Terminal City (26 page)

“Okay. I’m thinking the Vineyard.”

“Then take some deep breaths. Imagine the clam chowder you’re about to eat is from the Bite,” Mike said, referring to the tiny shack in the fishing village of Menemsha where the Quinn sisters served up the most spectacular chowder and fried clams. “And that Mercer’s oysters and my lobster are from Larsen’s Fish Market. You almost home, Coop?”

I opened my eyes and looked at Mike, who was naming my favorite island haunts. “Almost there. But my recurring nightmare is that Raymond Tanner will be along for the ride.”

“He’s got Mercer and me to contend with. And over your shoulder? Lieutenant Correlli’s about to crash our little soiree.”

I looked around. Rocco was walking toward our table from the bar, carrying a glass of red wine.

“Safety in numbers, I guess.”

“I just want to apologize to you, Alex,” he said, as he lowered himself into the fourth chair at the table.

“You didn’t do anything, Loo. No need to apologize.”

“I mean, this bastard keeps giving us the slip. I gotta say he’s really good at it.”

“Serial rapists? If they weren’t good at extricating themselves from every kind of situation, they’d be one-time offenders.”

“Scully talked to Battaglia,” Rocco said. “I told Mercer—”

“Right. That’s how you knew we’d still be here. The commissioner and the district attorney have got me under wraps for the night.”

The waiter arrived with a steaming bowl of New England clam chowder. The restaurant’s air-conditioning—and the chills I’d had since Tanner put his hands on me—made the soup a welcome sight, despite the temperature on the street.

“Just till we nab him, Alex,” the lieutenant said, gnawing on an unlighted cigarette.

“I hear you’ve got your best guys on the hunt. So I guess I should just hibernate until Groundhog Day? Don’t want to be a strain on your resources.”

“Don’t lose it now, Alex.” Rocco Correlli leaned in and clinked his glass against mine. “We figured out the link. Like Mike says, nothing’s a coincidence.”

“What link?”

“Between the sociopathic rapist who’s stalking you and the cannibal cop.”

I almost gulped a helping of my wine. “What’s that?”

“Gerardo Dominguez and Raymond Tanner,” Rocco said. “They both grew up in the same project. Fulton Houses, on 17th Street.”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more nervous. “How did—?”

“Scully had someone go back practically as far as the maternity ward. We’re with you, Alex. I promise. The pair of pervs have been linked together since childhood.”

Mike Chapman cracked the claw of his lobster. “Two scumbags under the same roof, Coop. Must have been something in the water over at Fulton.”

TWENTY-SIX

“Some days I’m simply more trouble than I’m worth,” I said.

I got into Mercer’s car and slammed the door shut. It was 7:05 in the morning, and Vickee wanted us out of sight before she got Logan out of bed.

“Sorry.”

“Everybody keeps apologizing to me. Cut it out, Mercer.”

“Vickee thought it would be too disruptive for Logan to get all juiced up if you surprised him before she put him on the bus for day camp. You’ll see him tonight.”

“Why tonight? Is this a long-term exile? Scully’s sending me to Elba?”

“Don’t start my day like this, Alex. Could be they’ll have Tanner in custody by then, and you just might choose to have dinner with the three of us because we haven’t seen much of you.”

Vickee and I had stayed up late into the night, talking and catching up on personal things. She was as smart a detective as anyone on the job and had used her skills—and our long friendship—to try to soothe and distract me.

The clothes I picked up when we stopped by my apartment were perfectly suited for a day exploring the nether regions of Grand Central Terminal. I had on a man-tailored shirt with rolled-up sleeves, hanging out over my jeans, and my running shoes. Don Ledger had told us we’d be covered in dust and soot by the time we had satisfied our curiosity.

“I’d like to do dinner,” I said. “Anytime. But on my own terms, not because I’ve been exiled.”

“Understood.”

“You hear from anyone this morning?” I asked, as Mercer drove through the quiet streets of Douglaston, a section of Queens known for its upscale suburban feel, despite its New York City address. The homes were good-looking and spacious, many of them set on large pieces of land.

