With everyone using cell phones, pay phones were disappearing; the WPA had done features on the trend. Gannon used online directories and quickly located the pay phone his tipster had used three times. It was in the 300 block of Warburton Avenue in Yonkers.
Within minutes, Gannon was in his old Pontiac Vibe, northbound on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Whenever he could, Gannon avoided driving in New York. The traffic and parking were nightmares. But this morning he needed flexibility and took his car.
Traffic was good and the city was coming to life by the time he arrived in Yonkers. The moment he found a parking space on Warburton, his cell phone rang. It was Lisker.
“Where are you, Gannon?”
“Yonkers. I’ll be in a bit later.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I’m chasing something.”
“What? Be more specific.”
“I’m chasing an angle about the heist being an inside job.”
“What? The New York Signal had that yesterday. Did you see this morning’s Daily News?”
“Yes.”
“We got beat again. Will your lead top the Daily News?”
“I won’t know until I check it out.”
“Be quick. CBS News just said a massive ground search for the suspects will be launched today near Alexandria Bay. We’re sending people from our Syracuse bureau. I want you on standby.”
“Okay.”
“We’re losing this story, Gannon. We need to break this thing wide open! They tell me you’re good, but I’m not seeing it.”
“I’m pushing my sources.”
“Push harder.”
Lisker ended the call.
Gannon exhaled.
I’m on the ropes here. He took a hit of coffee from his commuter mug and sent texts to Brad West, Adell Clark and Eugene Bennett.
He got out of his car and walked the block and a half to the pay phone.
There it was.
A pedestal style with a metal enclosure scarred and laced with graffiti.
Gannon confirmed the number and took stock of this section of the avenue: a mix of small businesses, a deli, a check-cashing store, a florist, a beer wholesaler, auto shop, electronics store, hair salon and farther down, an assortment of tired-looking postwar homes and small apartment buildings.
Gannon had done his homework. He knew buildings on the east side of the two-way street backed on to the Old Croton Aqueduct Trailway. It was a long narrow park. Due east of it was Pine Street, where David Berkowitz, the killer known as the Son of Sam, lived before he was arrested.
Welcome to the crime beat.
Gannon popped a stick of gum into his mouth to help him think. There was one very slim chance he’d get anywhere with this lead.
Security cameras.
Covering crime, he knew that most businesses invested in a good security system to reduce the risk of theft, vandalism, liability and to lower insurance rates. These days most systems were digital, making it easier to store video records indefinitely.
Standing at the pay phone, he turned three hundred and sixty degrees, eyeing all the stores, checking off those with a line-of-sight for cameras. He had the time of the last call he’d received from this phone. He had to determine which stores had cameras; if they were angled to capture enough of the street and the phone clearly; and if he could persuade them to check their archives for him.
Easy.
Yeah, right, he told himself.
In a city where everyone was suspicious of everyone, he knew it would be as easy as asking for someone’s wallet.
What did he have to lose?
The phone stood directly in front of the Big Smile Deli Mart.
Gannon would start there.
22
Yonkers, New York
The deli mart was a two-story weather-beaten redbrick building with a retracted roll-up steel door.
The store was open for business. Customers were coming and going.
Outside, it had two exterior stands. Fresh, terraced selections of tomatoes, peppers, onions, mushrooms, lettuce were on one side of the door. Apples, pears, oranges, bananas, lemons and grapefruit filled the other stand.
There was a neon beer sign flickering in one window.
Inside, the store’s hardwood floors creaked. The air smelled of damp cardboard and nearly soured milk. Its four aisles were narrowed between shelves jammed with groceries. The cold case had beer, soft drinks, milk, eggs, yogurt, ice cream and butter. The deli counter had a display case with an array of meats, salads and pastries.
A slender Middle Eastern man in his early seventies stood behind the counter. A security camera was mounted on the wall above him, angled over the register and the door with an unobstructed view to the street and the pay phone.
This held promise, Gannon thought.
The old man’s droopy dark eyes took quick note of Gannon’s interest in his camera while he rang in the purchases of the three customers at the counter.
Gannon wanted to approach the clerk when he was alone and walked down an aisle to buy some time. There was a man wearing a Yankees cap at the newsstand flipping through GQ and an old woman browsing the deli display case. A younger Middle Eastern man and older woman were working behind the deli counter. Both wore white aprons.
When the counter traffic cleared, Gannon approached the old man.
“Excuse me.” He placed his business card on the surface over the lottery-ticket case, opened his wallet to his press badge. “I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance and I was hoping you could help me.”
The man glanced at Gannon’s ID, then his card, without touching it. His impassive face bore a pencil mustache. Gannon continued.
“I’m trying to locate a man who called me from the pay phone out front and I thought maybe if we could view your security camera’s recordings it might help.”
The old man shrugged and shook his head.
“It’s important,” Gannon said. “I’d be willing to compensate you.”
The man shook his head. His eyes shifted to the younger man who’d come from the deli to the counter, likely the old man’s son.
“Who are you?” the younger man asked Gannon.
Gannon identified himself and started repeating his request before he was cut off by the old man, who issued a stream of what Gannon guessed was Arabic to the younger man.
As the two men talked, the old woman, wiping her hands on her apron, joined them in a heated three-way conversation. Gannon knew his request had hit on some deep-seated emotions. The younger man turned to him.
“We can’t help you.”
“It’s all right, I understand.”
“No, you don’t. After 9/11, our store was robbed. My father was beaten. Two years ago, we were robbed again and the scum dogs told him they had a right to his money because he supported al-Qaeda. They were ignorant racists. My parents are Americans. They’ve lived here for forty years. I was born here. We pay taxes, we vote and we mind our own business. He would like to help you, but he’s afraid there would be repercussions. Okay? So unless you’re going to buy something, I’m sorry, but we must ask you to leave.”
Gannon thanked them.
After he left, he headed for the check-cashing office across the street.
Eyeing the security camera over the counter, Gannon was satisfied that it was aimed at the door and the pay phone.
“May I help you?” asked an Asian woman in her twenties, wearing a blazer and a smile that weakened a bit as Gannon explained. When he finished, she said, “I’ll ask my boss,” and picked up a cell phone.
Gannon knew it was futile here.
He turned to the window and she relayed his request. While waiting for the predictable answer, his attention went across the street to the floral shop beside the deli mart. A shapely woman was tending to the flowers in the street display.