“I know that.”
“The feds want to take charge of the operation and—”
“And you’re willing to let them?”
“I’m willing to do anything to keep the public safe, Mr. Mayor. Transportation hubs—and this one is the most beautiful in the world—they’re magnets for trouble,” Scully said.
The mayor was practically foaming at the mouth. “I’m in charge of running this city. It’s what the people elected me to do.”
“Trains out of here go to a number of other states. That alone gives the feds jurisdiction,” I said. “And all the way to Canada. That’s international territory, in case you weren’t sure.”
“Watch your mouth,” the mayor said, pointing a finger at me.
“I’ve seen the bodies of the murder victim, Your Honor. It’s hard to swallow, sir.”
“The Service is also fighting with the president,” Scully said. “But he’s bound and determined to ride that train right into the terminal. Gateway to the Continent. He wants to connect to all that history. And I understand that he feels the need to show the country he’s not afraid.”
“It’s impossible to close the terminal,” the mayor said, stuttering and sputtering at the same time.
“As I started to say, it shuts down at two this morning. So there’s a natural break in the train schedule, and that’s when the police get to move all the stragglers out. It just won’t reopen at five thirty A.M. on Saturday. That’s the plan we’re going to put in motion. Jointly, with the feds.”
“It’s Saturday. The terminal should be crawling with tourists, full of people from the suburbs bringing their kids in to see Broadway shows and go shopping all over town. It’s an enormous amount of revenue for the city every minute that building is open, do you get that?”
“It’s better than doing this on a weekday, sir. It’s better than having all the commuters unable to get to work on Monday morning. Chances are with a joint task force manning this operation, we’ll have it solved within twenty-four hours.”
“You can’t close it, Scully,” the mayor said, pounding his fist on the desk. “I own Grand Central Terminal.”
There was silence in the room.
“Actually, Mr. Mayor, you don’t,” I said. “You don’t own it.”
“Not me personally, Alex. I realize it’s a public-private partnership. But I have control of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Don’t get in my way, Scully.”
“The MTA just rents the terminal, Mr. Mayor. There’s actually a landlord. There’s actually a man who owns the entire Grand Central building itself, as well as the tracks below—seventy-five miles up to Poughkeepsie—and the air rights above it.”
“Commodore Vanderbilt is long dead,” the mayor said, throwing one arm up in the air. “It’s like the old joke that the Brooklyn Bridge is for sale. Don’t take me for a fool, Commissioner.”
Keith Scully stood up, ready to make his exit. “The terminal was sold out from under you in 2006, sir. It’s owned lock, stock, and barrel by a fifty-five-year-old real estate developer. An hour ago we got his permission to shut the place down.”
THIRTY-FOUR
I took the short walk from City Hall to the DA’s office with Paul Battaglia and his security detail. The cops who had driven me down from the terminal tailed us up Centre Street to the courthouse.
“I’ve got to confess to you, Alex, I had no idea that Grand Central is privately owned, but I damn well loved seeing Scully shove it down the mayor’s throat.”
“None of us knew about it either till we had our introductory tour last night. Seems the developer and a couple of institutional investors bought the whole thing for eighty million dollars.”
“Are the feds doing the right thing?” Battaglia asked. “I mean, closing it.”
“I think it’s the only way to go. Rocco and both squads—North and South—are chasing down every lead, but this perp is moving faster than we are. There’s too much at risk—too many lives—if he has the terminal as the centerpiece of his master plan.”
When we got to the eighth floor, I followed Battaglia into his office to debrief him on my meeting with Jean Jansen and the story of what happened in the morning when we were trapped in M42.
“Have you had time to get a list of every employee in the terminal?” he asked.
“Mike asked for it last night. The stationmaster had it waiting for Rocco first thing this morning. Every task, like going through those names, takes so much manpower, takes so many men off the street. It’s terribly discouraging.”
“What’s your plan? Are you staying at Mercer’s again tonight?”
“I guess so. The cops who are watching over me will drive me back uptown. I thought I’d pick up some dinner for the team, then go on to Queens. Vickee’s off tonight, so she’ll be home with me. The terminal should be saturated with law enforcement types from every agency under the sun by the time I get back there.”
“We’ll be in town all weekend. Don’t leave me hanging, Alex.”
“I’m on it, Paul. Have a good one.”
It was almost six P.M. Both Rose and Laura left before we returned to the office. I put the lights on and sat down at my desk, relishing the quiet.
I called Evan Kruger, who was still working. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“The boss called me down.”
“I’ve got this one, Alex. I went up to court and made a record of my appearance on the case. I’ve fielded four nasty phone calls from David Drusin about his client—and some venting about you, personally—and I’ve spent the afternoon reading the evidence.”
“Lose your appetite?”
“Completely.”
“I wanted to let you know this weird thing just happened,” I said. “And you’d better watch your back.”
“What’s that?”
“Battaglia and I were called over to City Hall with Keith Scully. Of course the main event is figuring out how to deal with Grand Central in light of three murders in its orbit, moving closer and closer to the main concourse. That should have been the only thing on his plate.”
“It’s a scary situation.”
