Devil's Bridge

by Linda Fairstein

  “And you do,” Mercer says. “So what makes those two ordinary words so highly charged, in your view?”

  “First of all, it’s a place Coop and I have been to together—with you, too—so of course she knows the names.”

  “Of course. The night she wound up on Shooter’s Island. The Kills. You took her inside Fort Wood till the chopper came to get us.”

  “One of the shorter visits, but she knows everything about Lady Liberty that I do.”

  “Go on, Mike.”

  “We’re looking for a location, right, where kidnappers might keep a prize prisoner. Liberty Island could be the place, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not saying the worst is over or that’s where Coop is now, but it’s worth a look.”

  “Give me more.”

  “Start with the fact that it’s an island,” I said. “That makes it hard to reach, hard for people to get to. Nobody’s just going to drop in on the group, are they?”

  “You’d be wrong about that, man. You know it’s a draw for tourists.”

  “Pay attention to your local news, Mercer. The island was closed to visitors as of Labor Day, for the next six months. They’re replacing all the rivets in the statue—like, twelve thousand of them, repairing the Lady’s nostril and some of her missing hair curls, and pressure washing the whole damn thing to get rid of ten years of bird droppings.”

  “And you think they’d be hiding, like, what, inside the torch?”

  “Don’t blow me off, okay? When’s the last time you were out there?”

  “Like most New Yorkers, never, except that night on business.”

  “Then hear me out, Mercer. She’s massive, the statue. Yeah, you could get lost inside her. Hitchcock did it. Robert Cummings. Saboteur,” I said. I was jumpy and agitated, talking at a staccato clip, like a hyperactive kid. “But she stands on top of an old army fort.”

  I had just pointed out the eleven-point star-shaped structure to Jimmy North an hour earlier.

  “Fort Wood was built for the War of 1812 and eventually used as a garrison after the Civil War. It actually forms the foundation of the statue, the base of it.”

  “So there are still military structures on the island?” Mercer asked.

  “I don’t know what’s inside the pedestal of the statue or the remains of the fort itself, but it’s one of the great restored ruins of the city. The island is twelve acres, so there’s also a small park and a bunch of outbuildings, even a caretaker’s home,” I said. “And it’s one of the few places around Manhattan that you can only reach by boat. Only by boat.”

  “And the trail of bread crumbs brought us right here to a boat basin. That’s useful.”

  “Coop likes all things French, and I’m into military history. That’s why the clues work.”

  “Tell me that again,” Mercer said.

  “All right. The sculptor who had the idea to build this great statue is a Frenchman. His name is Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi.”

  “How are you even sure that Alex knows his name?”

  “Coop’s been there plenty of times, by ferry. It’s one of the first places she takes out-of-town guests. She thinks the Lady is a glorious creature.”

  “Why does she figure you know the Frenchman’s name, well enough for her to have you catch on to the word Bar in her text?”

  “The whole point of the statue, Mercer, is to commemorate the Declaration of Independence and French aid to the Revolutionary War,” I said. “It was a gift from the French Republic because of the longtime alliance of the two nations in achieving America’s freedom. That’s why Liberty is holding a tablet inscribed with the year 1776.”

  “Of course. There’s a military aspect to the island.”

  “Who do you think picked the site for the statue? Who took Bartholdi to the little island in the bay?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Ever hear of a dude named William Tecumseh Sherman, the Civil War general?”

  “Sure. Scorched earth,” Mercer said. “Man refused to employ black troops in his army.”

  “One and the same. He was considered to be the first modern general—well, except for his views on race. I’ve read his memoirs, so that’s how come I know about Bartholdi,” I said. “When Bartholdi came to this country for the second time, President Rutherford Hayes assigned General Sherman to meet him in order to choose the location for the statue.”

  Mercer pursed his lips. He was thinking about it all.

