He should call Cordelli and Ortiz, alert them to the surveillance footage and the plate. He’d do that. But not yet, because when he considered the slip of paper bearing the license number, he knew he had more than hope in his hand.
This was his thread to Sarah and Cole.
Nothing was going to stop him from following it.
* * *
It was called Virtual Connections Online Coffeehouse.
Jazz music and the hissing gurgle of espresso machines filled the air of the packed cafe. At every table people had their noses in their BlackBerries, tablets, cell phones and laptops. All the rental computer terminals were in use. Jeff got his instructions and number from a girl in a white apron at the counter.
“Hit Enter, the rates come up. Swipe your credit card. Remember to log out. Three people are ahead of you but it won’t be long-we have twelve terminals.”
While waiting, Jeff went to the ATM next door for more cash. By the time he’d come back, a terminal in the corner had become available. The mouse was sticky and the keyboard was so worn off he had to strain to see what letters he was typing.
He took the half hour rate of seven dollars. He knew the detectives were monitoring his family credit card, so he used his company card for Clay Platt’s Auto Service. He’d explain the charges to Clay later. Once he was online he searched Google services that identified license plates. He submitted the plate number for New York State, then his credit card information.
A few seconds later the monitor displayed the data. The vehicle was a white 2010 GMC Terrain, the registered owner was Donald Dalfini and his address was 88 Steeldown Road, New York City. There was a vehicle identification number, title, registration date and other information.
Jeff printed it all off, then searched the address.
It was in the Bronx. The map put it near Neverpoint Park in the southeast section of the borough. The estimated travel time from midtown was about forty minutes.
Jeff collected his pages, folded them into his pocket and debated his next step.
He took out Ortiz’s business card and pressed the number. The line rang, then went straight to her voice mail. He didn’t want to leave a message and he didn’t want to waste any time.
Jeff worked his way through the crowd to the street and flagged down the first cab he saw.
11
“Run it again but slow it down.”
Cordelli rolled his chair beside Ortiz at her computer.
A few keystrokes and she replayed the video provided by the New York Police Department’s Real Time Crime Center. The images covered Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Streets near Seventh Avenue-at the time of Sarah and Cole’s abduction.
It had taken time for the RTCC to gather the material but the number of angles, proximity and superior quality captured by its network exceeded anything from a single camera with a partial street view.
“Here we go.” Ortiz’s monitor offered an array of sharp perspectives as she zeroed in on what they needed.
The images froze: Jeff Griffin alone, helpless in the street.
The scene drove it home for Ortiz and Cordelli, briefly imagining the fear twisting in Jeff’s gut before they’d kicked things into high gear. Cordelli tapped his pen to the monitor on the SUV’s New York plate.
They wrote it down.
“Get the center to run the plate through everything,” he said.
“Already on it.” Ortiz had grabbed her phone.
“We want to get units rolling to the address of the registered owner ASAP. And,” Cordelli added, “get them to track the SUV through the surveillance network. Can they tell us where it went? Where it is now?”
As Ortiz dealt with her call, Cordelli used her keyboard to replay the footage. He eyed every aspect, absorbed every detail of the chilling act that had played out in broad daylight on one of the busiest streets on earth.
“What do you think?” Ortiz asked after finishing the call.
“Who the hell are these guys? Why would they kidnap a Montana schoolteacher and her nine-year-old son?”
“It’s hard to tell by her reaction if she knows them.”
“Go back to this angle, on this one.” Cordelli touched his pen to the monitor. “I can’t make out any features on the suspects. Counting the driver, is it four men?”
“The SUV’s got a little too much tint on the windows and that glare on the windshield doesn’t help.”
“We need to look into the family’s finances, see if they had gambling or drug debts,” Cordelli said.
“I thought the people in Montana said they were clean, upstanding.”
“We’ll check again and we’ll get the FBI in Billings to assist. We’ll request warrants on the family’s computers, check their records. Maybe it’s an online thing. Maybe she was having an affair that went bad.”
“Or maybe the kid was chatting with a predator, told them about the family’s vacation?” Ortiz said.
Cordelli went to his desk and made calls.
“I’ll get things rolling to put out an Amber Alert.”
He advised their supervisor, then started pulling together photos of Sarah and Cole, notes on the SUV-the plate, color-description of the suspects.
Ortiz’s cell phone rang.
Her eyes widened slightly as she listened, then jotted notes.
“This is happening now?” Her voice betrayed a measure of incredulity before she said, “Got it,” and hung up.
“Vic, you’re not going to believe this.” Ortiz stood, pulled on her jacket. “I’ll tell you on the way. We’ve got to leave right now.”
12
The address for the SUV was in a corner of Neverpoint where faded Realtors’ signs listed small, tired-looking houses as Must Sell or with Price Reduced.