“No calls. And there aren’t any news reports of bodies found.”

“We’re meeting Mike at Grand Central?”

“Eight o’clock.”

We were both pretty quiet on the ride in. I e-mailed messages to my team at the office, since it was unlikely I would see them today, depending on how things went at the terminal. It was summer Friday hours, and many of them would take off early for weekends in the Hamptons or on the Jersey Shore.

“Calls about the victim on the private train should start coming in,” I said. I was surfing the Internet for stories about the murder and saw that her photograph had been released late last night with an announcement by Scully.

The
New York Post
led with the banner headline
TERMINAL!
above a grainy shot of the murdered girl, and a caption described her last train ride through the century-old landmark as a
FAST TRACK TO DEATH
.

“Rocco’s ready.”

The highway traffic was relatively light until we reached the Triborough Bridge. Mercer navigated the lanes and made his way to the 42nd Street exit on the FDR without using lights and sirens, which was always my temptation when with him.

We reached Don Ledger’s office within the terminal at eight fifteen and found him and Mike waiting for us. Muscling through the crowd of commuters to get to him seemed more dangerous than battling traffic on the city streets.

“I’ve got permission to take you down to the subbasement,” Ledger said, after we finished the coffee he offered us.

“Is that a big deal?” I asked.

“Very big, Ms. Cooper. And not a bad place to start if you want to wreak some havoc here.”

“How could someone get in if it’s so mysterious?” Mike asked.

“Like I said, this room doesn’t exist on any blueprint of Grand Central. If I wanted to hide, it’s the perfect spot to be.”

“But off-limits to the public.”

“Course it is. My boss tells me the man you’re looking for seems to know his way around Terminal City. And I’m telling you that in the one hundred years since this place was built, no one knows where all the holes in this building are today. Or all the keys.”

“Let’s get moving,” Mike said.

The four of us began our march out of Ledger’s office and onto the main concourse. He weaved his way through the masses to the western staircase and down to the lower level, then gathered us around him at the bottom.

“We’re going to M42, the deepest basement in New York City.”

“M42?” I asked.

“Shorthand for the main substation under 42nd Street.”

“You mean that’s not where Lex Luthor’s lair is?” Mike said. In the 1978 movie version of
Superman,
the villain lived in an elegant apartment deep in the bowels of Grand Central.

“No, sir. But this one is totally off the charts, and if you wanted to bring New York City to a standstill, you’d head right for this spot in the terminal.”

We walked another three minutes to get to a deserted corridor, stopping in front of a narrow elevator door that looked too obsolete to move. Don Ledger had a chain that dangled from his belt, packed with twenty-five or thirty keys. He shuffled them to find the right one for the unmarked elevator.

There was only one button to press, and the descent was slow.

“How deep are we going?” I asked.

“Terminal City was blasted into the bedrock of Manhattan, but nothing goes farther down than this. Not the basement of the old World Trade Center, not the bullion vaults at the Federal Reserve Bank. We’re going more than ten stories under the train tracks.”

“Kind of like the water tunnel that’s being built across town,” I said, recalling the treacherous time that the three of us spent with the city’s sandhogs. I swallowed hard to clear the blockage in my ears.

“Does anyone work down here?” Mercer asked.

“Just a small crew. The original equipment has been updated, so it pretty much runs by itself.”

The doors creaked apart, and we stepped off onto a small platform to begin our hike, one by one, down a winding steel staircase. Ledger reminded us to watch our step. I held on to the railing, needing no reminder.

Three flights down, he opened a heavy door, and we were all inside M42, a concrete bunker that I guessed was at least the same size as the main concourse above us—eighty thousand square feet.

The room was sealed closed like a giant burial vault, airless and oppressive.

“You all right, Coop?” Mike asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“It’s so hot down here I can barely breathe,” I said, fanning myself with my notepad. “What’s that buzzing noise?”

“So this is the room that powers Grand Central Terminal,” Ledger said. He led us into the center of several rows of massive machines. The ones to my left looked a century old, and the ones to my right seemed much more modern.