  “So you want any more on Bartholdi? That he fought in the Franco-Prussian War? That he first wanted to build this statue for Ismail the Magnificent, the pasha of Egypt, to mark the opening of the Suez Canal? Give me a war zone and I’ll give you the answers.”

  “I’m just trying to be your devil’s advocate, Mike.”

  “I got Captain Abruzzi, Dr. Friedman, and half the Major Case squad playing that role. Save your energy.” I was walking along the dock, inspecting the small motor launches that were tucked into their moorings.

  “So what is Bedloe? Bed. How did that one hit you?”

  “It wouldn’t have leaped out at me without Bartholdi, but the combination did it. The island wasn’t renamed Liberty until the 1950s,” I said. “Isaac Bedloe was a Dutch colonist. He actually owned the entire little island. Named for him. Bedloe Island, it was, for more than a hundred years.”

  “Owned it? Why is that?”

  “A few of the islands in New York Harbor, including Ellis and Liberty, were called the Oyster Islands by the Dutch, because they were so rich in oyster beds. Bedloe was a well-to-do merchant in the seventeenth century who bought the place. He imported tobacco from Virginia and exported pickled oysters.”

  I saw the boat I wanted to use to motor down to Liberty Island. It was fairly new and appeared to be in great condition, with a pair of three-hundred-horsepower Mercury Verado outboard engines strapped on the stern.

  “It’s because of Fort Wood that I know about Bedloe,” I said. “I’ve always been fascinated by the forts that were built to guard New York. Wood had eleven bastions and thirty guns protecting the western entrance to the harbor. I doubt they were ever used.”

  I picked up the pace and started walking to the marina office, back at the entrance to the dock area. Jimmy North was standing under the first arch, watching Mercer and me. I waved at him to come out on the pier.

  “You’re serious about taking a look around the island?” Mercer asked.

  Jimmy approached and I asked him what Peterson was doing. “Wrapping up with the two officers. I think he’s about to go uptown to his office.”

  “Dead serious, Mercer,” I said, turning to look at him but walking backward toward the rotunda. Then I whipped around and talked to Jimmy. “You stay here. Let me tell Peterson we’ll do some more snooping around the marina. No need for full disclosure quite yet.”

  “Sometimes, Mike, I really wonder about you,” Mercer said.

  I backed him off with my hand.

  “I was just coming out to get you,” Peterson said.

  “Tell you what, Loo,” I said. “The three of us will check out the boat basin parking garage for missing plates and stuff. I’m about to go talk to the marina manager to see whether he can suggest some locals to interview. Why don’t you call me when you get a list of names of all the owners, and Mercer, Jimmy, and I can put our heads together? We’ll see if any of this relates to Coop.”

  Peterson reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “I like how you’ve pulled yourself together, son. Back there in Scully’s office I was afraid you’d get all hotheaded and go off script.”

  “You know I’m a team player. But I gotta tell you, Loo, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You’ve got to give me some space.”

  “We’ll pull out all the stops, Chapman,” he said, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he moved them. “I’ll call you as soon as we get the list of boat owner names from the real estate office that controls the rentals.”

  I thanked him for everyt
hing he was doing to find Coop.

  Then, when Peterson disappeared into the shadows under the roadway, I hustled back to the dock. Mercer and Jimmy were on their phones, checking for updates and messages.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the crusty old guy who was sitting in the tiny marina office. His radio was tuned to the VHF emergency channel and his TV muted, but with the local all-news channel playing. “I’m Detective Chapman. Mike Chapman.”

  I showed him the blue and gold. He wasn’t impressed.

  “I’d like to rent a small boat for a couple of hours this afternoon.”

  “We don’t usually rent boats. We rent slips. Gotta have your own boat.” He didn’t look up from his copy of the New York Post, which featured a cover shot of the mayor tripping and falling on top of a protestor on the steps of City Hall. He had landed upside down, looking cockeyed and disoriented. The DAZED AND CONFUSED headline made me smile.