“But all the mayor wanted to talk about at first was Dominguez and why taking overt steps to find recipes to cook women in his cannibal café is a bad thing.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. So Battaglia just told me that not too long after the election, some preacher the mayor knows from Brooklyn got pulled over on a traffic stop. He had two outstanding warrants. So what does the mayor do? Calls the precinct and suggests to the CO that his buddy be released.”
“Before the man’s arraignment? Before seeing the judge? Before clearing the warrants?”
“Used his mayoral ‘get out of jail free’ card, Evan,” I said. “Used it once and it worked for him. I don’t want our case to be his second try at a fix. Just be on the alert. Somebody’s put a bug in his ear about Dominguez.”
“Thanks for covering my back, Alex. Do what you’ve got to do. I’m good with this one.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s entirely selfish,” I said. “If someone has the reach to get to City Hall about a cop with a serious death fetish, then Raymond Tanner might be hanging on his coattails, too. Keep your antennae up for me, will you?”
“Done.”
I thumbed through all the messages, crumpling and tossing the ones from journalists with questions about Corinne Thatcher and Lydia Tsarlev. Those from friends got pocketed, and inquiries from adversaries about pending cases would wait on the top of my desk until Monday.
It was six fifteen when I walked out of the revolving door onto the street. I told the cops who were waiting for me that I wanted to pick up some dinners at Forlini’s, the family-run restaurant behind the courthouse that had fed and watered more generations of lawyers and judges than anyone could count.
One of them walked down Baxter Street with me while the driver circled the block. We talked about weather and wonder
ed aloud if tonight’s anticipated thundershowers might bring a break in the heat wave.
I didn’t even venture into the dining room, which was beginning to fill up with a mix of courthouse regulars who weren’t getting out of the city, but went directly to the bar. The room was cool and refreshing, with delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen and classic Motown sounds on the jukebox behind me.
“The usual, Alexandra?” the bartender asked.
“Nothing to drink, thanks. I just need a whole bunch of dinners to take out. Will you please do the order?”
“Sure thing.”
There would be a lot of hungry detectives working with Rocco tonight. “Let’s make it easy,” I said. “Give me a dozen veal parm, and throw in every side you’ve got. Spinach, broccoli, fried zucchini. We’re feeding a small army. And plenty of bread. Not garlic bread, please. Just Italian bread. And toss in a few salads.”
“You got a moving truck?”
“Better than that. Two cops waiting to drive me uptown. We’ll get the smell of the last hundred prisoners out of the backseat of the patrol car.”
I spun around on the bar stool and walked to the jukebox. I pulled a couple of singles out of my pocket and played all the Smokey Robinson and Marvin Gaye the machine had to give.
When I got back to my seat, there was a very healthy-looking pour of Dewar’s waiting for me. It seemed like a perfectly good way to relieve the day’s tension.
“Thanks for the drink,” I said, letting the ice cubes rest against my lips before sipping the Scotch. “I forgot to tell you I’ve got to put this on my tab.”
“You look like you needed a cocktail,” the bartender said, writing my name across the front of the computer-generated dinner bill and stashing it in a drawer behind the bar. “I know you’ll be back.”
Twenty minutes later, when I had practically sucked the life out of my drink, one of the waiters appeared with several shopping bags full of food and plastic utensils. I walked to the door to ask the two officers to help me carry the meals.
When we reached Grand Central, it took all three of us to carry the dinners into the Grand Hyatt entrance on the Park Avenue Viaduct, where my escorts left their patrol car, into the lobby and through one of the hidden hallways that fed onto the main concourse of the terminal.
The summer rush hour was winding down. There were certainly fewer commuters than there had been at this hour just the night before.
And there was a noticeable increase in uniformed officers on patrol. Not as many in view as Scully led me to believe would be on site, but perhaps that would come later. It could take hours to bring in all the manpower that the various agencies had promised to deliver.
“Dinner is served,” I said, leading my cops into Don Ledger’s office.
“You can throw out your Chanel No. 5, Coop, ’cause you’ve never smelled better,” Mike said. “Good thinking.”
“Spread it around, Rocco. I’ve got a dozen meals, and the portions are huge. Where’s Mercer? I got the zucchini just for him.”
“He’s back upstairs in the situation room. Scully wants us to run the PD part of the operation from there.”
“It’s the best control position for the whole terminal. Good idea.”
“C’mon,” Mike said. “Grab some meals and let’s feed him.”
“Ready.”
He pointed to the two officers who had come in with me. “Chow down, guys. As soon as Blondie has finished her dinner, the lieutenant would like you to take her out to Douglaston, to Detective Wallace’s house.”
“We’re cleared to stay with her the whole night.”
“No need for that. Wallace’s wife is home. She’s a detective, too. Just hang out here for an hour or so, and we’ll get you on your way with your dangerous cargo. Just a warning, guys: She attracts whackjobs.”
“I really do,” I said. “Help yourselves to some dinner. See you in a bit.”
We left the cramped office, carrying two bags of food out onto the concourse and across to the elevator that was out of sight, at the bottom of the ramp on the far side of the information booth.
