A shadow moved near the top of the rounded third-floor window.
Ozan circled the crowd that had gathered around the fallen man, intent on the shadow high above him. Tesla was up there. It had to be Tesla. He had seen Ozan kill the tennis player. He knew what would happen to him.
It was Tesla. Certainty coursed through Ozan. He’d been a hunter long enough to recognize prey. And this prey would be terrified and running. He had to go after him.
The yellow dog streaked past. He wriggled between the legs of a man with dreadlocks and a knit cap in the doorway and disappeared inside the building.
Ozan ran after him. The dog must have sensed the danger that his master faced and had gone to protect him. He would lead Ozan straight to the man himself.
The hunt was on.
Chapter 20
Joe ran straight across the tennis court, taking a ball to the shoulder. The players cursed, but he didn’t slow down. He had to get to Edison before the man in the dark parka did. He could not bear to lose the dog.
And he’d lost Brandon. The young man was dead, and it was Joe’s fault. He’d sent him out with Edison, wearing a Pellucid cap. Stupid. There was a killer searching for Joe, and he’d inadvertently used the kid as bait.
He might as well have stabbed Brandon himself.
Joe slammed open the door to the locker room, vaulted the bench, and hit the other side of the room in just a few strides. A naked man coming out of the showers leaped out of his way.
Then Joe was in the reception area, running for the stairs. He had no idea of what he would do, but he’d try anything to keep Edison safe. He ran hard, knocking people out of his way. Where were all the cops he’d had to avoid earlier?
He jumped the last three steps, sliding on the marble floor when he landed. Everywhere, people. Rush hour was over, but they still filled the giant room, talking, walking, getting in his way.
A bark! Edison shot into the hall like a furry cannonball, running full tilt across the polished floor toward him. A beautiful sight.
Yards behind the dog, the man in the dark parka slipped through the crowd like a shark. The killer was almost upon him.
“Edison,” Joe called. “Heel!”
The dog altered his trajectory toward the sound of Joe’s voice. As did the killer. Edison gained ground on him, running pell-mell between people’s legs.
They weren’t safe here. Neither was anyone else who got in that man’s way. Joe had to draw the guy away from the crowd.
Joe ran toward the passage to the Hyatt, searching for cops. None. Earlier, he couldn’t have swung a dead cat without hitting one. Now, nothing.
He whistled. Edison changed course again. The killer, too.
Joe burst into the lobby at a dead run, Edison beside him. He pelted past the front desk. Someone called his name, but he didn’t look to see. Whoever it was, they would soon be chasing him, too.
Joe slammed open the door to the employee-only section of the hotel — simple walls, no decoration. He and Edison skidded around a corner and down a dingy hall. His goal lay just ahead. He hoped that he was aiming for more than a rumor.
He reached the corner of the building. On the other side of the wall was Park Avenue, the street that split in two to go around Grand Central Terminal.
Behind him, the door crashed open. Someone else had entered the hall. Joe wasn’t lucky enough for it to be a Hyatt employee. It had to be the killer.
Edison barked threateningly, backing up his guess.
“We’re in this together, boy.” Joe was breathing so hard that he could barely get the words out. That sprint had cost him, but he had no time to be tired right now.
He yanked open a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, entering a small, dark room full of service carts. So far, so good.
With one hand, he pushed a cart to the side so that there was room for him and Edison. Once inside, he closed the door and latched the flimsy bolt from the inside. That’d keep the killer occupied for about a nanosecond.
He moved another cart, then the next, pushing them against the door while he headed toward the back corner. The combined weight of the carts might slow the bastard down. Not much, but maybe enough.
When he got to the corner, he made out the contours of a wooden hatch built into the floor. His spirits rose. He’d worried that the existence of this hatch was a hotel urban legend, or that he’d come to the wrong room, and that he and Edison would be trapped in here.
He lifted the iron ring in the center, and the hatch creaked open. A dark hole yawned in the floor. A thud against the door told him that the killer was right outside. The bolt wouldn’t hold against him for long.
Hoping for a miracle, Joe climbed into the hole. With no hesitation, Edison ran next to him. He loved that dog.
Light from the open hatch gave him enough illumination to see metal pipes, now covered in rust. Those were old steam pipes that had once heated a building that stood on this site long before the modern hotel was built in its place. He looked up at the bottom of the hatch to see if there was any way to lock it from this side. There wasn’t.
He glanced around the room, finding a door on the other side. He closed the hatch, plunging the room into darkness. He jerked his flashlight out of his pocket.
During his stay at the Hyatt, he’d learned of this room from a bored security guard, and had hoped that it hadn’t been filled in or locked off. He’d been lucky so far. He reached a door and shone the light across its rusty surface, searching for the handle. He found it and tried to turn it. Locked.
Above him, carts rattled and smashed. The killer was up there.
Joe stuck his flashlight in his mouth and fumbled with his keys. The Gallo ancestor had specified that he have access to the steam tunnels. Joe hoped that his reach extended to this set of tunnels, this particular door.
He jumbled through the keys, one after the other, hoping for a clue. A metal tab next to a skeleton key had the word Steam embossed on it in Gothic lettering. Joe pushed the key into the lock. With a little wriggling, the rusty tumblers turned.
Joe lunged through, Edison on his heels.
He closed the door and worked the key in the lock as fast as he could. Anyone could pick such a simple lock. Joe grabbed duct tape from his backpack and tore off two strips. Using his teeth, he ripped off a tiny corner and rolled it into a ball small enough to jam into the lock, sticky side in. Then, he stuck that to a second piece. He pushed the tiny ball into the lock and secured it on his side with the strip of duct tape. The man inside would have to fish it out before he could pick the lock, and he might waste time trying to pick the lock before he figured it out.
Or he might just kick it down.
Joe sprinted down the steam tunnel. The guy who was after him would get through the door eventually, and he and Edison needed to be far away when that happened.
Cold, rusty pipes flashed by on both sides. All these pipes must be out of commission, or else he’d have been burning up down here.
He dashed through another door, another tunnel, and another. It was like a rabbit warren down here, and he didn’t see how the killer could find him. Lost, and out of breath, he stopped running.
He’d have to hike until he found a landmark, or met a friendly policeman to ask directions. He sighed. Maybe not that last one.
Edison gave him an apologetic look and peed on the wall. Poor thing, he hadn’t had his walk. “It’s OK,” he told him. “You’re a good dog.”