Terminal City (29 page)

Smitty continued. “Supposed to be that Roosevelt was seen by more than a million people that day.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mercer said.

“Now what happens,” Smitty went on, “is that the whole train pulls into the tunnel here, and these last two cars are uncoupled on these tracks, while everyone else goes on ahead to the terminal.”

He gestured behind him to the elevator. “The Pierce-Arrow gets lowered down from the armored car and drives the prez across this short platform, onto the elevator.”

“It looks so narrow,” I said.

“Built for the specs of the presidential limo,” Smitty said. “Just wide enough to hold the car, and just tall enough to fit the Secret Service guys who stood on the running board. And nobody—nobody—ever saw that the big dude didn’t have a pair of legs he could stand up on.”

I could hear someone hurrying down the metal staircase that ran to the rear of the elevator. The man had on a blue Metro-North uniform and was carrying a metal ring, six inches wide, with several dozen keys hanging around it.

“I apologize for being late. I had to get all the skeletons,” the man said, waving the wad of keys. “What is it you gentlemen want to see?”

“Get us into this train,” Mike said.

“That’s damn near rusted shut. All I can do is try,” he said, fumbling with the keys.

“When’s the last time it was opened?”

“To my knowledge, it’s been years.”

“Are you still expecting the presidential train on Sunday?” I asked.

“We certainly are. It pulls in end-to-end with this one.”

“Is it also armored?”

The man scowled at me. “I can’t tell you anything about that, miss.”

“Look, I’m the prosecutor who’s working on these murder cases.”

“Do you have federal security clearance?”

“No, but I’m—”

“Then I don’t care who or what you are, I’m not authorized to tell you anything about the president’s train,” he said, mounting the steps to the platform of the armored car.

“You might be making a slip here, bro,” Smitty said with a laugh. “I think that’s the lady who’s driving this operation. The dude sitting on top of your train? He works for her.”

“Used to be that was true, Smitty,” Mike said, lowering himself onto the platform. “It’s why I look as old as I do.”

The Metro-North security guard was at the door of the train. He was trying to manipulate the key in the lock, but he couldn’t get it to turn.

Mike was at his back, expressing his impatience. The man became frustrated and passed the key to Mike, who rattled and rattled the knob until it finally gave out.

“Coop, you and Mercer walk it with me.”

I grabbed the railing and boosted myself onto the platform, followed by Mercer. Mike led the way, shining his flashlight into the dark, long-unventilated space.

The first part of the antiquated car was a lounge and dining area. Displayed on a shelf above the table was china bearing the presidential seal, and next to each chair—at eye level—was one of the slits that served as a window.

In the bathroom beyond the lounge was a small laminated sign that read
ESCAPE HATCH
, and directly opposite was a wheelchair, locked into place against the wall.

I knew Mike was looking for a murder victim, but the excitement of living history was what seized my imagination.

The next bay was the garage designed to hold the Pierce-Arrow. No car in place, but all the trappings to secure it, and a photograph on the wall—opposite the very large pocket doors and the lift—of the president and first lady riding in the smart silver machine.

Beyond that were two bedrooms—his and hers—that had taken on a very shabby look over the years. There were also small quarters for staff. To our great relief, none of the areas had been disturbed by our killer.

“I would have bet money our guy had been in here,” Mike said, “but not a sign of it.”

He turned around and ushered me out of Eleanor’s bedroom. “We’ve got to go, Coop.”

The Metro-North security guard was smug. “There are some places one simply can’t penetrate,” he said. “That’s why the president will be safe here.”

“You just never know,” Smitty said, grinning at me. “All depends on who’s around. I got peeps down here could be a greeting committee come Sunday and scare the crap out of the man.”

“Back off,” Hank Brantley said.

“How about the elevator?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Does it go up to the Tower suites?”

“Now that would be foolish, miss, wouldn’t it? A car inside the hotel.”

“Open the elevator for us,” Mike said. “Ms. Cooper is a lot of crazy-ass things, but foolish isn’t one of them. Where does the damn thing go?”