  “I’m not interested in what you usually do. I’m interested in what I need right now.”

  “You got a captain’s license?”

  “It expired.”

  “Which boat are you looking at?”

  “There’s a thirty-two-foot Intrepid out on the first dock.”

  “You got good taste.” The man looked up at me for the first time.

  “Three hours, maybe four,” I said, reaching into my wallet. “In exchange for my driver’s license.”

  He stood up and walked over to a long metal box, unlocked it, and lifted one of the keys. “Have it back by April 1, Mr. Chapman. No nicks, no scratches. I assume this is official police business?”

  “It is.”

  “Then no nicks, no scratches, and no blood. The owner don’t even fish with this gem. She can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Where’d you learn to drive a boat?” the man said, stripping off the seat covers and rolling down the isinglass cover that kept the cockpit dry.

  “Martha’s Vineyard. Out of Menemsha,” I said. “Mostly fish off Devil’s Bridge in Aquinnah.”

  “If you can navigate those waters without breaking up, you’ll be fine in the Hudson,” he said, stepping back onto the dock and handing me the keys. “That’s your chart-plotter screen on the left. Tells you where you are and operates the radar.”

  “Check.”

  Mercer and Jimmy were scoping the river as they settled in, one on the white leather seats in the bow and the other in the stern.

  “Your depth finder there, and this here’s the VHF radio. Keep it on channel sixteen unless the coast guard tells you otherwise.”

  “Check, boss. What does she draw?”

  “Three feet, no more than that. Keep her off the shoals.”

  “Won’t be a problem.” The Liberty Island perimeter had been dredged to receive ferries and large boats. This little speedster wouldn’t present an issue getting right up to a dockage.

  “Don’t forget this baby has all the latest Furuno navigational systems. All you have to do is steer it,” he said. “It’s even got AIS.”

  “What’s that?” Mercer asked.

  “Automatic identification system,” I said. “We pop up on the radar screen of other boats in our range. It tells them who we are. It names our vessel.”

  “What is the name of this boat?” Mercer said.

  I hadn’t even paid attention to what was painted on the hull.

  “She’s the Dolly Mama.”

  I leaned over and looked at the stern, where the name was painted in bold gold letters. “Not named for a monk, is it?”

  “Nope. Owned by a woman named Dolly Dan, with eight grandkids,” he said. “She winters in Palm Beach. Good people. Keep it clean and she’ll never know.”

  I walked to the console and put the key in to turn on the engines.

  “Keep in mind, Mr. Chapman, there are no channel markers in this part of the Hudson.”

  “Check.”

  “As you pull out and enter the channel, give it one long blast of your horn,” he said.

  “Aye, aye.”

  He had untied the ropes from the cleats that held the boat against the dock and I was more than ready to kick off.

  “Nice and slow in the river, okay?” he said, calling out his final instructions. “No need to rough it up by making a big wake. Everybody’s polite.”

  “Thanks for the loaner. See you later.”

  I put my hand on the throttle to get the boat in gear, honked the horn, and moved out onto the river, plowing straight across to the Jersey side to then turn left and head downriver with the flow of the traffic.

  “Here’s a pair of binoculars,” I said to Jimmy, removing them from beneath the driver’s seat. “You scan the shoreline.”

  “Looking for—?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it, pal. Best I can do.”

  “Do you really know how to drive this thing?” Mercer asked, coming around behind the windshield to stand beside me.

  “We’ll soon find out,” I said. “Kind of think it’s like riding a bike. It’ll come back to me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Peterson the truth?”

  “About our outing?”

  The wind picked up once I powered the engines to fifteen knots. My hair was blowing and the cool air lifted my wilting shirt, which had felt as though it was glued to my body.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then he’d feel obliged to take it up the chain of command and we’d be called down to Scully’s office and I’d be trying to make sense to those guys about the way these clues and the geography of the boat basin and Liberty Island feel right in my solar plexus,” I said. “And by then it’d be close to midnight and we’d have lost the whole day to bureaucratic bullshit. You worried about hanging with me? You want me out here alone?”

