by Rick Mofina
Concentrate.
Cole had dumped the bag’s contents on his bed. A vague memory of him playing with a toy surfaced, then Jeff recalled Cole telling Hans Beck about the airplane.
Maybe it fell out, got misplaced.
Immediately Jeff sifted through Cole’s clothes but found nothing. He ran his hands swiftly over the bedspread. Nothing. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed, no sign of a plane.
What if I can’t find it?
He pressed his face to the room’s carpet and inspected the area around the bed, the dresser, the desk, then saw the curtains.
The curtains! Cole was playing near the window behind the curtains!
As Jeff searched the area on the floor, the interior windowsill, his cell rang. He kept searching. As he moved to the area behind the chairs and table near the window he heard a slight rattle coming from the curtains.
The cell phone rang a second time.
I’m losing time!
Jeff ran his hands along the hem of the curtains, pockets formed at the bottom of the folds. Suddenly, miraculously, he felt something hard in one of them and inserted his fingers, feeling a plastic casing.
Got it!
He retrieved the toy plane Cole had been playing with, then answered his cell phone.
“Jeff, this is Cordelli.”
“Did you guys get that call? They’re alive! I’m going to get them back!”
“We got it but I need you to listen to me!”
“Did you get a name on the phone? Was it Hans Beck?”
“No. They’re using an untraceable cell phone, a throwaway. Listen. Don’t move. We’re scrambling to set up.”
“Christ, didn’t you hear them? No police, they’ll kill Sarah and Cole!”
“Jeff, we can’t take any risks. We don’t know who we’re dealing with or what they might do.”
“Yes, we do! They’ve already killed two people!”
“Don’t go anywhere, don’t give anyone anything. Wait for us to come to you!”
“No, I’m going now and I’m going alone!”
“Jeff, wait! Listen to me, there are things we can do that no one will see. We can put plainclothes people on the trains. We can stop the trains if we have to.”
“No! They said no police. Cordelli, they already killed two people. I’m not going to risk my family’s life!”
“Jeff, you’re not thinking this through. We’ve got people rolling to positions now. Wait in the hotel lobby. Don’t move!”
“There’s no time, Cordelli!”
As Jeff headed for the door, the hotel phone rang. Jeff got it.
“Mr. Griffin, Russ Powell from the Times. I think we got cut off. What just happened there? Did you get a call from your wife?”
“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.
CHAPTER 21
Manhattan, New York City
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.
Big World, Big World, where is it?
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.
There it is!
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.
They’d leave fingerprints.
“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.
He felt the toy in his pocket, took it out, looked it over.
Why is this so important? Who would go to such extremes over a toy?
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 Daily News or New York Times.
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…”
CHAPTER 22
Manhattan, New York City
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.
What the hell could it be?
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 stre
et 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.
“Like this.” Karen Lee showed the detectives a box containing a souvenir of the Empire State Building.
“Is that it?” Brewer and Cordelli sensed they were not being told everything. “You know, this case is very serious. We need the truth or anyone connected in any way could be in a lot of trouble.”
Feldman removed his glasses, ran a hand over his moist brow.
“Earlier this morning, a man came in and paid cash for a prepaid phone, like this one.” The man pointed to a packaged phone. “The man set it up and said Jeff would be in to pick it up. That’s it.”
Brewer took the package of the phone. He took a photo of it. “Are you sure it was just like this one?” Brewer pressed the man.
“Yes.”
Brewer emailed the photo from his phone, then made a call to request analysts contact the cell phone company to see if any phones of this model had been recently activated in their location. Brewer provided the bar code and other information.
Cordelli continued questioning the couple.
“Do you know the man who bought the phone for Jeff? Is he a regular? Has he ever paid for anything with a credit card?” Cordelli then glanced at the security camera above them.
“No. We’ve never seen him before,” the man said.
“Will you volunteer your surveillance tapes?”
“Of course, we want to cooperate, right, Karen?”
“For sure we will help police, for sure.”
* * *
At that moment in downtown Manhattan, near the Brooklyn Bridge and city hall, detectives and analysts assigned to the case were going all-out at the NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center.
In a softly lit, windowless room on a midlevel floor of One Police Plaza, they were using every high-tech resource they had to pinpoint Jeff Griffin’s location. They worked at rows of computer stations and screens before a massive two-story array of flat video panels, known as the data wall.