“He wasn’t here long,” the doorman said. “He was in and out in about fifteen minutes. Looked like he just came back to get changed. Left in a tux.”
When Bourque got back in the car, he turned and looked at Delgado and said, “How do we look?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Looks like we’re going to have to crash the party.”
“He wasn’t there?”
“He’s on his way to the Top of the Park opening. Left in his penguin suit.”
Delgado glanced down at herself. Black jeans, plain white blouse, jacket. “Oh, yeah, I’m good to go.”
Along the way, she glanced over a couple of times at her partner, who had a big smile on his face.
“You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” she said.
He grinned. “Okay, I’m excited. I’ve been following the progress of this building since before they broke ground, but have never had an excuse to get inside. I bought a book about it on Monday. Studied every page. Can’t wait to see it. Ask me anything about it. Go ahead, ask me. You want to know the architects?”
“Not particularly.”
“Svengali and Associates. I know. Svengali? But it’s the guy’s real name.”
Delgado said, “Uh, wasn’t Svengali a kind of evil dude? A real manipulative fucker?”
“Yeah. But it’s a great-sounding name. The building was first conceived fifteen years ago, and it was going to be ninety stories, but then 432 Park Avenue came in at ninety-seven, so Coughlin—”
“Coughlin?”
“Rodney Coughlin, the developer?” Bourque said. “And then this other project got announced last year, at the bottom of Central Park, isn’t finished yet, and it’s going to surpass 432, so Coughlin said, add eight more floors, bringing it in at ninety-eight, and a height of one thousand five hundred and sixty feet, which tops anything out there, built or not-yet built. All of which makes it the tallest residential tower in the Western Hemisphere, and the second tallest building in New York, after One World Trade.”
“They’re just architectural penises,” Delgado said. “Whose concrete-and-glass dick is bigger?”
Delgado took Central Park West all the way up to Central Park North. At that point, they encountered the police barricade that was keeping everything but VIP limos from proceeding. Delgado flashed her badge and was waved through.
She pulled the car up onto the south sidewalk about a hundred yards west of the building. Bourque was out first, and he stood there for several seconds, admiring the structure.
“I’m going to make it,” he said.
Delgado, out of the car, slammed the door and said, “What?”
“Out of art board,” he said. “For my collection.”
Delgado had seen pictures on her partner’s phone of his creations. “You’re gonna need a bigger apartment.”
Bourque shrugged. “A taller apartment.”
“Ready to party?”
Bourque nodded. They headed toward the building.
Sixty-Six
The elevator softly chimed as its destination—the ninety-eighth floor—was reached, and the doors parted.
A collective gasp erupted from inside the car. The doors opened onto a vast expanse of openness, across which could be seen a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and beyond that lay an even more vast expanse of sky. Looking westward, there was a distant orange sliver on the horizon as the last glimmer of the setting sun bled away.
Barbara and Arla and their fellow passengers stepped from the car and into what amounted to a ballroom in the sky. They moved hesitantly, almost fearfully, testing the solidity of the marble floor beneath them as if to be sure they weren’t walking on a cloud. A reverent hush had fallen over the guests, who, only moments before, had been chatting amiably in the confines of their elevator car. It was as if each had been struck dumb, overwhelmed by the magnificent view from atop this tower in the sky.
“There are no words,” someone whispered.
It was true. There were not enough superlatives in the English language to convey how dramatic, how wondrous, how absolutely miraculous, the experience was.
Arla circumnavigated the room, weaving her way around buffet tables laden with elegant displays of food and drink, and another table with a stunning, ten-foot tall architectural model of Top of the Park, until she was at the southern exposure that overlooked Central Park and, beyond that, the skyscrapers of midtown, including the building’s closest rival, 432 Park. Beyond that could be seen Rockefeller Center, the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, and, even farther in the distance, One World Trade Center.
“It’s like we’re in a plane that’s holding its position in the air,” Arla said, touching her fingertips to the glass as her mother came up behind her.
“Don’t stand so close,” Barbara said nervously. She’d never considered herself to be afraid of heights, but up here, at this moment, she felt a touch of vertigo. “Come back,” she said, pulling gently on her daughter’s arm.
“It’s okay,” Arla said, resisting. She looked down. “There’s nothing around here that even comes close. We’re up here all alone.” She giggled and turned her head so her mother could better hear her. “You wouldn’t have to worry about walking around naked with the curtains open.”
“Except for maybe a jet full of passengers heading into LaGuardia.”
That prompted Arla to look east. “You can see them,” she said. “The planes, coming in and taking off.” She shook her head in wonder. “What do you think it costs to get an apartment in this building?”
“We might not be the target demographic,” Barbara said.
“But if you could, if you had millions of dollars, would you want to live here?”
Barbara thought a moment before saying, “No. It feels … it almost feels wrong. The building feels like it’s thumbing its nose at the laws of nature. It’s too incredible, too death defying. I wouldn’t mind a huge loft in SoHo, though.”
“Yeah, well, I think I could get used to—”
“Good evening!”
