“That’s helpful. I thought I’d be swimming in double helixes all night.”
“So I guess finding out more about Blunt is my first Google assignment. Where’s the laptop I’m supposed to use?”
“Coming up any minute,” Rocco said.
“You don’t need a search engine for that,” Mike said. “NorthStar. One word, right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a security contractor, mostly for overseas work in the most hostile territories in the world.”
“Like Blackwater?” I asked. I remembered stories about the private firm that was created to support government troops abroad after the bombing of the USS Cole in Yemen.
“A lot like it, but much smaller.”
“Tough guys, no?”
“Blackwater had a lot of former military experts,” Mike said. “Smart founders who recruited some very experienced men—and yeah, some hard-hitters. At one point they were up to eighty thousand employees worldwide. They got into some hot water and had to rebrand.”
“But legit?” I asked.
“Mostly. They had a slew of government contracts,” Mike said, as the door opened and a Metro-North cop entered the room with three laptops. “Blackwater actually trained Navy SEALs and military SWAT teams. I don’t know if they’re completely out of that business, after allegations of shooting civilians in Iraq, or if they just regrouped under a new name.”
The newly arrived Metro-North cop was obviously tech-savvy. He began setting up the laptops and connecting them to a power source under the table. I slid one over in front of me and turned it on.
“NorthStar hasn’t been around for that long. Does the same kind of thing as the old Blackwater. High-threat protection. I don’t think the government uses them much, but they provide security for a lot of business entities—like oil companies—that work in risky third-world countries or war zones.”
“NorthStar swabs their employees for DNA?” I asked. “For identification purposes?”
“Yeah, in the event any of the workers go DOA. Their profiles are already in the data bank. The military does the same thing.”
“So what else can we find out about Nicholas Blunt?” I said, typing his name into the search function.
Mercer sat down opposite me. “I’ll do NorthStar.”
It was Rocco Correlli’s turn for the landline. He called the head of the Metro-North police and asked his questions after the formalities were done. “I need an officer to be assigned to a prosecutor working in the situation room tonight. Pronto. Got someone for me?”
“I get the feeling I’m going to have a new best friend any minute now,” I said, scrolling down through all the Blunts whose names appeared on my screen.
“Excellent. I’d like that as soon as possible,” the lieutenant spoke into the mouthpiece.
“I can’t believe how many Blunts there are.”
“Nicholas?” Mike asked.
“I’m trying to eliminate by age. The people-finder search engine has more than thirty of them, and at first glance, nothing’s a match.”
I reached for the stack of papers again and tried to find the original submission request.
“So NorthStar opened its doors about eight years ago,” Mercer said. “Usual vague stuff on the website. More than fifteen thousand employees on missions around the world, mostly in Asia or Africa.”
“Would Blunt have needed military experience?” I asked. “We could get a load of information about him that way.”
“Not necessary, the site says. In fact, most of the employees don’t,” Mercer responded while writing numbers on a pad. “Could you get a man on military records, Loo? I’ll call NorthStar headquarters, though I’m not likely to get anybody at a corporate firm after hours on a Friday night. The feds will probably cut through that faster than we can.”
“This will help, guys,” I said. “Having a eureka moment.”
I stood up, waving the paper in my hand.
“What?”
“Surname Blunt. Given name Nikolay.”
“Don’t we already know that?” Mike asked.
“Father’s given name is Walter. Mother’s given name, Zoya. The spelling of Nicholas is eastern European,” I said. “Probably Russian. Zoya’s a Russian name, too.”
“And Blunt?” Rocco asked.
“Could be just plain old English,” Mike said. “Or Ellis Island neutral. Not everybody came through with all their vowels intact, Loo, like you did.”
“So?”
“So I’m getting from Coop the idea that we ought to look for a link between our Russian victim and Mr. Blunt.”
“That’s where I’m headed, Mike,” I said.
“That’s challenging, don’t you think? Lydia Tsarlev’s from Russia, and it’s possible this Blunt kid may have Russian roots. I can get that far. Next step is to see whether he’s got a psych history of any kind, or other witnesses who’ve heard about the voices in his head. The whole scenario could get really scary with a schizoid Soviet who’s been playing paramilitary enforcer. A Putin puppet with a grudge of some kind.”
“Slow it down, Mike,” I said.
“Hey, every one of those ‘Stans’ has some disgruntled former Soviets. I was mostly just relieved that the name attached to this DNA wasn’t Arabic.”
“The master of political incorrectness, Detective. The prosecution rests.”
“Strings, Coop. They’re all coming together for me. Hustler, hostler. Nicholas, Nikolay. Same bastard, whatever he calls himself.”
“You’re thinking the guy hearing voices in Lydia’s apartment is Blunt?” Rocco asked Mike and me.
“Better than a long shot,” Mike said. “We need a picture bad, Coop. We need to get the roommate to give us a scrip and to stick around to identify a photograph of him as soon as we get one. It can’t be a coincidence that the guy fighting with Lydia in her bedroom, trying to enlist her to join his cause—well, it’s got to be related.”
