“This guy can hardly tie his shoes. How’s he going to save his son?” Emily said.

“He’s not,” I said. “We are.”

DETECTIVES RAMIREZ AND Schultz had to stay and rough it back at the yacht as Emily and I raced up the West Side Highway and then crosstown along 155th Street. Traffic wasn’t so bad, but then again, we didn’t bother stopping for any of the red lights.

Housing Police sergeant Jack Bloom from Police Service Area 4 met us at the rear of the Polo Grounds Housing Project’s most southern building.

“We patrol up here with guns drawn,” the Housing cop advised as we arrived on the roof. “There’s sexual assaults, beatings. We beg Housing to keep the roof doors locked, but they keep saying they can’t because of fire codes. Even when you’re patrolling the courtyards below, you need one eye up in case some kid wants to send you a little airmail.”

There was an incredible view of Yankee Stadium across the Harlem River. Bloom told us that the projects were built where the historic Polo Grounds baseball stadium had been located.

“Get out of here,” Emily said. “You mean the Giants-win-the-pennant, shot-heard-round-the-world Polo Grounds?”

Bloom nodded grimly.

“The only shots heard round here anymore are from the drug disputes in the stairwells.”

“Well, it’s definitely another hellhole like the other two locations,” I said to Emily. “So maybe it is our guy, after all.”

Twenty minutes later, we were radioed that Gordon Hastings was present and accounted for, waiting with the money in a town car half a block west on 155th. I checked my watch. It was four thirty. Fifteen minutes to contact.

Everything that could be set up was ready to go. Though not actually in the air, Aviation was waiting in Highbridge Park a little farther uptown. A Harbor Unit boat was on standby as well a little ways south down the Harlem River, in case anything was thrown into the water.

Two ESU surveillance teams and a contingent of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team were getting in place inside several apartments surrounding the development’s south playground. Over the radio, I could hear them aligning frequencies with one another.

If our guy was dumb enough to show up, we would bag him. I truly hoped he was.

I let out a tight, tense breath as I stared down at the project yards. For the first time, we had something the kidnapper wanted. We had to bet our only chip very carefully now.

Five minutes later, Emily called me over to the roof wall.

“Mike, check it out.”

Down on the plaza beside the playground, some young black men in traditional African garb were setting up instruments. A moment later, a rhythmic drumming filled the courtyard.

“Nice beat,” I said. “You want to African dance?”

“No, idiot,” Emily said. “That’s us. They’re from the New York office’s Special Surveillance group.”

“No way,” I said, laughing.

Emily nodded.

“The guy in the green buba and gbarie pants is the SAC for the White Collar Squad. What time do you have?”

“T minus ten minutes,” I said, wiping sweat off my face.

THE WIND AND my heart rate both picked up as Hastings finally exited his car on Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. I tracked the harried-looking father through the stark cement courtyard with a pair of high-power Nikon binoculars.

“Be advised,” crackled the voice of a member of one of the surveillance teams over the radio. “Male black in a brown leather jacket is approaching from the south.”

Agent Parker and I scurried over to the southeast corner of the roof. Directly below our vantage point, a young, bald black man wearing sunglasses was moving through the southern parking lot, making a beeline for Hastings.

He called out as Hastings was entering the courtyard’s amphitheater. I turned up the other radio, which was tuned to Hastings ’s body mic.

“Over here,” the man was saying.

Hastings stopped. He stood, breathing loudly, both hands now clutching the suitcase as the man approached.

“Where is Danny?” he said. “Where’s my son?”

Ignoring him, the man took an already opened cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Hastings.

Even without the binoculars, I probably could have detected the happiness that flashed across the father’s face a second later.

“Oh, Danny!” he said, beginning to cry. “It’s you! My God, I thought you were dead. Are you all right? Are you in pain?”

I felt a short jolt of relief as I exchanged a surprised look with Emily. Our abductor had slaughtered his first two victims pretty much outright. The fact that Dan Hastings still seemed to be alive was a very welcome sudden change of MO.

“I’m going to get you back now, Danny,” the mogul said. “I’m going to do what they say. You’re going to make it back home to me. I-”

The mogul’s joyful expression fled as suddenly as it had appeared. The kidnapper must have gotten on the line. It was extremely frustrating not being able to hear both sides of the conversation.

“Yes, of course I have the money,” Hastings said. “But you won’t get one penny until my son is released.”

We watched helplessly as Hastings listened to something the kidnapper was saying.

“Look where? At the phone?” Hastings finally said.

The mogul lifted the phone off his ear and looked at its screen.

What was happening now? Was he being shown a picture? A live video feed?

“Does anyone have a view of the phone? What’s he looking at?” I called into the surveillance radio.

“It’s someone in a wheelchair maybe,” one of the HRT snipers cut in. “I can barely make it out.”

“Okay, okay, good,” Hastings said finally. He pushed the money at the man with the phone.

Whatever Hastings had seen had obviously convinced him that they were releasing his son. I wasn’t there yet.

“Take it now. It’s all there. It’s yours,” Hastings said. “I’ve done what you said. Now let Danny go.”

THE BLACK MAN was kneeling, zipping open the case to check the money, when Emily and I broke into a sprint toward the roof door. We needed to get down to the street to follow the money now. It was the only thing that would lead us to Hastings ’s son.

“He’s on the move to the south, heading toward Bradhurst,” came a voice over the radio as we hit the courtyard two minutes later.

“I’ll follow on foot,” I called to Emily as I spotted the tall youth moving south across the project yard. “Follow in the car. Stay at least two blocks behind me. The trunk of the Fed car has more antennas than a goddamn cell site. We don’t want to spook him.”

Emily booked away as I tailed the man. I hung back as far as I could. He wasn’t moving particularly fast. He didn’t look over his shoulder or seem concerned in any way about whether anyone was following him. I wondered if he was being coy or if he was just stupid. I was leaning toward the latter.

As I followed, I stayed in contact with the roving multi-layered surveillance detail we had set up. The topography of that little corner of East Harlem was hell on surveillance. Not only did we have the river, the Harlem River Drive, and a close subway to contend with, but the projects themselves were separated from the rest of Harlem by a high, stone bluff. There were lots of alleys, one-way streets, and dead ends, plenty of places to duck into to try to shake us.

It was cat-and-mouse time, and frankly, I wasn’t exactly sure who was going to come out on top.

I was surprised when the man made a hard right out of the complex and headed under the raised roadway of 155th Street past a ROAD CLOSED sign. I noticed some cars parked at the dead end of the short street. Would he hop into one of them?

Instead, he made another right at the face of the dead end’s stone bluff and turned toward a set of ascending stairs I hadn’t seen. I shook my head when I reached them and saw how incredibly steep they were.