate an apartment in Queens but decided to worry about it later. “You ever going to tell me where you disappear to?”
“Is this a private, off-the-record conversation?”
I nodded impatiently. I wanted answers and then we needed to get back to work.
“And you want to know about my appointments.”
I nodded silently.
Trilling took a few moments. He let out a sigh and finally started slowly. “I see a therapist at a VA outpatient center in Manhattan. I’ve been having a few problems adjusting to civilian life, and my therapist is concerned I have a form of PTSD. I talked to the NYPD medical staff and told them what was going on. That’s why I was pulled out of Emergency Service. It’s also why they shipped me over to the FBI fugitive task force. They thought it would be a good place to hide me so no one would ask questions.”
I tried to process what he was telling me. As a member of a large government agency, I knew that this sounded plausible on every level. If I told someone on the street about this, they’d laugh and say it was part of a prank. But I could see the anguish on Rob Trilling’s face. Now I understood why he was skeptical about the NYPD.
Trilling said, “I’m not ashamed of having issues after combat. Just feel like it’s my business and it shouldn’t be advertised.”
“It is absolutely your own business. Sorry I ambushed you at your own apartment. Just needed some answers. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I don’t know. You just seem to have it all together. Greatreputation, beautiful wife and family. Maybe I didn’t think you’d be able to understand.”
“I don’t pretend to understand PTSD. But I understand people trying to do what’s right. Both for themselves and for the community. We could work it so our schedule isn’t as rigid. You can make your appointments easier.”
Trilling looked at me and said, “If we’re being completely honest, I didn’t have a therapy session this morning.”
“Are you comfortable telling me where you were?”
“Immigration court. I sat in on the hearing for the five women we rescued from the warehouse in the Bronx.”
“And what did you learn?”
“That no one gives a damn about human smuggling.”
CHAPTER 46
OUR RIDE TO Brewster, New York, was uneventful. Somehow I’d hoped that by Rob Trilling telling me about his PTSD and treatment, communication would open up between us. But I was starting to realize that Trilling’s natural state was quiet and thoughtful. It didn’t do much for a ride through the Putnam County landscape.
Calling the area “rural” was like saying Shaquille O’Neal is tall. This was what we city dwellers would call the middle of nowhere. It looked sort of like the area where I imagined Ted Kaczynski had once lived. Quiet, isolated, and, to a New Yorker like me, a little on the creepy side.
The mailbox on the main road had the name Robinson handwritten on it, and the address matched what Walter Jackson had given me. Wendy Robinson’s mom, Bev Robinson, had lived at this address for more than thirty years.