“That’s what we did this afternoon,” Mike said.
“I don’t have to remind you that there are feeds from subway lines all over this building, so one could theoretically get in from any corner of the city by coming underground,” Gleeson said.
“Talking underground, you’ve got the opening from the commuter train tunnels—wider than the mouth of the Nile,” Mike said, “that feeds into the concourse. You got your homeless, your employees, your odd sorts traveling in privately. Hundreds of miles of train tracks just waiting to be compromised.”
“Don’t sound so negative,” I said, still thinking of the Grand Hyatt, built directly above the landmarked old terminal. “There’s a hotel right upstairs. If our killer was looking to make that kind of connection to the terminal, he could have murdered Corinne Thatcher right here.”
It had been a long day. I was exhausted and distressed about Raymond Tanner. I didn’t need Mike to overdramatize the already titillating events.
“So what’re you saying?” Mike asked.
“I’m rejecting your ‘no coincidence’ theory, Detective Chapman,” I said, twisting my hair to get it off my neck and banding it into a ponytail. “I’m suggesting the fact that Thatcher’s body was deposited in the Waldorf may be just that. A coincidence.”
Bruce Gleeson had moved to the window overlooking the operations room. He lowered the white blind covering the window that separated the two spaces before he spoke. “I think you’re wrong, Ms. Cooper. I’d have to agree with Mr. Chapman—much as I would hope otherwise, for the sake of everyone in this terminal—that the murder in the Waldorf is not likely to be a coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
Gleeson bit his lip, then continued to speak. “You know there’s a city underground, right below this mammoth building?”
“The train tunnels,” Mike said, “where the homeless people live. We get it.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What then?”
“When the design for Grand Central was sketched out in 1900, the master planners wanted to change the entire complexion of Midtown Manhattan. The area to the east of 42nd Street—prime real estate now—was made up entirely of slums and slaughterhouses.”
“Right here?” I asked.
“East Side slaughterhouses, Ms. Cooper. Cattle used to escape from time to time and wander onto the old tracks, when they were aboveground, unlike where they are today. The buildings weren’t skyscrapers and office towers. They were tenements and shanties.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“You’ve heard of the White City?” Gleeson asked. “The movement to beautify urban areas, which started at the exposition in Chicago.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of the White City, and the devil who lived in it. Dr. H. H. Holmes, wasn’t it? The serial killer who turned his home into a World’s Fair hotel, complete with a gas chamber and a dissection table. That’s not what you’re thinking?”
“No, no. But the architecture that turned Chicago into the White City was the impetus for what the builders did here, in the Grand Central zone.”
“What’s that?” Mike asked.
“They stood to gain a fortune from creating something that was not only safer in terms of train travel, but that would make this complex the center of the sprawling city. That would rid it of slums and shantytowns,” Gleeson said. “The railroad tracks had already been sunk below street grade by the commodore.”
“Cornelius Vanderbilt?”
“Yes, Detective Chapman. But Commodore Vanderbilt died in 1877. Twenty-five years later, the chief engineer of the New York Central Railroad came up with the concept of air rights. Do you know what that means?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Vanderbilt dredged the area north of Grand Central that we now call Park Avenue—home to some of the world’s most expensive real estate—and ran the trains below street level. Dug deep trenches in the ground to lay the tracks. Saved lives by doing that. Threw up iron fences and plotted patches of grass. That’s when they changed the name of the street.”
“What do you mean?”
“Down below Union Square, where the road begins, it’s still Fourth Avenue, named like all the numbered avenues. Once the trains were laid in and the flowers planted, they tried to class it up by dubbing it Park Avenue.”
“Seems to have taken,” I said, thinking of all the glorious flower displays in the meridians throughout each season and the sparkling Christmas tree lights.
“People used little footbridges to cross the avenue, and all the flying cinders from the steam engines stayed down in the ditches, no longer setting fire to everything around the old rails.”
“Clever,” Mike said.
“Then, with the introduction of electric trains after 1900, this fellow named William Wilgus—the chief engineer—took the commodore’s concept a step further.”
“He covered the tracks,” Mercer said. “They were already dug below the surface, and these gents figured that they could pave right over the damn things. Enclose them completely. Get them out of sight altogether and build on top of the train tracks.”
“Exactly. Not only did Vanderbilt and his successors buy up all the land around Grand Central for eventual development, but then Wilgus had the genius to envision great office buildings and private clubs rising on Park Avenue, right above the tracks themselves.”
“So this area that had once been such an eyesore,” Mike said, “and so dangerous, was going to be converted into a canyon of high-rent profitability. They sold air rights to the properties that sat on top of the New York Central Railroad tracks.”
“Which not only led to the building of some of the most famous structures in New York City, but it also gave the Central enough income to pay for the conversion of its entire system from steam-powered locomotives to electric trains.”
“What does any of this have to do with coincidence?” I asked.
“It’s this architectural plan that defies the coincidence among your murders, Ms. Cooper,” Gleeson said.
“Architecture? I don’t understand.”
