Bad Blood (42 page)

Mike started up the steps again. He turned and saw me looking over my shoulder at the train tracks. He held up his thumb like a hitchhiker on the road. “Out?”

I caught up to him.

“Look, I can wave down a motorman. Get one to take you out,” Mike said softly.

I hesitated but didn’t answer.

“It’s like a rabbit warren inside. An old wooden ticket booth, subway cars that have rotted out over time, piles of old IRT station signs. If Brendan Quillian is actually hiding here, I promise I’ll call in the cavalry. I just think Teddy O’Malley is playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game with me and I want to see what it is.”

“I’m a musketeer, aren’t I?”

Mike continued up to the top of the tall staircase and I followed. This time, as soon as he flashed his light on the door, the two-foot-square opening at its base became obvious. A trapdoor lifted from the top, on a hinge, as he pressed on it.

“Can you do it?”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Crawl on your belly like a reptile. Four feet. Maybe six.”

“Remember me?” I whispered. “I’m the one who’s claustrophobic.”

“A short shimmy. Then it expands onto this huge mezzanine. Wide-open spaces that you like, with a grand staircase that floats up like a back door to City Hall. Put on your tap shoes and you can do a Busby Berkeley while I see if my hunch about O’Malley is right.”

“Won’t the mayor be surprised to see us, coming in through his basement?”

“That’s why the plan to revamp it didn’t work.” Mike knelt down and shone the light in. “Not as dusty as you’d think. Transit buffs and creepers sneaking in and out of here all the time.”

“But why?”

“Whack jobs. There are antiquated, closed-up stations — not quite as nice as this one — all over town. These train nuts love to make believe it’s the good old days. Ten of them camped out here two years ago and threw a party.”

Mike was about to kneel down when his cell phone vibrated. “Yeah? Where are you, Mercer?” He waited for an answer. “Has O’Malley returned your call? Don’t you think it’s strange that he hasn’t? A visit to Trish Quillian, and then he simply goes out of range and we lose him.”

There was a longer pause. “Coming in how? Behind us? That’ll make Coop happy. Second staircase after the train makes the curve into the station. Tell the loo this might be for nothing, but he’s welcome to join us.”

“What will I be happy about?”

“Mercer’s taking the train into the loop just the way we did. Peterson wants a team ready at the old entrance, just in case we’re onto something. And not a peep back from O’Malley. In with me? Those slacks looked ready for the dry cleaners last time you wore them.”

“In with you,” I said quietly.

Mike stretched out on the floor. “Grab my foot, you’ll feel better.”

He had become much more reckless since the tragic accident that took Valerie’s life. I didn’t know how to slow him down, and I didn’t want to leave him in this tunnel now. I was tired and confused, and hoping that Mercer would catch up with us quickly.

Mike propelled himself through the short passageway — the kind I imagined one might find at the base of an Egyptian pyramid — and I followed on my hands and knees, holding on to his good ankle whenever I could. He turned off his flashlight as his head emerged through the narrow space.

Within seconds we had entered the large chamber of the original station. He stood up and helped me to my feet.

Again, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I turned slowly in a circle to take in the enormous room that had been the crown jewel in New York’s first underground transit system — a little vaulted town beneath the city.

Mike signaled me to stand still and not to speak. Silhouettes of the token booth and a decommissioned “redbird” — one of the old painted subway cars that had been taken out of service years ago — took shape in front of us on the mezzanine level of the original station. Larger chandeliers than those on the platform hung from the interiors of the tall arches against cream-colored tiles that glistened in the background.

But still not a sound to be heard.

Three minutes. Then five passed before Mike satisfied himself that there was no one in proximity to us and took a few more steps. He had drawn his gun and waved his left arm to motion me to fall in place behind him.

I waited as he approached the token booth. He leaned his back against the outer corner of it, then pivoted around and pointed his gun inside, the way I had seen him do on so many occasions when reconnoitering a dangerous location. It was empty.

Fifteen feet farther into the station was the redbird, left on display from an earlier renovation. The doors were open, and as I got closer, I could see that the dried bamboo strips on the seats had been gnawed through and the stuffing scattered on the floor of the car. But no one was inside.