“You’ve probably passed the elevator doors thousands of times on the street,” the guard said, fishing out the key—double-checking that he had the right one before he inserted it in the keyhole below the call button.

“What street?” I tried to imagine anything that looked like an elevator door but couldn’t.

“Forty-ninth Street, miss,” the agent said. He pressed the button, and the doors slid apart. We said good-bye to Hank and Smitty, and the three of us stepped on with him. “This was a pipe shaft before the siding was constructed for the hotel to receive its special guest.”

The conveyance was very primitive and slow to move up the shaft to its destination. The brick walls were exposed, and steam pipes still lined them from top to bottom.

“How often does this get used?” Mike asked.

“Never,” the guard said. “Why would it be?”

“And who has keys? Who has keys to all these remote outposts? This elevator, the president’s railcar, M42?”

“There are a good number of keys, Detective. There are occasional emergencies and many of us in senior positions have sets of skeleton keys.”

“How many and who are they is what he wants to know,” Mercer said. “Whoever you work for, you call and say we need that complete list in an hour.”

“We’ll be over in the stationmaster’s office,” Mike said. “Get it to us there.”

The doors slid back, and as they opened, the sunlight was almost blinding.

“Wait,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare, “there’s something here.”

Mike’s hand was already pressing against the small of my back. “Step out, Coop. Where are we?”

I took three steps forward and spun around, telling the guard to hold the door for a minute.

We were on East 49th Street, in the middle of the block between Park and Lexington Avenues, the south side of the great hotel. The portal to the elevator doors was gleaming in gilded paint, dappled by the sun’s rays. It looked more like the entrance to an exclusive spa than to a dilapidated railroad car siding and, yes, each of us had passed it by many hundreds of times.

“The president’s car would come out right here,” the guard said, “and one sharp right turn puts you directly into the Waldorf-Astoria garage.”

The garage opening was fifteen feet from the gilded doors. The killer could have been in and out in seconds, without being seen on the street.

“Damn it,” Mike said. “I got sidetracked when I was looking for the garage surveillance footage. That’s when we got the call about the body in the private car.”

“I kept the team on it,” Mercer said. “The camera was blinded, just like so many of the others. Your instincts were right.”

“One more thing,” I said, stepping back into the elevator with the Metro-North guard. “Our killer was in this elevator shaft, so you’d better hurry up with that list of key-holders you’re looking for.”

“How can you tell?” Mike asked, doubling back to study whatever I was looking at. “He didn’t drop anything. There’s nothing on the floor.”

“Where’s the best place to look for prints in an elevator?” I asked.

There was the clear outline of a fingerprint on the call button of the old cab, right on top of the letter
D
, which would have taken the man down. We didn’t need powder to bring its detail into focus. It was patent—obvious to the human eye—not latent.

“My bet is that it will match the profile of the man who cut himself in the suite at the Waldorf Towers.”

Mike was trying to push me aside so that he could see the smudge himself. “What if anyone else pushed the same button after that? Impossible to get a clean lift.”

“No one can get in this elevator,” the guard said. But I wasn’t listening to him.

“This one’s in blood, Mike. Get someone from the squad over here to lift it ASAP. It’s a fingerprint highlighted in the blood of the man who killed Corinne Thatcher, and it’s giving us his escape route.”

THIRTY-ONE

The three of us practically raced back to Grand Central in the afternoon heat, moving south on Park Avenue, caught in the early exit of many professionals also heading to the terminal for their weekend getaways.

Rocco Correlli was waiting for us in the stationmaster’s office. We took over Don Ledger’s desk after learning that he was resting comfortably at New York University Hospital and would be released after twenty-four hours of observation.

“I need you in the next room, Alex.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“The Tsarlev girl’s roommate just got in. We need you to calm her down and get the story.”

“Of course. Was Ryan able to reach Corinne’s parents and brother?”

