He felt the toy in his pocket, took it out, looked it over.
This little airplane was his only hope of ever seeing Sarah and Cole.
Cordelli was right. There was no way to know how this would go, or what these bastards would do once he gave them the toy.
This toy plane was his bargaining chip-his insurance.
By the time Jeff had reached the end of the alley, he had a plan.
He had to move quickly.
At Thirty-first Street he hurried into a coffee shop that was jammed with men in suits and ties, women in blazers, people anxious to get to their jobs. The air smelled of cinnamon, bread, perfume and brewed coffee.
“Can I help whoever’s next, please!” a man at the counter called.
“Next!” a woman behind the counter called. “Can I help you?”
Jeff took his place in line with people reading BlackBerries, or folded copies of the
The staff was fast, the line moved.
“Excuse me, can I use your washroom,” Jeff asked.
“It’s occupied and it’s customers only, sir. Your order?”
“Small black coffee. With a lid.” Jeff put two dollars on the counter.
“There you go,” the clerk said, handing him the key from the returning customer.
Jeff went directly to the washroom.
It was small: one urinal, one stall and a sink. Reasonably clean. He locked the door, took stock, then looked up. He got into the stall, stood on the toilet and lifted a foam ceiling tile. In the ceiling he concealed the paper bag containing the toy plane, and empty box that had held the cell phone.
As he replaced the tile, his cell rang-the one the killers had given him.
Quickly, Jeff returned the key to the counter.
The cell phone rang a second time.
Jeff rushed to the street-“Sir, your coffee?”-and answered the cell phone on the third ring.
The robotic voice resumed.
“Listen carefully…”
22
The brakes creaked when Cordelli and Ortiz’s unmarked Impala halted outside the Central Suites Inn on West Twenty-ninth Street.
No marked NYPD units or uniforms, nothing to betray that police were racing against time. That was good. Cordelli didn’t want the suspects to know they were in pursuit.
But he remained anxious.
They saw no sign of Jeff Griffin in the street or in the lobby.
They showed ID at the front desk and the clerk led them into the office of the manager, Kim Cameron, who was on the phone contending with an erroneous order. When Cameron saw their shields and her clerk’s worried face, she ended her call and stood.
“We need your help,” Cordelli said.
“Concerning?”
“We’re pursuing a felony in progress that poses a risk to a number of people and the possible destruction of evidence. We need immediate entry to the room of your guest Jeff Griffin.”
“You need a warrant.”
“No, we don’t.”
“But, I-”
“Ma’am. We need this now! We can do it with a key, or we can have ESU lock down your hotel. I advise you not to consider obstructing us.”
“I’ll get a key.”
In the elevator, Cordelli and Ortiz tugged on blue latex gloves. Cameron took a breath, not knowing what to expect.
At 1212 she knocked and, as Cordelli had requested, asked for Jeff Griffin. No response. She opened the door.
“Please remain in the hallway and let no one enter,” Ortiz said, shutting the door.
As they inventoried the room Ortiz got a call with updates from the Real Time Crime Center.
“Vic, they’re trying to triangulate Griffin’s location now from the last call he received. They say he’s close. We’ve got unmarked units looking.”
Cordelli squatted at the clear plastic wrapping, backpack and clothing heaped in a far corner. He mentally replayed what they’d learned listening to the kidnapper’s call to Jeff on the cloned phone. Bags had been mixed up at the airport; their interest was in a toy plane.
Using his pen, he poked through the belongings on the floor.
“Juanita, we’ll need a warrant to continue processing this room and that bag for any trace to the guy he exchanged it with.”
A commotion had arisen outside the door just before it opened. Brewer and Klaver pushed past the hotel manager.
“Nice work, Vic.” Brewer entered with Klaver and took stock of the room. “You should’ve had someone here with Griffin the whole time. You fucked up. Now we’ve got a mechanic from Montana running helter-skelter in the city at the behest of murderers.”
“We’ve got the RTCC on his trail. We know he’s headed to Grand Central. We’ve alerted everyone there. Jeff could lead us to the suspects.”
“Or we get another hostage, or another homicide. Real nice work, Vic.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Brewer!” Cordelli said.
“Hey!” Klaver tried to defuse the mounting tension.
“Hold it! Vic, Larry. Hold up!” Ortiz had her phone to her ear. Her expression indicated critical information was coming in now. “An unmarked unit has a lead. Griffin was at the Big World gift store on West Thirtieth less than twenty minutes ago.”
At Grand Central Terminal, NYPD transit police and members of the counterterrorism division maintained a nonstop vigil for suspicious activity.
The most recent alert was the low-key search for Jeff Griffin.
Thousands of people streamed through the main concourse with its cathedral-like sky ceiling. Officers posted throughout the sprawling system had been equipped with photos of Jeff and studied the faces of white males fitting Jeff Griffin’s description.
Transit officers posted in small guard stations on the platforms at Grand Central’s fourteen subway tunnels kept close watch on video monitors of security cameras.
No reports of anyone matching Jeff Griffin’s description or of any suspicious incidents at Grand Central.
Cordelli and Brewer left Ortiz and Klaver at Jeff’s hotel and took Cordelli’s car to the store, a few blocks away. Two plainclothes officers had been canvassing the street with Jeff’s photo when they’d got a lead.
“Mr. Feldman and his manager, Karen Lee, are certain Griffin was here half an hour ago, maybe less,” one of the officers told Brewer and Cordelli when they’d arrived. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, he picked up a package,” Karen Lee said.
“What sort of package? What’s in it?”
The couple was silent for a moment.