  “I have one worry, Mike. Just like you,” Mercer said. “I want to find Alex.”

  The channel was full of activity—everyone taking advantage of being out on the Hudson on this spectacular day. I pulled back a bit on the throttle, happy to let others maneuver around me.

  The buildings on the New Jersey side of the riverbank were a mix of new condos, old warehouses, and a variety of large and small boat moorings.

  We went past West New York and Union City off to my right, slowing even more so that Mercer could scour the shoreline action. Jimmy had his binoculars focused on the Manhattan side of the water as we passed through the West Sixties and Fifties.

  There was a large marina above Weehawken Cove, just opposite the Hudson Rail Yards in Chelsea. “It’s bustling in there,” Mercer said, asking for Jimmy to hand him the binoculars. “Can you do a slow turnaround?”

  “Fingers crossed,” I said, waiting for a water taxi to pass before I veered left and made a lazy circle with the boat.

  “You know the ways those guys—if those are the guys,” Jimmy said, pointing at the crowded marina, “you know the way they passed off license plates and then one of them ditched the SUV in Queens and the others probably got on some small boat, I’m guessing? Could be these guys had another boat waiting, right? Could have off-loaded their cargo anywhere along here, couldn’t they?”

  “Everything’s possible,” Mercer said. “Let’s take each opportunity as she comes.”

  “On our way?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We can check out Chelsea Piers on the return, if we come up empty.”

  “Okay.”

  I was familiar with all the landmarks on the Manhattan side, but it was fascinating to see them from an entirely different perspective. There were new parks between the highway and the river just south of the Meatpacking District, which had once been such a rough part of town. The growth of tall buildings in Tribeca was a dramatic change, and the spectacular design of Battery Park City—ninety-three acres of land reclaimed from the Hudson River when the original World Trade Center was constructed for a mix of residential homes, commercial use, and parkland—never ceased to overwhelm me. That was especially true, I think, because i
t was the brainchild of Coop’s brilliant uncle, a renowned architect and city planner—the Alexander Cooper for whom she was named.

  All roads led me back to Alexandra Cooper.

  We were closing in on the southern tip of Manhattan Island, where the original colonial settlement had given way to the financial center surrounding Wall Street.

  Off to the right was the enormous Colgate Clock, first erected in 1906 and now refurbished—fifty feet tall. The factory it had been built to advertise was long gone, but the bright, bold face of the timepiece reminded me that it was two fifteen in the afternoon.

  An armada of container ships seemed to be navigating the harbor in the Upper Bay. Some would make their way past us toward Albany, others were headed to the East River, and still more were on their way to the ocean and points all around the world.

  How easy it was to hide a body in a container bound for a third world country. I had seen that movie dozens of times.

  I steadied my hand on the throttle, steering the sturdy Intrepid closer to Ellis Island, my back to the sweeping vista of Governors Island, which had so haunted Coop after our encounter there with a crazed killer.

  We didn’t have far to go now.

  We were off the tip of Ellis Island when I noticed a roadway. There was actually a paved bridge connecting Ellis, through which twelve million immigrants had come to this country, to the New Jersey mainland. Cars and trucks could access the island, which wasn’t the case with Liberty.

  “Can you see anything over there with the binoculars, Jimmy?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember knowing about any bridge to these islands,” Mercer said.

  “Only Ellis.”

  “A few cars and some delivery vans crossing back to Jersey,” Jimmy said. “And it looks like there’s a bunch more cars parked at the rear of the island.”

  “We ought to put that on our list for the way back, too,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Mercer said. “Much easier access with a car.”

  “The SUV was abandoned, guys,” I said. “And it appears that three of the four people that were in it when Officer Stern saw it got out of it at or near the boat basin. I’m betting they used a boat to leave Manhattan, and I’m feeling lucky.”