The voice was emanating from speakers built into the walls and ceiling.
“Welcome to the Top of the Park!”
Arla was looking, too. “Over there,” she said, pointing.
Standing on an elevated platform, with a night sky for a backdrop, was Rodney Coughlin. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered, chiseled jaw, eyebrows like mutant caterpillars, he was a commanding presence. He held a champagne glass at shoulder height as he smiled broadly at his guests, his teeth big and bright enough that light was bouncing off them. The mayor stood to his right, looking somewhat distracted.
Barbara and Arla threaded their way through the crowd so they could get a ringside view. Once in position, Barbara glanced around. She spotted Glover over by one of the elevators. Valerie was standing not far off. Barbara had lost sight of Vallins.
“Oh, what a glorious night this is!” Coughlin exclaimed, and the room erupted with applause. He grinned. “How do you folks like the view?”
Scattered laughter, more applause.
“Now, I know you’ve all just got here and you can’t stop yourselves from looking out the window and,” he chuckled, “looking down on the rest of New York. I need to warn you, there are going to be a few speeches, and I have a number of people to thank including—Mario! Where are you?”
Standing next to Barbara, a short, bushy-headed man with dark sunglasses the size of two coasters and wearing a bright, orange sport jacket waved his hand in the air.
“Mario Svengali!” Coughlin shouted, raising his glass even higher. “The most brilliant architect in the whole fucking universe. I’m going to be having a few words to say about him, and others, and my good friend the mayor, right here!”
He gestured to Headley beside him. “Thank you very much, Richard, for letting me use the elevators tonight.”
Headley blushed as nervous chuckles swept the room.
“Don’t worry!” Coughlin co
ntinued. “Tonight, the people who deserve our gratitude most of all are the good men and women of law enforcement—the NYPD, the FBI, you name it—who made an arrest today in connection with the horrible events of this week.”
Headley tried to interject, saying, “Actually, so far he’s only—”
Coughlin quickly cut him off. “I’ve got plenty to say tonight, and a lot of other people to thank. But we’ve also got some other people who want to say a few words.” He rolled his eyes. “Politicians, right? Well, so long as they’re saying wonderful things about me, I say give them all the time they want.”
A few more laughs.
“Most of those speeches are coming later. First, we want to have some fun. But before I command you all to eat, drink, and be merry, the mayor would like to say a few words. But you’re going to be brief, right, Richard?”
Coughlin quickly whispered something in the mayor’s ear. Barbara, who had always been pretty good at reading lips, was pretty sure he’d said, Don’t fuck this up.
The mayor, a strained grin on his face, stepped forward.
“I also just wanted to extend a welcome to everyone here on what is truly a historic night in the history of New York City as this astonishing building becomes part of the Manhattan skyline. My congratulations to everyone who played a role in making Top of the Park a reality.”
Arla leaned in close to her mother and said, “I think maybe I look a little bit like him. Around the eyes?”
As the mayor kept talking, Barbara replied quietly, “I don’t know. Possibly.”
The truth was, Barbara had always seen something of Headley in her daughter. Not just the eyes. The way her nose turned up slightly at the end, how she cocked her head when she was puzzling something out, the sharp turn in her jawbone just below the ear.
“As you all know,” Headley continued, “this has been a slightly stressful week for New Yorkers, so I would urge you to take full advantage of the open bar.” A forced chuckle. “I’ll be first in line.”
A few laughs and at least one “Hear, hear!”
“Okay!” the mayor said. “More speeches later! Let’s party! Let’s make this a night we’ll remember for the rest of our lives!”
Headley stepped off the platform, where he was met by Valerie, who was chatting to him about something. As they spoke, they both glanced, at different moments, at Glover, standing over by the elevators.
“What do you think?” Arla whispered. “Should I go up and talk to him? Just, like, introduce myself, and see what kind of reaction I get?”
Barbara was hesitant. “I’m not sure this is the right moment. This entire evening might not be the right moment.”
“I thought this was the plan. I talk to him tonight. I might not ever get this close to him again. I lost my job, remember?”
“I know, I know.”
Barbara was second-guessing her decision to give Arla that extra media pass. The last twenty-four hours had been so overwhelming, she thought. Perhaps her judgment was clouded by what had amounted to an emotional breakthrough with Arla. A breakthrough of honesty. Hours earlier, so grateful for this watershed moment in their relationship, Barbara would have been inclined to give Arla anything she asked for. A media pass to the biggest party in town? Sure, why not?
Now she wondered if it had been such a good idea.
Did Arla have a right to know who her father was? Of course. Was Arla perfectly justified in wanting to make a connection with him? No doubt about it.
But here? Now?
The mayor had broken away from Valerie and was heading their way.
“I’m going to do it,” Arla said.
But before Headley had gotten very far, an elderly woman wearing a floor-length gown and enough jewelry to open a Cartier store interceded.
“Richard!” she cried.
“Margaret!” he said, embracing her.