“Didn’t the roommate say he had no accent?” Rocco asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But who knows where he was born? Or his mother? I’m just telling you guys not to ignore that possible Russian background connection as we go forward.”
“Who asked me if there’s a plan?” Rocco said.
“I did,” Mercer said.
“Give it another five minutes. Then we go back downstairs to meet with Scully, who expects to be here before eight thirty. Get me everything you find online.”
“Here he is on Facebook,” I said. “Nik Blunt.”
“How do you know it’s our guy?” Rocco asked.
“There are a few others, but all spelled the traditional English way. And only one who listed the Animal Liberation Front as his favorite organization, Loo. How’s that for a start?”
“Does he have any friends, or did he kill them all?” Mike asked. “I knew putting you on Google was the right move. You’re a total geek, Coop.”
“This Nik Blunt hasn’t posted anything in two and a half years.”
“Not even photos that give an idea where he was then?”
“The Great Dismal Swamp.”
Mercer looked up from his laptop. “You got to be kidding. There’s such a place?”
Mike said, “North Carolina,” at the very same moment I said, “Virginia.”
“Which is it?”
“North Carolina,” Mike said. “Acres of swampland. Like a national refuge now. If there’s some kind of animal you never wanted to meet? It’s there. Blackwater set up headquarters in the Great Dismal to train their men, prepare them for conditions in Iraq, if that gives you any idea of how dismal it is.”
“The larger part of it’s in Virginia,” I said. “It’s probably where NorthStar trained its people, too. There are no clear faces in the photo, but lots of men in camo.”
&nbs
p; “Suddenly stepping in on my military expertise?”
“It’s my literary bent, Mr. Chapman. The swamp was the subject of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s second novel,” I said, knowing the subject would interest Mercer. “The Great Dismal was a refuge for runaway slaves.”
“C’mon, guys,” Rocco said. “Anyone come up with a photograph of Blunt’s face yet?”
“Not finding one,” I said.
“What do the employee records show for his family’s address?” Mercer asked. “For the father?”
“He’s dead, and the mother moved somewhere upstate,” Rocco said.
“I want the address from when his father worked here,” Mercer said. “We can figure a high school location from that and maybe find a yearbook picture.”
Rocco flipped through the Metro-North employment file of Walter Blunt and found an address in Queens. “Looks like Forest Hills,” the lieutenant said. “Does that help?”
“I can give it a try.”
“Okay,” Rocco said. “Three minutes and we’re downstairs to meet Scully. We’ll take off as soon as an officer shows his face to hang with Alex. One of you see whether Motor Vehicles has anything on their site?”
“I’m hunting, but most of the official stuff like that is only going to be available to us Monday morning,” I said. “We’ll be stiffed for now on government records.”
“Where else can we get photos?”
“The girl who was in today—Lydia’s roommate,” Rocco said. “Mike’s right. Bring her back over here and nail down a description of the guy she saw fighting with Lydia. Drag her boyfriend in, too.”
“How come no one has mentioned the word ‘guns’?” I asked. “With NorthStar in his background, he’s bound to be armed.”
“That’s our worst nightmare, Alex. It’s on all of our minds,” the lieutenant said, wringing his hands. “But at this very moment, there’s not a thing we can do about it, except prepare all the details coming in on the search.”
“And clear the terminal,” I said. “For whatever good that will do.”
“Monday morning may be too late to pull all this information,” Rocco said. “I’ll get a man assigned to contact all the agencies and business links first thing tomorrow. Somebody has to be minding the store on weekends. Meanwhile, the stationmaster is trying to find out where Blunt’s mama is and to locate his siblings—see whether they’re still around.”
“Anybody check Match.com? ‘Likes track rabbits; likes to dance. Could be terminal.’ There are all kinds of selfies on those sites,” Mike said. “We can’t meet the feebs without a photo. They’re bound to have one they’ll want to shove down our throats to show how superior they are.”
This time I heard footsteps approaching the room.
A young woman entered, wearing a Metro-North police uniform, with the nameplate Y. FIGUEROA on her chest, below several merit decorations. She held up a hand to all of us. “Police Officer Yolanda Figueroa.”
The lieutenant introduced himself to her and to everyone else in the room.
“I’m your charge,” I said, eyeing the Glock holstered on her hip. She was shorter than I by two or three inches, with curly black hair and light brown skin. “I’m Alex Cooper.”
“Good to know you.”
“Same here. Nice of you to do this.”
“All right,” Rocco said. “Let’s get you guys going. Time’s running out on us.”
I shut down the computer and pushed back from the table, standing up between Pug and Mike.
“Not you, Alex,” Rocco said, pointing to the chair I’d been sitting in. “Commissioner Scully was firm about that.”
“He was what?”
“You’re to handle all the interagency contacts, if you want to stay here till we close the terminal. Do all the research you can for us online. Put your tail in that chair and Officer Figueroa here will make sure you’ve got everything you need.”
I couldn’t protest to Keith Scully if he wouldn’t give me an audience. “The district attorney is so not going to like this,” I said, doing a slow burn as I seated myself again. “You know how he hates to be the last to know what’s going on.”