“The noise, Ms. Cooper, comes from these rows of transformers.” Ledger was pointing to the new machines, which emitted a loud monotonous humming sound. “What transformers do is convert alternating current—you know, AC?—into direct current—DC.”

I nodded my head, although the subject had been beyond my grasp since high school.

“Most power is delivered in AC, which moves back and forth, while DC is always going in one direction. So it’s a much more efficient way to run trains.”

“I think I understand,” I said to Ledger, before turning to whisper to Mercer. “At least I understand well enough that I want to get out of this hotbox. I’m suffocating.”

He wiped his brow with his handkerchief and then handed it to me. “Be patient.”

“What happens if you stop these machines?” Mike asked.

“You bring to a halt every train going in and out of the terminal. Five hundred and thirty-eight of them a day.”

“Back-up generator?”

“Not a chance, Detective. There is no way to power up this operation if all this stops.”

“What are those antiques?” Mike asked, pointing to the older equipment and walking away from us, between the machines.

“The original rotary converters.”

Each one was the size of a small building, cylindrical in shape with a rust-colored coating on top of both. We followed Mike in between the machines, our footsteps falling like leaden weights on the concrete floor, echoing throughout the room.

“So this is what Hitler was looking for,” he said, patting the side of one of the silent giants. The machine dwarfed him. That seemed to be the scale of everything in the terminal.

“You know that story?” Ledger asked.

“Mike,” I said, “it’s way too hot in here. Let’s get out.”

He waved me off, walking away to the far side of the converter.

“What about Hitler?” Mercer asked.

“He wanted to disable the rail service along this route,” Mike said. “He figured he could disrupt troop movements for all the Eastern Seaboard embarkations by bringing the trains to a complete standstill.”

“Grand Central Terminal,” Mercer said. “One-stop shopping.”

He was as fascinated with the giant converters as Mike was.

Don Ledger pointed over at the door through which we had entered. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “If anyone unauthorized, so much as peeked through that entrance during World War Two, the orders were to shoot on sight. There were armed soldiers on duty here around the clock.”

I heard footsteps across the room, or thought I did. “What’s that noise?”

“One of the workmen, I assume,” Ledger said.

“Why would they have shot at anyone coming in?” Mercer asked.

“All it would have taken to disable that sucker was a bucket of sand thrown at it. The converter would have come to an immediate stop—they’re very fragile devices, despite their size—which would have brought the trains to a halt. So the orders were not even to let anyone explain the purpose of their visit but simply for the soldiers to take aim and shoot.”

“Did you hear that?” I was looking over my shoulder and then kneeled to peer under the converter, but I couldn’t see anyone.

“What Mr. Ledger just said?” Mercer asked.

“No. There’s someone walking on the far side of the room.”

“You’re so jumpy, Alex. People work in here, girl.”

“Saboteurs,” Mike said, paying me no mind. “They almost made it, didn’t they?”

“Came pretty damn close, too close for my taste,” Ledger said.

“Pay attention, Coop. This is stuff you ought to know.”

“I’m riveted, Mike.” I rolled my eyes at him, then kept looking back to see why the footsteps had died off and why this workman didn’t show himself to us.

“In 1942, a German sub landed four spies on the beach in Amagansett. They were actually intercepted by a young coast guard officer who saw them and questioned what they were up to. One of them, who spoke good English, told him they were fishermen. He didn’t buy the story, but he was unarmed, so he let them go.”

“I had no idea any of them landed on our beaches,” Mercer said.

“The kid called in the news, and the four were arrested a few days later, with all their plans and maps. They were determined to blow up strategic sites, like rail bridges, including the one over Hell Gate.”

“I know you’re trying to get my attention, Mike,” I said, noting his reference to the scene of one of our major investigations, at the point along the East River where the mayor’s residence sat in Manhattan.

“Pastorius.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll save your butt, Coop. It’ll be a Final Jeopardy! question one of these days and you’ll score big.”

“Not if it’s military. And not if it’s against you.”

“Think long-term. After you dump me.”

Mercer and Mike were examining the machine as we talked.

“Blow me off and that will be sooner than you think.”