Barbara recognized her. Margaret Cambridge. Her name had come up when Barbara was doing her internet research.
“How do you like that view?” he asked her.
“It’s worth a million bucks,” she said. “Actually, more like a billion!”
They both laughed. The mayor gave her another hug, then moved on. Barbara could sense that Arla was ready to make a move. She placed a hand on her arm. “Wait, just wait a second. Maybe we should—”
“Mayor Headley?” Arla said.
Too late.
The mayor stopped, turned.
“Yes?” he said, looking at her.
Arla moved forward until there was barely a foot of space between the two of them. Seeing them that close together made Barbara light-headed.
No. Not here. Not now. Later. Somewhere private.
Arla extended a hand. The mayor took it, smiled, and said, “Nice to meet you.”
Then he noticed Barbara standing right behind her. She caught his eye and he said, “Ms. Matheson.”
Barbara smiled nervously. “Mayor.”
Arla said, “I wonder, would there be somewhere we could talk privately, for a couple of minutes?”
“Maybe if you talked to Valerie Langdon. She’s just over there? In the blue dress? You could tell her what this is about and she could see about setting something up.”
Arla’s face fell. “It’s not a political thing. It’s more a personal thing. You see, my name is Arla—”
She did not have a chance to finish her sentence. And even if she had, Headley would not have been able to hear it.
The explosion was far too deafening.
And not just the first one.
The one that came after.
And the one after that.
And the one after that.
Sixty-Seven
Bourque and Delgado flashed their IDs to get past security and into Top of the Park. Once inside, Bourque stopped, mouth agape, and took in the view.
“Unbelievable,” he said.
“Yeah, pretty,” Delgado said. “Let’s find our boy.”
Bourque approached a security guard, showed his badge again, and told him they were looking for Glover Headley, the mayor’s son. The guard said that pretty much everyone was now on the top floor for the festivities. The guard had seen the mayor come through the lobby, but had no idea what the son looked like.
“Let’s head up,” Bourque said to his partner.
He and Delgado found themselves standing alone in front of the bank of elevators. There were three touch screens positioned atop small, granite pillars between the elevator doors with a notice that read: Enter Your Floor.
“How’s it work?” Bourque asked.
Delgado studied it. “For the fifty-third floor, you tap in five, three …”
“But for the top?”
“Looks like … O, B. For observation deck.” She tapped the OB symbol. A message appeared on the screen: ELEVATOR 2.
There were numbers atop the elevators, and the second from the left was marked 2.
“That one,” Delgado said, pointing. They positioned themselves in front of those doors.
“What’s your take on all this?” Bourque asked his partner while they waited for their car to arrive.
“I don’t know. Glover’s made himself very hard to find today. He signed out the car used by the man who met with Petrenko. Petrenko ends up dead. What do you think?”
“If you wanted to know everything there was to know about fucking around with a building’s elevator system, someone like Petrenko would be the guy to talk to.”
“Yeah,” Delgado said.
“And if you led him to believe you could hurt his extended family, he’d probably help.”
A soft chiming noise indicated the arrival of their car. The doors opened and, with half a second’s hesitation, they stepped in.
Bourque looked for the panel of buttons to enter their floor and was momentarily alarmed when he didn’t see one.
“I already did it, remember?” Delgado said. “No buttons.”
“It’s like getting into a car witho
ut a steering wheel.”
“At least there’s no chance of some smartass kid jumping on, running his hand down all the buttons, and jumping out again.”
“Yeah,” Bourque said. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
The car began to move, slowly accelerating. Its increasing speed seemed barely perceptible. Then Bourque put his finger to his ear.
“I can feel the pressure changing,” he said, trying to gather some spit in his mouth to swallow.
“I feel it,” Delgado said, touching her own ear. “Should have brought some gum.” She eyed him with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“’Cause … you know. Your breathing is okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said again, this time with an edge to his voice. A few seconds went by before Bourque said, “You actually think it could be him?”
“Glover?”
“Yeah. The mayor’s assistant said he was a techie.”
“Why would the mayor’s own kid decide to kill people by sabotaging elevators?” Delgado asked.
“Maybe we’ll get a chance to ask him,” he said.
They could feel the elevator decelerating.
“Wow, that was fast,” Delgado said. “We’re here already?”
Bourque looked at the digital readout that told them what floors they were passing. “Uh, no. We’re just passing the fiftieth. Fifty-two, fifty-three.”
“But we’re slowing down. I can feel it. We’ve still got more than forty floors to go.”
They both went quiet for a moment, focusing their collective attention on the sense of movement.
Bourque looked at the readout. “Sixty-five,” he said. “We’re holding at sixty-five.”
Delgado looked at the narrow strips of brushed aluminum wall on either side of the doors. “Now I want some fucking buttons. How do I reenter the observation deck?”
“No idea,” Bourque said.
“Maybe it’s voice activated.” She looked up toward the ceiling, as if there were a God of Elevators waiting to hear from her, and said loudly, “Observation deck!”
Elevator Pitch (UK) Page 33