“Rocco’s right,” I said. “Now this becomes a huge public safety issue. Scully’s got to go to the media with the fact that somebody’s targeted Grand Central for trouble. Big trouble.”
Mike started pacing again. He passed behind me and tugged at my hair. “Don’t we just all sound like jerks now ’cause we don’t know what the trouble might be?”
“Or maybe the whole thing is a ruse,” Mercer said. “Bring all the troops to circle the wagons at the terminal, and leave some other target exposed.”
“Like?”
“Like the United Nations, where the president is coming to town to speak.”
“So the perp wants us to think he’s a serial killer,” I said, “and we’re working overtime to make the ladies safe, while he pulls the rug out from underneath.”
“How far does Terminal City extend to the east and west?” Mike asked. “The UN is four blocks from here-due east.”
“Sit tight. Gleeson’s gone to get us an expert,” Mercer said.
“Ironic that this neighborhood was known for its slaughterhouses,” I said. “It’s like déjà vu, with humans on the chopping block now.”
“Always looking at the bright side, kid.”
“Both of you need to be patient. We can manage this,” Mercer said. “Girl gets ID’d tomorrow, that’s my bet. We learn our way around. The motive becomes more obvious.”
“Yeah, like laying all those railroad tracks straight in a line,” Mike said, checking his watch, then picking up the remote and clicking it at the wall of monitors. “The yellow brick road will take Coop right to Oz. What we need is a wizard to tell us the strategy.”
Eight television sets powered on. Mike played with the controls until he had all the screens set to the channel with Jeopardy!
In the early days, when we’d first worked together, I often took the high road and reminded Mike that there was a body in the next room, still warm, that made his obsession with betting on the final question rather chilling. There was no changing him, and the habit he relished was something that all of his colleagues tolerated. Mercer and I had actually grown to enjoy the competition.
“Right after the commercial,” he said, raising the volume.
“There’s got to be some central place in here with surveillance cameras that capture the terminal interior,” Mercer said.
“Gleeson says there’s a room with monitors that security staffs. But there are too many blind spots-staircases, ramps, archways-to capture every bit of the place at any given time.”
“So if you’ve got an insider’s knowledge of the building, you might know how to avoid getting caught on film, right?” I said.
“No such thing as film, Coop.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Did you hear the man? The main concourse is thirty-six thousand square feet. That’s just the start of things for us. It’s not like looking for a needle in a haystack. More like a needle in an iceberg,” Mike said. “Whoa. Here’s Trebek.”
“Two of you are tied for the lead here, ladies,” Alex Trebek said. “Let’s see if we can break that open and find a winner.”
The “card” on the large board flipped aside and crisp white letters appeared on the cobalt-blue field. “Tonight’s category, ladies, is Native American history.”
“I’m golden,” Mike said, as the three contestants screwed up their faces waiting for the answer to be revealed. “I’ll go forty on this.”
“Didn’t know it was one of your areas of expertise,” I said.
“I’ve got a better chance than you, babe. The answer’s not going to be some great piece of literature, is it? Or a Motown hit? Geronimo and the Miracles. Or a classic film noir? You’ll be out of your element.”
“Sometimes the depth of your political correctness takes my breath away.”
“It’s a realistic risk assessment,” Mike said, checking his pocket for cash. “Just saying I can take you on Pontiac’s Conspiracy or the Trail of Tears or the Yamasee War. Double or nothing, am I right, Mercer?”
Mercer laughed. “I’m holding at forty.”
“Native Americans have known what terrorism is since 1492, Coop. I’m totally on their side. Manifest Destiny be damned.”
“Forty it is for me, too.”
“Yellow-bellied. Both of you.”
Trebek looked up as the answer to the night’s final question appeared on the screen: OSAGE TRIBESWOMAN WHO BECAME AMERICA’S FIRST PRIMA BALLERINA. Trebek read it aloud.
Mike rolled his money into a ball and threw it at me. “Now that really sucks. That’s a very misleading header. The question isn’t about history, it’s culture. And I don’t know anything about culture.”
“Who is Maria Tallchief?” I said, flattening the bills on the conference table and counting them to make sure I had it all. “I keep offering to take you to the ballet with me.”
“Too many swans, too little time.”
I had taken ballet lessons since early childhood, still preferring my hours in the studio every Saturday to a workout at the gym. I loved the discipline of dance, the way the music always elevated my spirit, and the grace of the movement.
Two of the three contestants, both in their sixties, were also right. The young computer programmer who had briefly been tied for first place had left the question blank.
“So you’re the winner after all,” Trebek said, congratulating the woman on her third victory. “Betty Marie Tallchief came out of Oklahoma, to star in New York, Paris, and Monte Carlo-both an inspiration to and wife of the great George Balanchine. Congratulations to you, Mrs.-”
Mike shut down the televisions. “If you spent half as much time on your back, Coop, as you do dancing on your toes, you’d be a much more interesting woman.”
“And you lose all your charm the minute you open your mouth, Detective,” I said, pushing back my chair. “It’s not exactly like you’re channeling Nick Charles, is it?”
“Chill, guys,” Mercer said. “What we need are the keys to Terminal City.”
Mike’s phone rang. It was obvious from the conversation that the caller was Rocco Correlli.
“The ME’s going to stitch the girl up and get some photos ready for the eleven o’clock news. It won’t be very good-looking, but we’ve got to know who she is.”
The door opened and Bruce Gleeson reentered with an older man, whom Gleeson introduced to us as Don Ledger. “We got lucky,” Gleeson said. “I grabbed Don just as he was leaving his office for the night.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mike said.
“Same here, Detective.”
“Don’s what we call our living history. He’s worked in the maintenance department since he was eighteen. He turned seventy-eight two weeks ago.”
“Sixty years?” Mercer said. “Hats off, sir.”
“You do what you love, Mr. Wallace. If you’re fortunate, that is.”
“Amen to that. Would you mind sitting down and letting us ask you some questions about the terminal?”
Ledger was shorter than I, with a slim build and a headful of white hair. He wore hearing aids and had reading glasses in the pocket of his work shirt, and I doubted that his teeth were his own. But he was warm and good-natured, eager to help us get a picture of Grand Central.
“Happy to try,” Ledger said, taking a seat.
Mike looked over his shoulder at Bruce Gleeson. “Were you able to come up with a blueprint of the place for us?”
“Not yet.” Gleeson winced. “The building was completely renovated more than a decade ago. There are a good number of interior structural changes that won’t be accounted for in the original plans. But we should have copies for you to work from by morning.”
“You mean there have been changes big enough to make a difference in looking for people who are inside the joint?” Mike asked.