Mike pointed off to the side and, emboldened by the quiet reception, turned on his flashlight again. There was indeed a grand staircase, and over the span in front of it, the lettering that identified
CITY HALL
in even larger tiles, surrounded by a bright green ceramic that lightened the drab, earthenware shades of the ones around it.

“That’s the way up to the original kiosk entrance. Let’s see if there’s still an exit to get out to the street,” Mike said.

He leaned on the railing along the wall to support his bad foot, and I climbed beside him. At the top of the landing, he bent over to rub his ankle as I made the turn and started on up. I could see the black wrought-iron framework of a doorway and was glad it was in easy reach, hoping it would be rigged for egress to Centre Street.

I stopped myself when I saw something else — almost like a padded black cushion — blocking the staircase at the very top.

“There’s something there, Mike,” I said, short of breath — from fear, not exertion.

“Give me the light.”

He took the last few steps in pairs and, reaching my side, directed the beam at the floor.

I saw the blood first. Pools of red blood — still wet, and still more oozing from the hulking frame of whoever was lying in front of the doorway.

Mike went even closer and rolled back the shoulder of the large body.

“My God,” he said. “O’Malley. It’s Teddy O’Malley.”

He grabbed Teddy’s wrist to feel for a pulse, but the two bullet holes to the back, as I could see from the blood that had seeped out of the wounds, had done their job. “The man is dead.”

Mike and I got down the steps as fast as we could travel. When I reached the station floor, I could hear Mercer’s voice coming from the direction of the crawl space.

“We’re okay. Stay there. We’re coming out,” I said.

“Brendan Quillian?” Mercer asked.

“I think he killed O’Malley. Don’t know if he’s still here or not. Maybe he’s taken off already — got what he wanted or needed from O’Malley.”

Mike reached my side. “Move it, Coop,” he said, pushing my back.

For the first time, I heard noise in the great room behind Mike. I looked around, terrified that Quillian might be coming after us.

Rats, three or four of them, were running in the shadows cast across the room by Mike’s flashlight. Their tiny claws scratched at the flooring as they raced along.

“They smell the blood,” Mike said. “Get out of here.”

I scrambled through the crawl space and was met by Mercer, who helped me to my feet and reached for Mike after me. The trapdoor dropped on its hinge and slammed shut.

Before we could speak, I could hear the next train approaching. Mike stepped to the edge of the platform and aimed the flashlight at his badge, his gun reholstered on his hip. This time, he wanted the motorman to stop for us.

The train seemed to brake as it approached the tight curve in the black tunnel, but the driver was probably unable to see Mike’s detective shield, so he speeded up again at the sight of the three of us in a place we were not supposed to be.

“You know this tunnel?” Mercer asked Mike. “Any other way out?”

“Yeah, there’s a few choices. Probably the easiest is how O’Malley walked in from the Brooklyn Bridge stop. There’s an abandoned strip of track you pick up right off the far north end of the platform. Takes you back to civilization.”

Mercer speed-dialed the lieutenant on his cell. “Bringing out Mike and Alex. Couldn’t get the last train to stop. Motorman must think we look like a politically correct stickup team, trying to hijack him. You think you can do that for us, or do we have to slog our way out through some defunct tunnel Chapman thinks he can find?” Mercer said. “And Teddy O’Malley’s dead, inside the station.”

Mercer listened to Peterson’s response. “Wait up,” he said to the lieutenant, “let me ask Mike.”

“What’d he say?” Mike asked.

“You want to hold tight here? He’ll have a team try to get on with one of the next motormen to pick us up. He’d prefer that to having you tiptoe around the third-rail hot spots. Wants to know if you think Quillian’s still around.”

“I’m clueless. Tell him to bring in all the backup he’s got. Slowly and carefully. There’s all kinds of tunnels and passageways inside this place.”

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Can I talk to him?”

Mercer passed the phone to me.

“Alex, you okay? Battaglia’ll have my ass with you being in there,” Peterson said.

“Yes, I’m fine. Would you call over to the Fifth?” I asked. The nearby Fifth Precinct station house was on Elizabeth Street, a two-minute ride from our location, with lights and sirens blaring. “Tell whoever’s on the desk to send a patrol car to a shop on Bayard called Uncle Charlie’s. They all know it.”