“You must first be aware that a single entity, the New York Central Railroad, controlled a thirty-block area of Midtown Manhattan—as a direct result of Vanderbilt’s entrepreneurial instincts. And all of that property was tethered to its magnificent centerpiece—this very Grand Central Terminal.”
“I’m following you.”
“So this complex of buildings was created, mostly in the nineteen twenties, after Grand Central was opened,” Bruce Gleeson said, sketching an outline on the conference table with his forefinger. “Over here, practically adjacent to where we’re standing, was the Biltmore Hotel. Very fancy. A destination for long-distance train travelers.”
We all nodded.
“Beyond that, across Vanderbilt Avenue, was the Yale Club,” Gleeson said, drawing an imaginary line from point to point.
“You could reach that from this terminal, too?” Mike asked.
“Absolutely. Next came the Roosevelt and the Commodore, both grand hotels in their day. Then the US post office, because the New York Central carried mail, by contract with the government. That’s on Lexington Avenue, back to DePew Place.”
I heard the words “DePew Place” and looked at Mike, who was concentrating on the movement of Gleeson’s fingertip.
“A civic center was created here, with the added feature that people could move from Grand Central to hotels and to office buildings within the complex without ever venturing onto city streets. At least twenty-five thousand of them every day.”
Mike picked up the narrative. “Because there are underground tunnels and passages that connect this building to all of the others, am I right?”
“Not just tunnels and passages, but an underground city, Detective Chapman. Designed and execute
d as that,” Gleeson said. “They named it Terminal City.”
I placed my palms down on the table and leaned in, tracing another line in the dust on the tabletop from the location of DePew Place, dragging it slowly up Park Avenue. “How far north do these tunnels go, Mr. Gleeson?”
“To 50th Street, Ms. Cooper. The railroad owned the land up to 50th Street.”
The men watched as my finger crossed the pretend streets and came to a stop on the corner of Park Avenue. “Right here?” I asked.
“Right there,” Gleeson said. “That’s why I’m afraid the answer to your problems can’t be attributed to any coincidence, as you thought. Think of your first victim, Ms. Cooper, and where her body was found. The last great tower built as part of Terminal City was the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Terminal City,” Mike said. “You ever hear of it, Coop?”
“No.”
Bruce Gleeson had left us in the situation room while he went back to his office to try to find one of the old-timers who could talk us through the maze of underground links. Rocco Correlli was on his way to headquarters to give Commissioner Scully an update.
“Me neither,” Mercer said. “I thought I knew every inch of Manhattan.”
“But don’t you think I’m right?” Mike said, turning to Mercer. “The perp starts his spree in the Waldorf, moves closer in to the terminal on DePew, then actually commits a homicide just yards from the lower concourse. Next thing has to be something explodes right inside the terminal. That’s the way this bastard is moving.”
“You’re talking a bomb?” I asked.
“Get a grip, blondie. I haven’t taken it that far yet. They got sniffers downstairs, don’t they? I’m not saying he’s got—they’ve got—a bomb. But it’s an explosive situation. I mean that this guy is intent on leading us right into Grand Central, with a dramatic purpose, is what I think.”
“He’s clearly familiar with places we don’t even know about. Gleeson better find us a guide to this behemoth.”
“Who’s going to help us figure out what his grudge is?” Mike said, speaking to no one in particular. “There’s more ways into this building than into a wedge of Swiss cheese. And there’s no single button that closes every entry in the joint. So it’s impossible to do a total lockdown, if it came to that.”
“No way,” Mercer said.
“We don’t know who or what we’re looking for—perp or next potential vic. Scully needs to get this body ID’d,” I said. “Carl Condon is probably collateral damage, especially if he was just hired to steal the trunk. The association—the motive we’re looking for— has to be some nexus between the two women.”
“What if our bad boy used to work here?” Mike said. “He’s got a head start on the whole thing that will be impossible to overcome.”
“Or if he grew up around this place, like his old man used to work here,” Mercer said. I knew he was thinking about how his own father, a lifelong Delta Air Lines employee, had taken him out on the tarmac and into the hangars of LaGuardia as a kid, long before the restrictions of 9/11 became commonplace. “He’ll know more crevices and uncharted cubbyholes than we’ll be able to find.”
“Rocco’s right,” I said. “Now this becomes a huge public safety issue. Scully’s got to go to the media with the fact that somebody’s targeted Grand Central for trouble. Big trouble.”
Mike started pacing again. He passed behind me and tugged at my hair. “Don’t we just all sound like jerks now ’cause we don’t know what the trouble might be?”
“Or maybe the whole thing is a ruse,” Mercer said. “Bring all the troops to circle the wagons at the terminal, and leave some other target exposed.”
“Like?”
“Like the United Nations, where the president is coming to town to speak.”
“So the perp wants us to think he’s a serial killer,” I said, “and we’re working overtime to make the ladies safe, while he pulls the rug out from underneath.”
“How far does Terminal City extend to the east and west?” Mike asked. “The UN is four blocks from here—due east.”
