“Cross-check all the names we have. See where Echevarria practices shooting, if you can find it,” Mike said. “Maybe he’s been giving lessons to young sharpshooters. No law against that.”
“I want to check Kwan for a juvenile record,” I said.
“That’s hopeless,” Mike said. “Even if he had one, it would be sealed by now.”
“Ask Catherine to take a court order to a judge tomorrow. A friendly judge,” I said to Mercer. “Let’s see if there’s a record first, and then get it unsealed, if there is one.”
“George Kwan?” Mercer asked.
“No, no. Get Kwan’s date of birth, which is in my Wolf Savage file, but run it with the name Ko-Lin Kwan—throw in a ‘Junior’ after the name—and an address on Pell Street.”
“Ancient history,” Mike said.
“History repeats itself every now and then,” I said. “Humor me.”
Mike was adding assignments to the task force list faster than I could think.
“That kid who dumped the bicycle and ran into the Central Park Zoo,” I said.
“Henry Dibaba,” Mike said. “What about him?”
“You said his narcotics arrest was made in the Bronx. Do you know where?”
Mike pointed at Mercer. “Check it out, will you? It was near the East 180th Street station. The Dyre Avenue Shuttle.”
“I realize I’m never going to be Miss Subways, but I didn’t even know that line existed. What’s the Dyre Shuttle?”
“It’s a short run that begins where the Lexington Avenue line ends,” Mike said. “Just four or five stops farther east, into the Bronx.”
“While you’re getting us that information,” I said to Mercer, “tell me where Pedro Echevarria got locked up when he was selling drugs. That’s also in the Bronx, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It’s a big borough, Coop.”
“I’m looking for a common denominator; that’s all.”
“For what?”
“A drug-dealing zookeeper of Nigerian parents, a sheep-hunting Hispanic with a narcotics history too, and a Chinese American importer who used to run with the Ghost Shadows.”
“You’d do better looking at the United Nations than in NYPD rap sheets,” Mike said.
I reached over and grabbed a couple of Mike’s home fries.
“Finish that omelet, kid. I’ve got to get you back to the convent.”
“I’d be so much more useful running down this list of things to do with Mercer than I am just sitting in my straitjacket up there.”
“You keep behaving like you’re the fourth sister and Prescott will parole you before too long.”
We paid the bill and said good-bye to Mercer. Mike called Jimmy North to tell him that we might not make it back to Three Sisters by our noon curfew, but we were getting on the road shortly and wouldn’t be too late.
The ride up the highway was restful. It was a beautiful October afternoon, sunny and mild, and the fall foliage was putting on a great show as we got north of the city. My favorite soft rock station was playing on the radio and I was as close to relaxing as I’d been in weeks. My stomach didn’t start to knot up until we turned into the gates of the property at about one o’clock and I spotted Kate Tinsley’s car.
Tinsley walked out to greet us. “You gave me quite a fright until Jimmy called me with the news,” she said. “I got here early but there was no sign of you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “My luggage is still here. I didn’t have the early-checkout option.”
Mike walked me inside, while Tinsley went over to the main house to get herself some lunch.
Mike’s cell rang. “Chapman,” he said. Then he listened. “Let me put it on speakerphone.”
He pressed the controls and held the phone in the palm of his hand.
“You wanted a denominator, Alex,” Mercer said, “and I don’t think it’s such a common one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Henry Dibaba’s drug collar was right like Mike remembered. About two blocks away from the shuttle tracks, not far from the overpass of the Bronx River Parkway.”
“It’s pretty deserted there,” Mike said. “Once you get away from the station itself—which is pretty small—you’re kind of in the middle of nowhere. I think there’s a rail yard where they keep old trains that are out of service.”
“That’s the spot,” Mercer said. We had a good cell connection and I could hear him clearly. “The old NYW&B tracks.”
“I’ve never heard of that, either,” I said.
“The New York, Westchester and Boston Railroad,” Mercer said. He had deep knowledge of transportation history—both from his father’s interest in it and from his work at the nearby airport. “It ran from the Harlem River in the South Bronx right up to Boston. An electric commuter train.”
“They went out of business in the 1930s, didn’t they?” Mike said.
“Yes, but there are miles of abandoned track from here—like you mentioned—all the way up to Connecticut. Metro-North and the MTA store a lot of equipment there.”
“Good place to keep a stash of drugs,” I said. “An old train that isn’t going anywhere. Did Dibaba have any codefendants locked up with him? Guys we can try to turn? Maybe get the address from the girlfriend he used to live with?”
“No luck on the codefendant front,” Mercer said. “There actually was another perp on the scene with Dibaba—a lookout—who split when the cops charged after Dibaba. Got away clean.”
“Go for the girlfriend,” I said. “Take a snake with you, in case she misses Henry’s.”
“Here’s the good news,” Mercer said. “You asked me to get Pedro Echevarria’s arrest record, too.”
“Yes.”