“What for?”

“As fast as they can go, tell Charlie I need
baozhang.
Hear me? I said
baozhang.
Tell him I need bamboo sticks, as big as he’s got. And matches — I want matches, too.” I had been reminded of the sticks when I saw the dried-out bamboo seats of the antique train car.

“Alex, what kind of—”

“Trust me on this, Loo. Do it fast.”

The three of us were marooned on the narrow strip of platform until Peterson could get a train to stop and pick us up. The skylight that hung overhead was now sheathed in darkness as night settled over the city.

I was sandwiched between the two men as we waited for an escort out.

“
Baozhang?
I haven’t thought of the stuff since you convicted that Asian gang of the Chinese New Year rape. You planning a celebration?” Mercer said.

“I’m celebrating big as soon as we get out of here. No need to wait for the Fourth of July.”

“I’m not in the mood for a take-out dinner, whatever the hell you just ordered,” Mike said.

“I like her thinking, Mike.” Mercer patted me on the back, stroking my shoulder for reassurance.

Off to the south of us came some unexpected noise. Instinctively, Mike raised his arm and the light caught another phalanx of rats — big ones, with long, pink tails, scurrying up and over the edge of the platform, disappearing out of sight around the curve.

Mike started to walk in that direction. “You wait with Coop,” he said to Mercer.

“Stay tight, Mike.”

He waved off Mercer’s admonition.

“You’ve got the only light. What are you doing?”

Mike stopped.

We both knew that he was looking for Quillian, but Mercer didn’t want the killer to be found until some reinforcements arrived. Something had caused the rodents to dance out of their habitat within the old station. If this wasn’t their regular feeding time, then perhaps their flight was caused by an intruder.

I looked back to the north, willing a train to arrive, but the evening schedule would bring them less frequently now.

“So there’s a side tunnel off to the north,” Mercer said, barely loud enough for me to hear. “And what about that way? To the south.”

As Mike pointed, we could see to our left the active tracks of the old loop, where the #6 train finished its turnaround. “Over to the right of the raised platform there’s another black hole, now abandoned — another sandhog excavation. It’s a cylinder — nine feet around — built as a pneumatic mail system almost a century ago.”

“Does it open onto this?” Mercer asked.

Mike nodded.

My eyes were playing tricks with me now. The rats were running in our direction, turned back by whatever had disturbed them. The glare from their eyes, like beady little headlights coming toward us, drew my sights to the level of the ground. But along the distant curving wall, something taller — something the size of a human — was moving slowly in the opposite direction.

I didn’t want to call the figure to Mike’s attention. It couldn’t be more than a minute before the next train was due into the loop. I didn’t want him going after this desperate man alone.

I looked over my shoulder again but saw no sign of the #6. When I turned my head back, Mike had already spotted the figure under the farthest arch of the platform.

“Quillian! Freeze!” Both Mike and Mercer drew their guns.

“Alex,” Mercer said in his firmest voice, “get back up on there.”

I retreated to the second step of the staircase, my heart pounding as I watched Mike start to trot lamely toward Quillian.

The fugitive raised an arm. He had a gun, too, and I had no idea how much ammunition he had left, or whether he had discharged any bullets in the days since he’d left the courtroom — before putting two rounds in Teddy O’Malley’s back.

“Give it up, Quillian,” Mike said. “There’s cops on both ends of the tunnel — and a very hot third rail in between.”

Mike was too far from Quillian — and it was pitch-black around them — for either to take aim and shoot, but I ached at how exposed both Mike and Mercer were on the narrow platform. Once the train made its approach, they’d be silhouetted in its high beams and at a great disadvantage in the standoff if Quillian fired at them.

“Come over here,” I hissed at both of them, but they didn’t move.

Brendan Quillian must have been inching farther away, his back against the wall. I couldn’t see the movement, but I heard Mike yell at him to stop.

Then his shadow picked up speed as he seemed to reach a corner and round it. Mike barked again and ran away from Mercer and me, slowed by his weak ankle.