“Sit tight. Gleeson’s gone to get us an expert,” Mercer said.
“Ironic that this neighborhood was known for its slaughterhouses,” I said. “It’s like déjà vu, with humans on the chopping block now.”
“Always looking at the bright side, kid.”
“Both of you need to be patient. We can manage this,” Mercer said. “Girl gets ID’d tomorrow, that’s my bet. We learn our way around. The motive becomes more obvious.”
“Yeah, like laying all those railroad tracks straight in a line,” Mike said, checking his watch, then picking up the remote and clicking it at the wall of monitors. “The yellow brick road will take Coop right to Oz. What we need is a wizard to tell us the strategy.”
Eight television sets powered on. Mike played with the controls until he had all the screens set to the channel with Jeopardy!
In the early days, when we’d first worked together, I often took the high road and reminded Mike that there was a body in the next room, still warm, that made his obsession with betting on the final question rather chilling. There was no changing him, and the habit he relished was something that all of his colleagues tolerated. Mercer and I had actually grown to enjoy the competition.
“Right after the commercial,” he said, raising the volume.
“There’s got to be some central place in here with surveillance cameras that capture the terminal interior,” Mercer said.
“Gleeson says there’s a room with monitors that security staffs. But there are too many blind spots—staircases, ramps, archways—to capture every bit of the place at any given time.”
“So if you’ve got an insider’s knowledge of the building, you might know how to avoid getting caught on film, right?” I said.
“No such thing as film, Coop.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Did you hear the man? The main concourse is thirty-six thousand square feet. That’s just the start of things for us. It’s not like looking for a needle in a haystack. More like a needle in an iceberg,” Mike said. “Whoa. Here’s Trebek.”
“Two of you are tied for the lead here, ladies,” Alex Trebek said. “Let’s see if we can break that open and find a winner.”
The “card” on the large board flipped aside and crisp white letters appeared on the cobalt-blue field. “Tonight’s category, ladies, is Native American history.”
“I’m golden,” Mike said, as the three contestants screwed up their faces waiting for the answer to be revealed. “I’ll go forty on this.”
“Didn’t know it was one of your areas of expertise,” I said.
“I’ve got a better chance than you, babe. The answer’s not going to be some great piece of literature, is it? Or a Motown hit? Geronimo and the Miracles. Or a classic film noir? You’ll be out of your element.”
“Sometimes the depth of your political correctness takes my breath away.”
“It’s a realistic risk assessment,” Mike said, checking his pocket for cash. “Just saying I can take you on Pontiac’s Conspiracy or the Trail of Tears or the Yamasee War. Double or nothing, am I right, Mercer?”
Mercer laughed. “I’m holding at forty.”
“Native Americans have known what terrorism is since 1492, Coop. I’m totally on their side. Manifest Destiny be damned.”
“Forty it is for me, too.”
“Yellow-bellied. Both of you.”
Trebek looked up as the answer to the night’s final question appeared on the screen: OSAGE TRIBESWOMAN WHO BECAME AMERICA’S FIRST PRIMA BALLERINA. Trebek read it aloud.
Mike rolled his money into a ball and threw it at me. “Now that really sucks. That’s a very misleading header. The question isn’t about history, it’s culture. And I don’t
know anything about culture.”
“Who is Maria Tallchief?” I said, flattening the bills on the conference table and counting them to make sure I had it all. “I keep offering to take you to the ballet with me.”
“Too many swans, too little time.”
I had taken ballet lessons since early childhood, still preferring my hours in the studio every Saturday to a workout at the gym. I loved the discipline of dance, the way the music always elevated my spirit, and the grace of the movement.
Two of the three contestants, both in their sixties, were also right. The young computer programmer who had briefly been tied for first place had left the question blank.
“So you’re the winner after all,” Trebek said, congratulating the woman on her third victory. “Betty Marie Tallchief came out of Oklahoma, to star in New York, Paris, and Monte Carlo—both an inspiration to and wife of the great George Balanchine. Congratulations to you, Mrs.—”
Mike shut down the televisions. “If you spent half as much time on your back, Coop, as you do dancing on your toes, you’d be a much more interesting woman.”
“And you lose all your charm the minute you open your mouth, Detective,” I said, pushing back my chair. “It’s not exactly like you’re channeling Nick Charles, is it?”
“Chill, guys,” Mercer said. “What we need are the keys to Terminal City.”
Mike’s phone rang. It was obvious from the conversation that the caller was Rocco Correlli.
“The ME’s going to stitch the girl up and get some photos ready for the eleven o’clock news. It won’t be very good-looking, but we’ve got to know who she is.”
The door opened and Bruce Gleeson reentered with an older man, whom Gleeson introduced to us as Don Ledger. “We got lucky,” Gleeson said. “I grabbed Don just as he was leaving his office for the night.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mike said.
“Same here, Detective.”
“Don’s what we call our living history. He’s worked in the maintenance department since he was eighteen. He turned seventy-eight two weeks ago.”
Terminal City (Alex Cooper) Page 18