“It goes back ten years, Alex, but Special Narcotics busted Echevarria on a decommissioned redbird that was sitting on the tracks in the rail yard—about a quarter of a mile away from where Dibaba bit the dust a decade later.”
Everybody in New York used to love redbirds—which were retired from the system in 2003, replaced by an all–stainless steel fleet. They were great-looking subway cars painted deep red, with silver roofs and black end caps—the last trains to have individual handholds overhead, instead of long bars. I remembered my first rides as a child, hanging on to my father’s hand while he reached up to steady himself with the metal grabber.
“Did you hear me?” Mercer asked.
Mike moved the phone in my direction.
“I did,” I said, distracted by visuals—thoughts of the handsome old redbirds left out in the elements to rot. I had driven past that huge rail yard hundreds and hundreds of times and looked down from the Bronx River Parkway as I rode over it, seeing it covered with hundreds of rusted trains. “I’m just thinking. Maybe they can do a reverse search. Check the location for the number of drug arrests, before I get my hopes too high. There must be scores of them there over the years—it’s such a desolate area, especially at night.”
“Good idea,” Mercer said. “I’ll get back to you.”
Mike ended the call. “I might as well stick around till he calls. I hate leaving you without a phone.”
“Just give me yours,” I said, holding out my hand. “You can pick up a new one in the city.”
“My incomings will make you jealous, babe.”
“I hardly think so, Detective.”
Mike’s cell rang again. “See? It’s a steady stream of callers.” He winked at me and answered it. “Chapman.”
Again, he listened.
“Are you sure you don’t want me?” he said. “Okay, okay. She’s right here.”
This time he passed me the phone. “It’s Catherine, for you.”
“Like I said, Detective, you’re not as universally desirable as you think.” I put the phone to my ear. “Nice of you to call.”
&nb
sp; “How are you doing?” Catherine asked.
“If I wasn’t crazy when I got here, I will be in another few days.”
“Maybe I can get your spirit powered up.”
“Try me,” I said.
“Mercer called and told me you were looking for juvie records on an Asian kid named Ko-Lin Kwan,” Catherine said.
“Look, I don’t want to burn you, but if he’s got an arrest way back when, I’d like you to make a quiet approach to the judge who likes you best, flutter your eyelashes or kick him in the balls, but I’m begging you—if something’s there—to get it unsealed.”
“I’m not sure I didn’t like it better when you were off your game this last month, Alex. You were a lot less pushy then.”
“I’m back in my badassery mode.”
“You don’t need to press me on this. It was easier than that.”
“Done?” I asked. “You’ve gotten it done on a Sunday?”
“Ko-Lin Kwan would have been sealed up for eternity if he’d come to court,” Catherine said, “and there aren’t that many judges who like me enough to have done that kind of favor on short notice. But as it happens, Ko-Lin was arrested, thirty years ago, when he was fifteen, and he decided to jump bail instead of coming to court to face the music. Who is this guy?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said. “You mean he was released at the arraignment?”
“Yeah, he was bailed out. I’ll have the court papers pulled and let you know in an hour or two by whom and for how much. Suffice it to say that he jumped bail two weeks after the arrest.”
“So it’s still an active case?”
“Wide-open,” Catherine said. “There’s a bench warrant for his arrest.”
“Seriously? What did he do?” I asked. I signaled to Mike to open the door. I had no plans to stay on here at my cottage in the woods. “What’s the underlying felony?”
“He killed a man, Alex. Murder two,” she said. “Ko-Lin Kwan stabbed a man in a robbery, on Mott Street, right behind the office.”
“You’re my guardian angel, Cath,” I said. “Keep a copy of that warrant on your desk for Lieutenant Peterson. Speak to you later.”
“What’s Peterson got to do with this?” Mike asked. “And where do you think you’re headed?”
“You can call Peterson and have him pick George Kwan up. We’ll get him remanded without bail,” I said. “Catherine found a warrant for his arrest. I think the reason young Ko-Lin fled to China all those years ago is not exactly the story he told us. It’s more likely connected to the fact that he killed a man when he was fifteen years old. Get him in a cell in the squad room today and I bet he’ll start talking to me about anything we want to know.”
I was out the door and in the front seat of Mike’s car. There was still no sign of Kate Tinsley.
“Let me tell Kate,” Mike said, “so she can let Prescott know we’re headed back to New York.”
“Tell her nothing,” I said.
Mike looked toward the main building—thinking about saying something to Kate Tinsley, I knew—but got behind the wheel instead.
“Prescott’s had a week to figure this shit out, and he’s nowhere at all—which may be just where he wants to be. We’re taking this over from him—which would have pleased Paul Battaglia beyond imagining. This is an NYPD investigation now,” I said. “Fuck the feds.”
FORTY-THREE
Peterson called back before we were halfway to the city. He had sent two detectives to the Kwan town house before we left the grounds of Three Sisters. The housekeeper let them in. There were no security guards there to stop them from gaining access this time, because George Kwan had left the house.
“Now what?” I said. “Will you take me to my apartment so we can hang out for the day? Have a little privacy?”
