“I’d like to do dinner,” I said. “Anytime. But on my own terms, not because I’ve been exiled.”
“Understood.”
“You hear from anyone this morning?” I asked, as Mercer drove through the quiet streets of Douglaston, a section of Queens known for its upscale suburban feel, despite its New York City address. The homes were good-looking and spacious, many of them set on large pieces of land.
“No calls. And there aren’t any news reports of bodies found.”
“We’re meeting Mike at Grand Central?”
“Eight o’clock.”
We were both pretty quiet on the ride in. I e-mailed messages to my team at the office, since it was unlikely I would see them today, depending on how things went at the terminal. It was summer Friday hours, and many of them would take off early for weekends in the Hamptons or on the Jersey Shore.
“Calls about the victim on the private train should start coming in,” I said. I was surfing the Internet for stories about the murder and saw that her photograph had been released late last night with an announcement by Scully.
The New York Post led with the banner headline TERMINAL! above a grainy shot of the murdered girl, and a caption described her last train ride through the century-old landmark as a FAST TRACK TO DEATH.
“Rocco’s ready.”
The highway traffic was relatively light until we reached the Triborough Bridge. Mercer navigated the lanes and made his way to the 42nd Street exit on the FDR without using lights and sirens, which was always my temptation when with him.
We reached Don Ledger’s office within the terminal at eight fifteen and found him and Mike waiting for us. Muscling through the crowd of commuters to get to him seemed more dangerous than battling traffic on the city streets.
“I’ve got permission to take you down to the subbasement,” Ledger said, after we finished the coffee he offered us.
“Is that a big deal?” I asked.
“Very big, Ms. Cooper. And not a bad place to start if you want to wreak some havoc here.”
“How could someone get in if it’s so mysterious?” Mike asked.
“Like I said, this room doesn’t exist on any blueprint of Grand Central. If I wanted to hide, it’s the perfect spot to be.”
“But off-limits to the public.”
“Course it is. My boss tells me the man you’re looking for seems to know his way around Terminal City. And I’m telling you that in the one hundred years since this place was built, no one knows where all the holes in this building are today. Or all the keys.”
“Let’s get moving,” Mike said.
The four of us began our march out of Ledger’s office and onto the main concourse. He weaved his way through the masses to the western staircase and down to the lower level, then gathered us around him at the bottom.
“We’re going to M42, the deepest basement in New York City.”
“M42?” I asked.
“Shorthand for the main substation under 42nd Street.”
“You mean that’s not where Lex Luthor’s lair is?” Mike said. In the 1978 movie version of Superman, the villain lived in an elegant apartment deep in the bowels of Grand Central.
“No, sir. But this one is totally off the charts, and if you wanted to bring New York City to a standstill, you’d head right for this spot in the terminal.”
We walked another three minutes to get to a deserted corridor, stopping in front of a narrow elevator door that looked too obsolete to move. Don Ledger had a chain that dangled from his belt, packed with twenty-five or thirty keys. He shuffled them to find the right one for the unmarked elevator.
There was only one button to press, and the descent was slow.
“How deep are we going?” I asked.
“Terminal City was blasted into the bedrock of Manhattan, but nothing goes farther down than this. Not the basement of the old World Trade Center, not the bullion vaults at the Federal Reserve Bank. We’re going more than ten stories under the train tracks.”
“Kind of like the water tunnel that’s being built across town,” I said, recalling the treacherous time that the three of us spent with the city’s sandhogs. I swallowed hard to clear the blockage in my ears.
“Does anyone work down here?” Mercer asked.
“Just a small crew. The original equipment has been updated, so it pretty much runs by itself.”
The doors creaked apart, and we stepped off onto a small platform to begin our hike, one by one, down a winding steel staircase. Ledger reminded us to watch our step. I held on to the railing, needing no reminder.
Three flights down, he opened a heavy door, and we were all inside M42, a concrete bunker that I guessed was at least the same size as the main concourse above us—eighty thousand square feet.
The room was sealed closed like a giant burial vault, airless and oppressive.
“You all right, Coop?” Mike asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“It’s so hot down here I can barely breathe,” I said, fanning myself with my notepad. “What’s that buzzing noise?”
“So this is the room that powers Grand Central Terminal,” Ledger said. He led us into the center of several rows of massive machines. The ones to my left looked a century old, and the ones to my right seemed much more modern.
“The noise, Ms. Cooper, comes from these rows of transformers.” Ledger was pointing to the new machines, which emitted a loud monotonous humming sound. “What transformers do is convert alternating current—you know, AC?—into direct current—DC.”
I nodded my head, although the subject had been beyond my grasp since high school.
“Most power is delivered in AC, which moves back and forth, while DC is always going in one direction. So it’s a much more efficient way to run trains.”
“I think I understand,” I said to Ledger, before turning to whisper to Mercer. “At least I understand well enough that I want to get out of this hotbox. I’m suffocating.”
He wiped his brow with his handkerchief and then handed it to me. “Be patient.”
