Ted grabbed the phone from the Judge and punched in Jill’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Where’s Jackie?” Ted said. “She’s in danger.” If Jackie was at work, she was safe. The giant wouldn’t be able to reach her. Security in the lobby would never let him into an elevator.
“I thought this was her calling. Why should she be in danger?” Jill said. She sounded arch and dismissive. She did not believe him.
Ted gave her the shortest version he could devise. “The Reisners were attacked a little while ago by a professional thug. Your grandfather and I think Jackie will be on this guy’s list.”
“What have you done?” she growled in full attack mode. It was family dogma: when threatened, attack.
“Jill,” he cried, “listen to me.” He heard the click and the immediate return of the dial tone. He hit redial. Straight to voice mail. “Damn.” Jill was alone and that mad giant would walk right through her if he thought he’d find Jackie there. Ted had to get there.
He tossed the phone to the Judge, who fumbled but caught it. “See if Jackie’s here in the building. If she is, get her someplace safe.”
The Judge was still in shock. Ted didn’t have time—or the inclination—to coddle him. “Now! Make the call,” Ted ordered. The Judge gasped once and dialed.
Ted dashed out of the dining room, heading for the elevators. Jill’s apartment was thirty blocks uptown. A mile and a half. In college he ran two miles a day—four when he had to make weight. He wasn’t a track athlete. Eight-minute miles had been his norm, and he had not run a mile in ten years or more.
There were three IT staffers—easy to identify by their blue color-coded swipe cards hanging from lanyards, as well as their identical wardrobe of khaki pants and black polo shirts—waiting at the elevator banks. The doors of a car opened as Ted approached, and he barged past the techies.
“Take the next one,” he snarled. They stopped in surprise. Ted hit the button for lobby.
He stopped before stepping out onto the street. The two marshals were standing by the big SUV, ostentatiously taking up space in a well-marked no-parking zone. They towered over a brown-jacketed traffic cop who was having no trouble ignoring them while writing a ticket.
Ted saw his chance and took it. He walked out the door and cut to his left, walking fast like a New Yorker but not pushing it. The traffic was at a standstill going both downtown and up. If he could make it across the madness of Fifty-Seventh Street, the marshals would never even know he’d gone.
He darted between cars as he crossed Fifty-Sixth. One block to go. He risked a look back. A mistake. From a block away, their eyes met. The marshal saw him. She grabbed her partner by the arm and pointed. Ted ran.
As soon as he did, his body reminded him of the events of the previous night. He had pain when he needed energy. He hurt and felt winded after the first few running steps. The pedestrian light across the street was already counting down into single digits. He stumbled but kept moving.
And then he was in the street—half running, half walking. The crosswalk timer ticked down: 3, 2, 1. The red hand stopped flashing and turned solid. He pushed ahead, passing the centerline. He looked to his right. Taxis in the inside lane. A city bus in the curb lane, followed by a fire engine. The bus was already moving, easing through the last remains of the red light.
A siren sounded and for a nanosecond Ted thought it was the fire engine signaling the bus to get out of the way. He leapt the last few feet to the relative safety of the sidewalk before the realization hit. The sound had come from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and his heart soared. Rather than following him on foot, the two marshals were back in the SUV attempting to force their way through two solid lines of traffic. They still had to make a U-turn. They were obviously expecting their flashing lights and siren to have an effect on Midtown Manhattan drivers.
The light changed. The bus slid across the intersection and stopped behind a cab depositing a fare in front of the Citibank. Ted considered making a dash for the emptying cab but decided against it. It was already committed to continuing west on Fifty-Seventh and away from Jill’s apartment. Ted quickstepped across the avenue as the fire truck edged forward and stopped, blocked by the bus and in turn blocking traffic. Flashing lights two blocks south marked the location of the black SUV.
Both Fifty-Eighth and Fifty-Ninth Streets were one-way eastbound. The chances of finding an empty cab before the far corner of Sixtieth were nil. Ted could no longer run, but he pushed himself to walk as fast as he could. Pedestrian traffic thinned out on the far side of Fifty-Ninth. He made better time, but he was afraid to check his watch.
And then a miracle happened. A taxi pulled around the corner on Sixtieth and stopped to deliver a tall grey-haired man at the first apartment building. Ted sucked in a breath and made a dash, climbing into the back seat before the doorman had a chance to slam the door.
“Uptown,” Ted said, stuffing a hundred-dollar bill into the plastic tray. “I’ve got about two minutes to save a life.”
The cabbie made it ten blocks before the staggered lights caught them. Ted was, by this time, almost comfortable with Mohammed’s driving. This ride needed the Yemeni’s touch.
“Floor it, dammit!” Ted yelled. “I’ve seen Park Avenue before. Move it.”
A long limo coming down Park made a left turn at Seventy-Eighth Street and barreled through the intersection in front of them. The cab missed its rear bumper by millimeters. Ted’s driver never took his foot off the gas.
Ted twisted around to look for the black SUV’s flashing lights. Far back but coming on quickly. If the marshals were still using the siren, he couldn’t hear it.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “But don’t let up.”
They made the light—deep amber—at Seventy-Ninth and flew through the next few blocks.
“There,” Ted ordered. “The middle of the next block. Second canopy.”
Ted knew immediately that something was wrong. There was no doorman on duty. Ted was too late. “Damn. Damn. Damn,” he said in a whisper as he entered the lobby.
Ted heard a groan from the package room. Osvaldo was on the floor, looking dazed but alive.
“He’s upstairs?” Ted asked, kneeling by the man and checking him quickly for wounds. He saw none, though there was a red welt on Osvaldo’s forehead that promised to swell into a nasty bruise. “How long ago?”
“I tried to stop him and he hit me.” Osvaldo sounded surprised.
The marshals would be arriving any minute. If Ted waited for their backup, they would waste time asking questions, demanding answers, and being careful to do things by the book. Ted wasn’t going to wait. “Help is coming,” he said. “Send them after me.” He ran to the elevator.