“Yolanda just needs to make sure you’re boarded on the nine fifty-nine to Vickee’s house. See if she can teach you to scramble up some eggs for breakfast. Chances are Mercer and I will be there in the morning for a victory celebration,” Mike said, flashing a grin at me. “You’ve been grounded, Coop. Sit down and fasten your seat belt.”
THIRTY-SIX
“Are you in a safe place?” Paul Battaglia asked.
“Completely fine,” I said. “I’ve got a terrific policewoman keeping me company in the situation room, helping me surf the Internet for more info about Blunt. I wanted to tell you what’s going on here and give you the number for this landline.”
I was fiddling with my cell phone, which I’d placed on the tabletop, but it was showing no signs of life in this inner sanctum of the terminal.
“Thanks.”
“And that Scully has cut me out of the program, Paul. I was thinking maybe you could give him a call, let him know that you’d prefer I stay on the case, in the meetings with the FBI and all that, rather than sticking me up here in an isolation booth.”
“The commissioner’s in a better position than I am to know what’s going on. All I want from you is a steady flow of information. If Scully and his men get lucky, I need to be up to speed for the media. You understand that?”
“Of course I do.” I left out the observation that Battaglia was all about smoke and mirrors. The substance didn’t matter at all if he had the appropriate sound bites when the time came.
The team had been gone only about ten minutes when I heard footsteps again. I turned my head to look in the doorway and saw that Mike had returned.
“Hey, did you forget something?” I said, happy to see him. “Coming into the girls’ locker room without knocking? Scully wants us up here because Yolanda and I are such delicate—”
“Scully’s the man, Coop. You wanna step out here for a minute?”
“Is this my ticket to ride?”
Mike rolled his eyes and motioned to me. “Over here, please.”
Yolanda was on her feet. “Are you taking her somewhere, Detective? ’Cause I need to stay with her.”
“You sit tight. I just have some instructions to relay from the police commissioner. We’ll be right here in the hallway, and I’ll deliver her back to your capable hands.”
I got to my feet and walked toward Mike, talking to Yolanda. “Didn’t you ever see High Noon? The sheriff thinks he’s the only guy who can save his town. Has to put the little woman on the last train out of Hadleyville to keep her away from danger. There’s always a final speech with these guys when they suit up to meet the gunslinger,” I said. “I guess I’m headed for that train.”
Mike grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway, laughing at me. “Don’t flatter yourself, Coop. You’re no Grace Kelly.”
“You find the gunslinger?” I asked, as Mike closed the door behind me. “Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”
“I’ve got a confession to make.” He backed me against the wall, in between a pair of rusted steam pipes. “I have to tell—”
“Just don’t start with a ‘come to Jesus’ speech now, okay? I am so not in the mood for that.”
“I know.” He was running his fingers through his hair.
“You’ve got serious work to do. You’ve got to find this sick bastard before he hurts somebody else. So if you’re up here to feed me more bull—”
“I lied to you. That’s what I want you to know.”
“Somehow, I think I did know that, Detective. I can’t believe that I actually fell hook, line, and sinker for the old ‘sick mother’ bit.”
“Look, I did get the twenty-one-day rip, okay? Th
at was all true. The commissioner wanted me publicly hung out to dry.”
“Thank you for that really pleasant reminder of your affair.”
“It’s not fair to call it that, Coop.”
“No, but it’s more tasteful than the alternative.”
“I went to Ireland first, okay? You know that part is real.”
“Phone calls from Dublin numbers. Postcards stamped and marked from Derry and from Ballydesmond. Brilliant tradecraft, Mr. Bond. Must be true then, mustn’t it?”
“You and that hair-trigger temper. If it wasn’t so annoying, it would be almost attractive.”
“But it’s not the least bit attractive. It’s just all I’ve got in me at this point. So why not step aside,” I said, pushing against Mike’s chest, “and go find Nikolay Blunt. Why does any of this matter right now?”
“’Cause it’s been eating at me, okay? I hate to see you this way, this wound up. You’ve been working like a dog on these murders, and you should be with us when we get this guy.”
I raised my eyes to see if Mike was joking. “For real?”
“Yeah. But I’m not in control of that. I’m working on Scully, Coop. I really am.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Okay, I’ll buy the part about the three-week rip in Ireland. And the lie?”
Mike leaned one hand against the wall, beside my right shoulder, while the other continued to brush back his hair. “You know about the ILP?”
“Sure.” He was talking about the International Liaison Program, an intelligence initiative with the NYPD, formed after 9/11 as a counterterrorism plan. The department recruited officers from within specialized units to be stationed abroad in eleven cities—everywhere from Moscow and Lyons to Tel Aviv and Manila.
“I’m not a likely candidate for intel, am I?” Mike laughed nervously.
“Skip the false modesty, Detective. You’re the smartest guy I know—about some things.”
“Turns out Scully had a plan for me. I mean, the rip could have been just for a week and he would have been satisfied. But he suspended me for three so guys in the department would know I really got stung.”
Terminal City (Alex Cooper) Page 28