“That’s a firm ‘no can do,’ Coop. Too risky that someone will find out you’re there—see you coming or going.”
“What’s the lieutenant doing about Kwan?” I said. “How about an Amber Alert?”
“You know better,” Mike said. “That’s a child abduction warning system.”
“So? He’s wanted, and he was fifteen when he committed the crime.”
“Peterson turned it over to the Warrant Squad, and he’s got Port Authority Police notified at each of the airports.”
“They’re on it, then,” I said.
Mike moved to the right lane as we approached the cloverleaf intersection of two highways just south of Scarsdale.
“Don’t take me back,” I said. I figured he was going to exit and make the loop to head northbound again. “It’s such a gorgeous afternoon.”
“Kate Tinsley’s head must be spinning by now.”
“It’s only a matter of time till James Prescott calls,” I said. “I love my freedom.”
Mike put his turn blinker on anyway.
“Rats.”
“Don’t give up on me so fast, Coop.”
Mike took the exit, but instead of reversing direction, he followed the large green overhead signs to the Bronx River Parkway. “How about a walk on the tracks?”
“That works for me in the daylight.”
“I just want to get a sense of what the scene looks like. You game?”
“Always.”
The Sunday traffic slowed us down a bit, but we passed the signs for the New York Botanical Garden and the Bronx Zoo before getting off and taking the city streets.
The residential area of the South Bronx was across the highway, leading all the way east to Long Island Sound. This part was like a vast graveyard of train cars—thousands of them—that wouldn’t ever ride the rails again.
Mike drove a few blocks through deserted streets and came to a stop in front of a grand-looking building—one that looked totally out of place in this ’hood. A dozen or so people were walking in and out of it, and others were just standing beneath the entrance, which was capped by an enormous clock.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” I asked. “And why are we stopping here?”
“It’s the safest place around to leave a parked car, Coop. That’s the station for the Dyre Avenue Shuttle I was telling you about. It’s actually the old East 180th Street station, but that building was put up in the elegant old days of train travel—see the year 1912 carved into the foundation on the front?—for the NYW&B railroad that Mercer was telling you about. Got a major overhaul a few years back. It’s the only part of that system that survived.”
“It looks like an Italian villa,” I said, “plopped down here by mistake.”
There was a magnificent stone carving of a man’s head, with wings that arched out over and around the giant clock.
“That would be—?” I asked.
“Mercury. The Roman god Mercury.”
“Fleet-footed messenger,” I said.
“God of travelers and tricksters and thieves,” Mike said. “This slice of the Bronx is the perfect site for him.”
“If only I could introduce him to Diana.”
The clock told me that it was 2:25. We got out of the car and started to walk.
“Am I looking for anything? Anyone?”
“I’m curious,” Mike said. “That’s all. Two guys with drug busts right in this general area—ten years apart, but now they both show up with connections to the same case. Which seems even more significant now that we know the contraband animal parts are smuggled in as part of the drug trade. And on top of that, the rail yards back against the Bronx Zoo. I like it. I like the way it lays out for us.”
“Some trainspotting, then?”
We walked away from the station and toward the acres and acres of tracks. It was clearly a maintenance area for transit departments, but nothing I could see looked like it had been maintained.
Mike was walking pretty fast. There was a chain-link fence t
hat surrounded all the acreage of the yard. He kept pulling on sections of it, hoping to find a way to get inside. Warnings were posted everywhere—KEEP OUT; DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE, and a few that said DON’T FEED THE CATS, but the C had been crossed out on those and graffitied over with an R.
There was no sign of life inside the fencing. No humans, but the signage made me imagine there were rats everywhere.
After seven or eight minutes, we still hadn’t covered much of the territory, but Mike’s banging and shaking had attracted a security guard.
“You lose something, buddy?” the guard yelled to Mike.
“Sorry. Didn’t think anyone was home,” Mike said, taking out his badge and showing it to the man. “NYPD.”
“About what? I didn’t call the precinct,” the guy said, annoyed to be taken away from the sports pages of his Daily News.
“I know that,” Mike said. “We have an old case we’re working on. The DA here needs some photographs of one of the train cars—sort of from a while back. Just some interior shots to use for display.”
“How long you gonna be?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes. How’s that?”
“It don’t bother me. Just give a shout on your way out.” The man came toward us, unlocked one of the gates to let us in, then returned to the small wooden shed from which he’d emerged.
“Will do,” Mike said, calling after him.
The yard was still. Afternoon sunlight bounced off the silver surfaces of the sleeping trains as I trailed after Mike.
At one point, six or seven cars along the way, Mike dropped to the ground and spread out, full length. He stuck his head under the powerful machine, looked around, then got to his feet again and brushed off his hands.
“If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help,” I said.
“Nobody has to tell a real detective what to look for, Coop. You either know or you don’t.”
“Usually, I do.”
He had picked up his pace, and I was jogging to keep up with him.
“See that car I looked under?” he asked.
I glanced back over my shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Skip that model. We don’t need to bother with them.”
Deadfall Page 30
