“There’s no time, Cordelli!”
As Jeff headed for the door, the hotel phone rang. Jeff got it.
“Mr. Griffin, Russ Powell from the
“I can’t talk right now.”
Jeff hung up, slid the phone in his shirt pocket and rushed to the elevator. As he jabbed the down button, his heavy breathing filled the hall. The elevator car was empty. On the way down, he looked at the plane.
It was a 747 jumbo jetliner, made of hard plastic a couple of inches long. He activated the lights and jet engine sound. He rolled the wheels in the palm of his hand. It had no markings, other than a Made in China sticker on the bottom of the battery compartment.
This was his key to getting Sarah and Cole back.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.
Jeff shoved the toy into his jeans pocket.
The doors opened to four people, each with a large suitcase-a man and a woman, both older than Jeff, a teenage boy and teenage girl. The girl was squatting, fussing with her bag’s contents.
“Come on, Ashley, hurry up!” the woman said.
The dad reached in to hold the elevator doors.
“It’s stuck! The zipper’s stuck,” the girl complained as time slipped by.
Without a word, Jeff stepped around them and headed down the hall to the stairs, rushing to the lobby within a minute.
Outside he surveyed the street for any sign of the kidnappers, Cordelli, the NYPD or the press.
Nothing.
Using his map he checked his bearings.
As horns and traffic noise rose from the city around him, Jeff set out for Grand Central.
21
Grand Central was a thirty-minute walk from Jeff’s hotel.
Jeff ran.
He darted through traffic and weaved around work-bound New Yorkers. He would not take a cab. The caller had been explicit that he travel by foot. Jeff had gotten as far as West Twenty-ninth Street and Broadway when his cell phone rang. The robotic voice gave him further instructions.
“Go to Big World Gifts on West Thirtieth Street, in the forties. The clerk is holding a purchase to be picked up by ‘Jeff.’ Give him twenty dollars. Take the package, open it and continue to Grand Central!”
“Let me speak to my wife!”
The line went dead.
Jeff hurried around the next block.
He was on West Thirtieth and moving fast when his cell phone rang.
“It’s Cordelli, are you at your hotel?”
“I can’t talk right now.”
“Tell me where you are. I’m sending an unmarked. We have to set up!”
“I’ve got to do what they say.”
“Jeff! You don’t know how this is going to go!”
“I can’t talk!”
Rushing down Thirtieth, Jeff scanned the storefronts: the jewelry stores, import-export outlets, the vans and large delivery trucks being unloaded. He pinballed among sweating workers, expertly wheeling dolly carts laden with boxes.
He was in the high thirties when he came to a busy sidewalk display of new luggage at Discount Prices! and tables overflowing with towers of Cheap T-shirts! The store’s window was curtained with a spectrum of novelty T- shirts on hangers, along with a placard that said Jewelry, Electronics, Cell Phones, Coffee, Snacks.
The sign over the narrow storefront: Big World Gifts. It was in a three-story building, rust-stained brick, open steel-grated fire escape. The upper level windows were sealed with plywood.
A wave of stale air hit him when he entered.
The place was cramped, cluttered. A balding man in his seventies, wearing a white shirt, loosened tie and unbuttoned vest, bifocals, was leaning over a newspaper on the counter case. A small Asian woman standing beside him was tapping the keys of a calculator. Other customers entered behind Jeff. He dug out his cash quickly.
“I’m here to pick up a purchase for Jeff?”
The man eyed Jeff, the cash, Jeff again, then turned to a messy storage unit and got a small box with a picture of the Empire State Building on it.
Jeff handed the man a twenty and took the box.
“Who gave this to you?”
“A very polite gentleman came in this morning and took care of it. He said Jeff would pay a little something for holding it and pick it up for his son.”
“Do you know this man? Have you seen him before?”
“No.” The old man nodded to the box. “It’s good to go, all set.”
“What do you mean? What’s good to go?”
“I don’t know. Sir, please.” The clerk indicated the other customers behind Jeff; a woman crossed her arms and jingled her keys.
Then it struck Jeff that the kidnappers may have handled the box.
“May I get a bag, please?” he asked.
“Sir, you have a box.”
“Please.” Jeff put a dollar on the counter.
The old man sighed, reached for a paper bag and slid the box into it.
Jeff returned to the street, found an alcove to examine the item. Before he could open it, it started ringing. Carefully holding the box by its edges, he saw a cell phone inside, nothing more. He tried to be as prudent with the phone but it was impossible.
The ringing underscored the urgency.
He handled the phone normally.
The number was blocked.
Jeff answered.
The robotic voice resumed.
“Police cannot track this phone.”
“Please, release my family!”
“Throw your other phone away!”
Jeff scanned the street, trying to see if he could spot the caller. He pulled his personal phone from his pocket, took the few steps to the nearest sidewalk trash can and dropped his hand into it.
“All right, I tossed it,” he lied, palming his phone. “Let me speak to my wife!”
“There’s a new plan. A change in direction. You are not going to Grand Central. To the right of the Big World store there is an alley. Take it to West Thirty-first Street.” The caller hung up.
The darkened, cool alley reeked of urine and the odor of a dead cat. Moving along the Dumpsters and bags of neglected trash, Jeff searched for options. He didn’t find many. His personal phone was his lifeline to Cordelli. He hadn’t thrown it away and he would not lose it.
