They Disappeared

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 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.

“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.

One displayed enlarged recent photos of Jeff Griffin so everyone at the RTCC and police on the street could identify him.

It was here at the center that they were also monitoring all calls on Jeff Griffin’s personal cell phone. They could not yet locate the origin of the kidnapper’s calls because they were coming from a prepaid phone without any personal information. So far they had nothing specific on the phone being used by the suspects to contact Jeff.

One detective was processing the information Brewer had just relayed from the package of a phone identical to the one left for Jeff at the gift store.

At the same time, Renee Abbott, one of the RTCC’s top analysts, was welded to her work on Jeff Griffin’s personal phone. Thank God Jeff had left it on. The roaming signal was good.

As long as you keep it on, I can find you.

Renee, tracking Jeff’s roaming signal using satellite mapping, was able to narrow the signal location down to the block he was on. She could also determine the direction Jeff was moving. Renee could then tap into more detailed city maps to display nearby landmarks, then employ the surveillance cameras.

We’re one step behind you.

The challenge was to not let Jeff or the kidnappers know how close they were behind them. The NYPD could not use marked units with lights and sirens to block streets, not with two hostages, one a child, at risk. And Renee knew Jeff’s trail would die if Jeff switched off his personal cell phone and removed the battery.

She concentrated on the latest signal flash on her computer screen, then the data wall and geocode maps.

All right.

Her keyboard clicked.

This is it.

Renee dispatched an update to the lead detectives and plainclothes units on the street.

“Heads up. We have a new location.”