“Yeah, but so far there’s no obvious connection. Not by age or neighborhood or school or job. Total disconnect.”

“That only fits if he’s picked them at random, Rocco,” I said, “and there’s way too much overkill for that to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rapists rape. Over and over again when they get good at it. They don’t usually kill unless it’s a grudge against a particular vic they know, or the woman resists the attack, the guy goes nuts and ups the force.”

“No resistance from a woman like Thatcher, who’s been drugged.”

“Not to mention a master plan with three murders perfectly orchestrated.”

“Three, so far.” Correlli was constantly popping candy in his mouth in place of sucking on a cigarette inside the terminal offices.

“Tell your guys to keep working with Ryan Blackmer. They’ve got to drill down a few levels to find the common denominator. Feed him whatever they get so he stays on top of it,” I said. “Where’s the roommate?”

“C’mon,” he said, walking me out to an even smaller office a few doors down.

He knocked and opened the door. A sullen-looking young woman was sitting at a small table with her head on her crossed arms as though napping. She lifted her head when I stepped inside.

“Hi, I’m Alex Cooper. Thanks for coming into the city on such short notice.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m an assistant district attorney. I work on sexual-assault cases with the police. And on homicides.”

“Like
SVU
?”

“What?”

“Like the TV show. The Special Victims one.”

“Yes, except this is real.”

“Way cool. I love that show.”

“I’m so very sorry about your friend. About Lydia.”

She rubbed both eyes with her fists and yawned at me. I thought she’d been crying, but she was only tired. I didn’t know why the lieutenant thought she needed calming down. She didn’t seem the least bit agitated. “We weren’t really close or anything, but thanks.”

“What’s your name?” I pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat down.

“Jean. Jean Jansen.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions about Lydia?”

“Sure. But I don’t know that much.”

“Do you go to the same college as Lydia?”

“Yeah. Westchester Community. It’s a two-year school.”

“Where are you from?”

“My family lives outside of New Haven now, but I grew up in Yonkers, so I wanted to come back here to go to school.”

“You have a lot of friends from this area?”

“Sure.”

She was slightly overweight, with pudgy arms extending from the T-shirt she was wearing that proclaimed her love for the Kings of Leon.

“You shared an apartment with Lydia, is that right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you must have been somewhat friendly.”

“Friendly, yeah. But not like good friends. My roommate from first semester didn’t come back to school, so we got together on Craigslist ’cause I needed someone to split the rent.”

“I see.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

Jean Jansen was picking the remains of an iridescent blue polish off her nails. “Like what do you want to know?”

“You understand that Lydia is dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Murdered,” I said, hoping to get the girl’s attention, even though she’d heard the story on the news. “Her throat was slit, Jean, from ear to ear.”

She never took her eyes off her stubby fingers. “Gross.”

“That’s all you have to say about it?”

“I mean, I’ll go to the funeral. It’s just totally gross she died like that.”

“We’re trying to find out why someone would want to kill Lydia,” I said. “So if my questions spark any sort of answer that might help us—no matter how crazy it seems to you—just tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Okay.”

“The police found Lydia’s student ID, but there were no other papers with it. Nothing that tells us any more about her.”

Jean was silent.

“Well?”

The girl looked at me. “Well, what? Was that supposed to be a question?”

Score one for the Sullen Teens team. I wanted to light a fire under her, but it didn’t seem likely I could ignite it.

“When did Lydia move in with you?”

“It was February. A couple of weeks after the second semester began.”

“Did you share a bedroom?”

“No. The place is small, but we each have our own room.”

“Did she have a computer?”

“The cops already searched the place. Tore her room apart looking for stuff,” Jean said. “Lydia had a laptop, but it isn’t there. Neither is her phone. She took them with her when she went.”

“Went? Went where?”

Jean Jansen shrugged. “To get herself killed, I guess.”

I sat straight up, surprised by the young woman’s nonchalance.

“You think that’s what Lydia did? Get herself killed?” I asked, spacing those last three words and barking them out, for emphasis.