“What happens if you stop these machines?” Mike asked.
“You bring to a halt every train going in and out of the terminal. Five hundred and thirty-eight of them a day.”
“Back-up generator?”
“Not a chance, Detective. There is no way to power up this operation if all this stops.”
“What are those antiques?” Mike asked, pointing to the older equipment and walking away from us, between the machines.
“The original rotary converters.”
Each one was the size of a small building, cylindrical in shape with a rust-colored coating on top of both. We followed Mike in between the machines, our footsteps falling like leaden weights on the concrete floor, echoing throughout the room.
“So this is what Hitler was looking for,” he said, patting the side of one of the silent giants. The machine dwarfed him. That seemed to be the scale of everything in the terminal.
“You know that story?” Ledger asked.
“Mike,” I said, “it’s way too hot in here. Let’s get out.”
He waved me off, walking away to the far side of the converter.
“What about Hitler?” Mercer asked.
“He wanted to disable the rail service along this route,” Mike said. “He figured he could disrupt troop movements for all the Eastern Seaboard embarkations by bringing the trains to a complete standstill.”
“Grand Central Terminal,” Mercer said. “One-stop shopping.”
He was as fascinated with the giant converters as Mike was.
Don Ledger pointed over at the door through which we had entered. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “If anyone unauthorized, so much as peeked through that entrance during World War Two, the orders were to shoot on sight. There were armed soldiers on duty here around the clock.”
I heard footsteps across the room, or thought I did. “What’s that noise?”
“One of the workmen, I as
sume,” Ledger said.
“Why would they have shot at anyone coming in?” Mercer asked.
“All it would have taken to disable that sucker was a bucket of sand thrown at it. The converter would have come to an immediate stop—they’re very fragile devices, despite their size—which would have brought the trains to a halt. So the orders were not even to let anyone explain the purpose of their visit but simply for the soldiers to take aim and shoot.”
“Did you hear that?” I was looking over my shoulder and then kneeled to peer under the converter, but I couldn’t see anyone.
“What Mr. Ledger just said?” Mercer asked.
“No. There’s someone walking on the far side of the room.”
“You’re so jumpy, Alex. People work in here, girl.”
“Saboteurs,” Mike said, paying me no mind. “They almost made it, didn’t they?”
“Came pretty damn close, too close for my taste,” Ledger said.
“Pay attention, Coop. This is stuff you ought to know.”
“I’m riveted, Mike.” I rolled my eyes at him, then kept looking back to see why the footsteps had died off and why this workman didn’t show himself to us.
“In 1942, a German sub landed four spies on the beach in Amagansett. They were actually intercepted by a young coast guard officer who saw them and questioned what they were up to. One of them, who spoke good English, told him they were fishermen. He didn’t buy the story, but he was unarmed, so he let them go.”
“I had no idea any of them landed on our beaches,” Mercer said.
“The kid called in the news, and the four were arrested a few days later, with all their plans and maps. They were determined to blow up strategic sites, like rail bridges, including the one over Hell Gate.”
“I know you’re trying to get my attention, Mike,” I said, noting his reference to the scene of one of our major investigations, at the point along the East River where the mayor’s residence sat in Manhattan.
“Pastorius.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll save your butt, Coop. It’ll be a Final Jeopardy! question one of these days and you’ll score big.”
“Not if it’s military. And not if it’s against you.”
“Think long-term. After you dump me.”
Mercer and Mike were examining the machine as we talked.
“Blow me off and that will be sooner than you think.”
“Admiral Canaris,” Mike said.
“Head of German intelligence. The Abwehr,” I said.
“Not as dumb as you look right now, Coop. How about Operation Pastorius?”
“Clueless.”
“Francis Pastorius was the leader of the first German settlement in the US,” Mike said. “So Canaris named his attempt to cripple troop movements and implode the economic system here after Pastorius. It was his hope to target a major transportation hub.”
“World War Two–style terrorism,” Mercer said.
“Yeah,” Mike went on. “Paralyze the trains and put the fear of God in the civilian population.”
I bristled at the sound of someone running, reverberating on the concrete floor.
Don Ledger had heard the noise, too. “Who’s there?”
Mike’s voice was so loud that apparently he hadn’t heard the footsteps that Ledger and I did. Ledger stepped out from behind the large converter and started to retrace his route toward the entrance.
“Mercer,” I said. “There’s someone in here, and Ledger doesn’t like it any more than I do. Don’t let him approach the guy alone.”
Mercer turned on a dime and overtook the older man.
I could see the back of a tall, slim figure dressed in black, a hoodie pulled up on his head, opening the door of M42.
“Who are you?” Ledger called out again.
And just as loud, Mercer yelled for the man to stop.
But the heavy door slammed shut behind him and I was frozen in place, sweat dripping from my pores.
Mercer jogged to the door and pushed on it. “It’s locked.”
“Can’t be,” Ledger said. “The lock’s on the other side.”
