She nodded.
Quinn stood up and grabbed the folder with the pictures off the dresser. “Next time someone asks you to do an errand like this, I’d advise you to say no.”
“WHERE ARE YOU?” QUINN ASKED, HIS PHONE tight to his ear.
He and Nate were on Lexington Avenue walking toward the side entrance to Grand Central Terminal.
“Still in the cab,” Wills said. “The traffic is miserable, but I should be there in ten minutes.”
“No,” Quinn said. “The Hyatt is off.”
“Problem?”
Quinn gave him the short version of what happened.
“Give me the phone number she was supposed to call,” Wills said. “I’ll have someone check it out.”
Quinn pulled out the hair clip, read the number to him, then said, “If he hasn’t left already, get your man out of there.”
“Right.” Wills paused. “I still want to meet.”
“Give me an hour. I’ll call back with a new location.” Quinn hung up.
“I think we’re clean so far,” Nate told him. He’d been keeping tabs to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Stay on the street or take the subway?”
“Subway,” Quinn said. If they had picked up a tail, whomever it was would be easier to spot below ground than above.
Once inside they made their way through the labyrinth of Grand Central Terminal to the subway, then chose the uptown 4 train. As they stepped onto the platform, a train was just pulling in.
Nate raised an eyebrow, asking whether they should take it or wait for the next.
“This one,” Quinn said. “We’ll go two stops and get off.”
They spent the next forty minutes hopping trains, changing lines, and checking their back trail to make sure they were alone. When Quinn was satisfied, they resurfaced at 110th Street and began walking west.
At Columbus they turned south, walked on for a block, then stopped. Quinn scanned the neighborhood.
He pulled out his phone and called the Grand Hyatt first.
“Grand Hyatt Hotel, how may I direct your call?”
“I’m in 2465, and there’s a terrible smell coming from next door, room 2467. Can you send someone up to check it out?”
“Absolutely, sir. We’ll get someone up there right away.”
Quinn clicked off, then called Wills. “There’s a restaurant on Columbus,” he said, randomly choosing a place on the opposite side of the street. “It’s called Crepes on Columbus, just south of 109th. Be there in thirty minutes.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
• • •
As Quinn and Nate entered the restaurant, a tall man with dark hair lightly sprinkled with gray greeted them with a warm welcome and a large smile.
“Just the two of you?” he asked.
“Three,” Quinn said. “A friend will be here in a bit.”
The man started to lead them toward a table near the front, but Quinn stopped him.
“How about that one,” he said, pointing at one near the rear wall.
“Sure,” the man said. “Wherever you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
The man showed Quinn and Nate to the table, then handed them menus. “Can I bring you anything to drink?”
“Water,” Quinn said.
“Me too,” Nate said.
“You got it,” the man said. “My name’s Steve. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said.
Twenty minutes later, as Quinn was working his way through a tiger shrimp and spinach crepe, the restaurant door opened.
“Is it him?” Nate asked, his eyes on his own plate.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