The automated voice—even fresh at the end of a long working day—reminded travelers again to take all their belongings and to say something if they saw something. I was getting sick of her telling me to mind the gap.
Mike dangled a large key ring in front of my face. “Keys to the kingdom, Coop.”
“Nice score.”
“Rocco got a set for Mercer and for me. Must be fifty keys here.”
“Marked?”
“Of course. You think I’d have to guess which one to use if I needed to get into one of these places in a hurry?” He handed me the plastic bag while he fumbled for the key to the elevator with the unlisted seventh floor.
We snaked our way through the labyrinthine corridors lined with steam pipes, a far cry from the gleaming pink Tennessee marble of the concourse.
The door to the situation room was open. Rocco had called up to Mercer and Pug, who were expecting us. They had turned on the bank of televisions, setting each to a different channel so that they could stay on top of any news developments.
“Welcome back, Alex,” Mercer said. He didn’t often appear to be restless, but this evening he was. He had opened the blind that separated the room from the operations command next to it, leaning against the large window, looking back and forth between the screens showing all the train traffic and the monitors displaying local news. Fourteen men were still at their posts, tracking the trains coming and going from the terminal.
“Traffic slowing?” Mike asked.
Mercer nodded his head. “I’m not going to be happy till they shut this place down.”
“So you know?” I asked.
“Yeah, Scully talked to Rocco about it before he even got to City Hall. Less than seven hours to go, then we get in and give this station a clean sweep.”
I was unloading the plastic containers of lukewarm food, setting places at the conference table with paper toweling for place mats. “I’ve brought a little something to get you through the night. Take a break, guys.”
Mike was already gnawing on half a loaf of Italian bread as he fiddled with one of the televisions. “I hope the rain holds out till after the game,” he said. “The Yankees really need this one.”
“It’s terribly humid,” I said.
“You timed this right, Coop. Six minutes to the Trebek finale.”
Pug, Mike, and I sat at the table, but Mercer’s eyes were riveted on the men running the trains.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I keep thinking of 9/11.”
I had been a young prosecutor the day the Towers fell, watching from my office window as every man and woman in uniform ran south, so many selfless first responders racing to a certain death. Mike had been one of the lucky ones, coming to my home that night, mourning the loss of friends of a lifetime.
“I was in Harlem that morning,” Mercer said, pointing into the operations center. “Somehow, the guys who worked where those men are sitting now stopped every train coming in this direction from north of 125th Street—wherever they were on all those miles of track—reversed their courses, and then sent all the passengers back to outlying stations.”
“The bridges and tunnels were shut down immediately,” I said. “The only way out of Manhattan was the railroad.”
“That’s the last time this terminal was evacuated. They just loaded up the trains that were here—pulled every car out of the yard—and sent them on their way. People trying to get as far away from this city as they could.”
“Don’t get all heavy on me, dude,” Mike said. “These guys can still get it done, worst-case scenario. They control seven hundred and ninety-five miles of track from that little room next door, Mercer. They can stop a train on a dime—no matter what stretch of rail it’s on—and they can empty this terminal whenever they need to.”
“Not if they don’t have any outbound trains, Mike. Not in the mid
dle of the night.”
It rattled me when Mercer, who was usually the epitome of grace under pressure, became unnerved. And he caught my reaction to his gloom as soon as he looked over at me. I had plated some food but was too nervous to eat.
“I’ll feel better after I get something in my stomach,” he said, trying to cheer me, I was sure. “You too, girl. Then I’ll send you on your way.”
Having not had any dinner and with the drink having gone to my head, I took a few bites and worked my way through a salad. When it was time for the Final Jeopardy! question, Mike turned the volume up on Trebek.
“That’s right, ladies and gentleman. Tonight’s topic is nicknames. Famous nicknames.”
“Is this still your game, Chapman?” Pug asked.
“Yeah. You in for twenty?”
“I have trouble playing bingo. I’ll just watch.”
Mike had devoured his veal parm and taken half of mine. “Easy category. Could be anything.”
Mercer and I agreed. We continued eating through the commercials and talked about what had happened in my absence.
Trebek noted that each of their pens was down, and he stepped back to allow the answer to be revealed: IN PHYSICS, SUBATOMIC PIECES THAT GIVE MASS TO ENERGY, FORMALLY KNOWN AS HIGGS BOSON.
“Physics?” I said, stymied by the unfamiliar words. “If I’d known that was the category, I wouldn’t have bet a nickel.”
“If you hadn’t stopped for a cocktail without bringing me a roadie, I might have left you off the hook.”
“Cocktail?” I could see the contestants struggling to write down a response.
“You are such a bad liar, Coop. And Scotch isn’t a fraction as odorless as vodka.”
“Why, you know the answer?”
“Course I do.”
“Mercer?” I asked.
“No clue.”
“What is the God particle?” Mike said.
“What about God?” Pug asked. “And mass? It’s a religious thing?”
“Not even close, Pug. It’s not that kind of mass, if you get my drift. And the nickname using God, well that’s just ironic.”
I was watching Trebek confirm Mike’s answer.
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