The video revealed that after the man entered the elevator, he reached out to press one of the floor’s buttons before the doors closed and the two of them were gone.
“Back it up.”
She did.
“Pause it.”
The image froze.
I pointed. “There. Which button is he pressing? Which floor?”
“Hang on.” Marianne slid the cursor, zoomed in, then cursed. “I can’t tell. The angle is wrong.”
“Download that to my phone.”
She connected my cell to her system, tapped at her keyboard, then seconds later handed back the phone, the image frozen on the screen.
“He might have changed clothes, but circulate this image to security,” I said. “Let’s see if we can get an ID. And call every room, leave a recorded message that security’s looking for a missing wheelchair. Let’s see who tries to sneak away. And no one leaves this hotel.” I started for the door. “Where’s the service elevator he used?”
“Take a left out the door, at the end of the hall go through housekeeping. The elevator will be on your right.”
Doehring and I took off.
Everything had been arranged.
Mollie was not going to be a problem for them.
Astrid glanced at her watch.
“We need to move,” she said to Brad, who was taking care of the room.
“Almost done.”
We made it to the elevators.
I studied the video on my phone, the height of the man’s hand in relationship to the floor numbers… the angle of the camera in the hall… then I stood in the same place he had, raised my hand to the same level as his, and played the video again.
It was possible the suspect pressed a second button after the elevator doors closed, but we had to start somewhere.
Doehring and I scrutinized the video. “What do you think?” I said. “Floor eight or nine?”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell.”
“Send security to both floors, sweep the rooms. You take nine. I’ll get eight.” I sprinted for the stairwell at the end of the hall.
Astrid and Brad were just about to leave the room when the phone rang.
Both of them stared at it.
Another ring.
Then, ever so faintly, they heard simultaneously ringing phones in the adjoining rooms.
“They know,” Brad said. “Somehow they know.”
She shook her head. “That’s impossible. You took care of the cameras, right?”
“Yes.”
But as the phones continued to ring, Astrid felt, for the first time since they’d started their games, a small nervous twitch of anxiety. She hesitated for a moment, then, with a gloved hand, picked up the room phone, listened to the message. Hung it up. “We need to leave.”
Brad said nothing, went to the door, peered out the peephole, then eased the door open a crack. Checked the hallway. “It’s clear.”
She picked up the laptop.
“Careful,” he said. “You don’t want to-”
“Drop it. I know.” She nodded toward the door, where their things were sitting. “Get those.”
He did.
They slipped into the hall.
Eighth floor.
Legs screaming from the sprint up the stairs.
My. 357 SIG P229 in hand, I threw open the door to the hallway.
Two maids, a few kids in swimming suits running down the hall to their room, a bellhop pulling a luggage cart, two security personnel knocking on doors.
They’d gotten here fast. Good.
Good.
No sign of the suspect.
I flashed my creds. “Anything?” I called to the guards.
“No,” one of them replied.
“No one leaves this floor. Understand?”
“Got it.”
I bolted down the hallway, then to an adjacent hall to the east.
And as I flared around the corner, I saw a man pause at the door to the stairwell at the far end of the hallway about thirty-five meters from me. He wore the same clothes as the man who’d been caught on the security video pushing the wheelchair.
“Stop,” I shouted, “FBI!”
He glanced over his shoulder, his face shadowed by the cap. He reached toward his belt.
A gun.
He’s going for a gun!
I leveled my SIG. “Hands to the side!”
He hesitated.
“Now!”
But a door opened between us, and an elderly couple left their room. “Get down!” I yelled.
They were terrified and hesitated. The man by the stairwell door ducked through and disappeared.
“Get back in your room!” I shouted to the couple, and I raced down the hallway even as I yanked out my cell, called Doehring. “Get someone to the southeast stairwell. First floor. Now!”
Past the terrified couple.
Seconds ticked.
Ticked.
To the stairwell door.
Readied myself.
Threw it open.
Footsteps below me.
Weapon ready, I swung around the corner, scanned the area, and saw someone rounding the stairwell far below me. “Stop!”
I tried to tell if there were two sets of footsteps or just one.
Two, I thought, but I couldn’t be sure.
One suspect or two?
Advice from my training: Always assume the greater threat.
Two.
Quickly I checked the landing above me for any accomplices.
No one.
Then I flew down the stairs, taking them three at a time.
Astrid and Brad had made it to the first floor.
Brad had his Walther P99 in one hand and cautiously pushed the door open with the other.
No cops.
Two doors before her. She pointed to the underground parking garage sign, just ahead on the left.
“Wait,” Brad said. His eyes were on the oversized freight elevator. “I have an idea.”
Ground level.
I burst through the door.
No one.
But the doors of a freight elevator at the end of the hall were closing. “Stop!”
I rushed forward, my heart hammering from my sprint up, then down eight flights of stairs.
And from adrenaline.
And from the hunt.
By the time I arrived, the doors had closed. I pressed the up button. Steadied myself. Leveled my gun.
They slid open.
Empty.
I raced to the parking garage.
Scanned the stretch of concrete and cars.
And saw a latex glove on the ground about five meters away, directly to my right.