Mercer threw his body against the exit, but it didn’t give. He twisted the knob and thrust at it a second time. “It won’t budge.”
“Then he’s barricaded it from the outside,” Ledger said. “He’s locked us in.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Don Ledger was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He had undone his necktie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. Not only was he terribly overheated, but he also had a chronic heart condition and was experiencing palpitations.
I was crouched in front of him, wiping his brow with Mercer’s handkerchief. His distress had put my own concerns in perspective.
“We’ll be fine, Mr. Ledger. It’s just the heat and the lack of fresh air. The guys will have you out of here in no time.”
“Water,” he said. “Do any of you have water?”
“We didn’t bring any, sir. Would there be any around?”
“I don’t know. I—I haven’t been down here in months.”
Mike and Mercer had taken turns manipulating the doorknob and trying to dislodge it, but something was holding it in place.
Cell phones were useless. M42 was too far underground and encased in solid steel foundations to get any service. The cords to the receivers of the two in-house phones that were attached to the wall near the exit had been sliced and rendered useless.
“How long till someone misses you, Mr. Ledger?” I asked.
“Nobody misses old men like me. They’ll think I’ve wandered off to cool down in some bigwig’s air-conditioned office.”
Mike was jogging away from me, down the long row of machinery. I assumed he was looking for something he could use as a battering ram, or some other way to contact the world above us.
“Are you okay if I leave you for a couple of minutes?” I asked Ledger.
He held one of his hands out to me. “Do what you have to do, young lady.”
I gripped it tightly and forced a big smile. “Somebody must have to oil one of these converters every now and then. We just need to breathe deep.”
I stood up and watched for a few seconds as he put his hand on his chest, as though to measure his own heartbeats. Then I walked to the next aisle of supersized devices and got out of sight of Ledger before starting to trot in pursuit of Mike.
He heard me coming and turned around to wait. “How’s Ledger?”
“Scared more than anything, I think. He’s anxious and very dry, and he’s mostly feeling guilty that he led us into this desolate basement.”
“There’s a secretary up there, in the office next to his. I’m hoping she starts missing him soon.”
“Then I suppose I should be grateful you flirted with her.”
Mike wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before running his fingers through it. “A little bit long in the tooth for me, but she liked the blarney. I got there before Ledger got in. She clearly has a soft spot for him.”
“Are we screwed here?”
“D’you see the size of this place, Coop? It’s not like we’re going to run out of oxygen.”
“But—”
“I’m just going up and down the aisles to see what’s around. I’m not expecting anything lethal,” Mike said, holding on to my elbow as though to steady me. “Look, I know you’re claustrophobic, and I wish—”
“I feel like I’ve been sealed into one of the pyramids,” I said, trying to make light of the situation.
“You picked a place that might actually hold all of your worldly goods, babe. Smart move. You can stack all your boxes of shoes over in that corner. And if you play your cards right, you could go across the River Styx after a three-way with Mercer and me.”
“My dream come true, Detective Chapman. Till then what do we do?”
“You’re doing it. Keep Ledger preoccupied,” Mike said, turning away from me, “and see whether Mer
cer needs anything.”
I started back toward the door. Mercer was pounding his large fist against it from time to time and yelling at the top of his lungs every minute or so. I didn’t think there would be anyone or anything out there to hear him, except for a passing track rabbit.
I took my position again next to Don Ledger. I started to tell him stories about adventures that Mercer, Mike, and I had been through together—lighter ones than murder—and how they had always managed to get me out in one piece.
Almost ten minutes elapsed before Mike shouted to me from the farthest corner of the room.
“Hold your calls, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.”
“I’ll be right back, Mr. Ledger. Mike must have found something.”
I sprinted in the direction of Mike’s voice and saw him kneeling at the end of the first row of antique converters. As I got closer to him, I noticed a dark blanket spread out on the floor. Mike pulled a pair of vinyl gloves out of his pocket and put them on.
“Looks like we’ve got a nester,” he said.
The blanket was doubled over to create a makeshift sleeping bag.
“I can’t imagine anyone getting in here.”
“We have a Houdini on our hands, Coop,” Mike said, lifting a corner of the blanket with two fingers. “He got a steamer trunk packed to the gills with a body in and out of the Waldorf, probably knows these tunnels better than the rats, worked his way onto a private varnish to murder another vic, and knows as much about M42 as Nazi saboteurs. That should limit the cast of characters.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“What?”
“The piece of paper under the edge of the blanket, Mike. See it sticking out from underneath?”
He reached for the small gray card that almost blended in with the concrete flooring. He flipped it over and we could both see the photograph of the dead girl on Big Timber.
“Shit,” Mike said. “Lydia Tsarlev. Nineteen years old. Student ID from Westchester Community College.”
It was becoming harder to breathe by the minute.
“These assholes really like their souvenirs, don’t they?” He got to his feet and put his arm around my shoulder, staring at the picture as we headed back to Mercer. “They really like their trophies from a kill.”
Terminal City Page 21
