He should just ask her, but he was afraid. Overly paranoid, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to talk to her without insurance. He set up his phone to film his conversation, with the video streaming straight back to his laptop, where it would be stored in a file. He set a timer for ten minutes (cyan, black). If he wasn’t back to shut it off, the video file would be emailed to Daniel at the highest priority. He’d know what to do.
Of course, he reminded himself, that wouldn’t actually save him. It would just make sure that she got nailed for the crime if she killed him.
With only that tiny bit of reassurance, he tapped the screen to start filming, dropped the phone into his breast pocket so that the top of the phone peeked out, careful to make sure that the camera lens was not obscured, and opened the door.
Torres shifted in her chair when he walked into the hall. He’d insisted on moving one of the leather wingback chairs out here for her. If she had to spend her day staring at his front door, she might as well be comfortable. She looked calm and collected, like a competent bodyguard. He balanced his open laptop in one hand, feeling like a waiter holding a tray.
“No activity to report out there,” she said. “How’s work coming?”
He stood awkwardly in the door frame and stared at her face, eyes traveling across her features to confirm that she was the woman on the video. No doubt.
“First, I want to thank you,” he said.
“I’m just doing my job,” she answered.
“Not for that. For getting me home safe last spring.”
Surprise flickered across her face, but disappeared in less than a second. Microexpressions were impossible to control. Without his training in spotting them, he’d have missed it.
“Were you paid for this service?” The laptop trembled as he pressed a few buttons, starting up the surveillance video of their meeting in Grand Central months before, when she’d brought him back drunk.
“If I were paid for that kind of service, I wouldn’t be able to reveal that information.”
“Why not?” What was his goal here? To get her to confess? To what, exactly?
“As you know, sir, I work in close protection. Anything I do or see while on the job is confidential.” Her dark eyes met his levelly. She clearly was not intending to back down.
“So, you were on a job?”
“I can’t say.” She squared off her shoulders.
“Does that mean that you were stalking me?”
She laughed. “Not hardly. Maybe I just happened by, helped you home, did the right thing. I’m a Good Samaritan.”
Joe didn’t believe that.
She pointed behind his head. “What’s that mean?”
Joe turned around to look at the round red light recessed above the front door. “It means that the elevator has started going up. But that doesn’t make sense, because no one has access to it but me and the Gallos, and they never come down here.”
Someone else was coming.
Joe stared at the light that indicated the elevator was right now heading up to the clock and the information booth. He’d never seen it lit before, hadn’t known if it really worked, but Celeste had assured him that it did. Evaline wouldn’t have let anyone past her who wasn’t on the list. Maybe it was Leandro. If not, he hoped no one had hurt her.
“I’d like you to move to the back of the house, away from the windows.” Torres’s voice was matter-of-fact.
She drew her gun and stood next to the front door, away from the window, and peeked through the filmy curtains. Her phone buzzed in her pants pocket. Without taking her eyes off the tunnel, she eased it out and glanced at the screen.
“It’s from Mr. Rossi. He says that he’s coming down with police and two CIA agents.” Torres holstered her gun. “They’re here to question you about the death in the tunnels. Your fingerprint was found at a murder scene.”
Joe stumbled backward. The police and the CIA?
“Mr. Rossi will take care of you,” she said.
“They might take me.” Joe’s heart raced. “They might take me outside. I can’t go outside.”
He heard panic in his voice, and Edison must have heard it, too. The dog tugged his pant leg, trying to pull him back into the parlor. That wouldn’t help.
“Good boy,” Joe said automatically.
“I’m sure that Mr. Rossi will explain the situation to them.”
Joe didn’t think they’d care about his mental issues. If anything, they’d weigh against him. He measured the distance to the doors at the end of the tunnels in his head. He might make it to one of them before the elevator arrived and the men came out, but he also might not.
Edison bumped Joe’s knee with his head, reminding him that he was there, that everything was OK. Except that it wasn’t.
“I’m going upstairs,” Joe said. “Can you buy me time?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll stall them as long as I can.”
Joe dropped his laptop in the backpack by the front door, pulling on the hoodie hung there, and pocketing the flashlight. He ran back through the parlor to get his power cord and then sprinted up the stairs, heading for the back bedroom.
He reached into his pocket, fingers closing over a ring of metal keys. That was something. On impulse, he grabbed the polar fleece blanket from the bedroom floor, the one that Edison usually slept on.
The doorbell told him that they’d reached his front door. Angry voices said they’d be breaking through any second if Torres didn’t let them in.
Edison growled.
Joe put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Hush.”
He struggled with the heavy bookcase as boots thudded through his house—they were in the kitchen and the parlor. Two separate groups.
If they caught him, they’d arrest him and drag him outside. He couldn’t let that happen.
He pointed at the secret passageway, and Edison leaped in.
Joe backed in after him, snaked a hand around the end of the bookcase to pull the rug flat, and closed the door.
The bookcase was barely in place when the bedroom door crashed against the plaster wall.
The heavy steps of several men entered his room.
He didn’t dare turn on the flashlight. Light might show around the edges of the bookcase. He should have checked that out on the first day—dropped the flashlight in there, closed the door, and seen if the light leaked through. But he hadn’t.
Edison’s warm shoulder leaned into his.
Joe scrunched past him and crawled through the darkness as quickly as he could. He had to hope that the dog would follow him and stay quiet. One bark or growl and all would be lost.
He tucked his head low between his shoulder blades so that he wouldn’t crack it against the low roof. The tunnel dropped down fast. He forced himself to slow so that he wouldn’t lose his balance and face-plant into the rocks.
He hurried toward the end. Was the tunnel on the original blueprints of the house? Was someone waiting for him at the other end?
Chapter 14
November 28, 7:12 p.m.
Bean’s Diner, New York
Ozan checked his watch, again, and ordered a refill on his coffee. He’d been here for half an hour already. His contact, a man he knew only as Johnny Tops, was late. The diner was doing a brisk business this early—the waitress bringing eggs and meat to table after table. Ozan was having coffee and toast.
He held the back of his wrist to his brow. His skin felt hot and damp—feverish. If Erol’s forehead felt like that, Ozan would make him stay in bed all day and watch cartoons. No cartoons for Ozan.
Stifling a curse, he shook two aspirin into his hand, chewed them, and swallowed the sharp crumbs. The bitter taste made him grimace, but he’d heard that the painkiller worked faster if you chewed it, and the headache and fever had to go away right now.
A man took the seat across from him, baseball hat pulled low across a square, doughy face. The body connected to that head was wiry and tough.
> “Morning, Tops.” Ozan gestured to the waitress for an additional menu.
“I’m not staying,” said Tops with a strong Brooklyn accent. “But I got something for you.”
Ozan slid an envelope with four hundred-dollar bills across the greasy table, payment for whatever Tops was delivering. Tops slapped a manila envelope into his hand as he stood to walk out.
The middle-aged waitress arrived with a menu and the coffeepot, filling Ozan’s cup before bustling off.
The envelope contained reports. Ozan skimmed the pages, learning that the police had named a person of interest in the murder of Subject 523—a millionaire named Joe Tesla. Ozan chuckled. So the tall, awkward man was a millionaire out for a stroll around the tunnels of New York City in the middle of the night. He read further. Apparently, the man had a house down there, but he’d missed a social call from both NYPD officers and agents of the CIA.
Ozan took a slow sip of lukewarm coffee. The CIA? Dr. Dubois must have called in reinforcements, worried that Tesla knew something. Whatever it was, the reclusive millionaire wouldn’t last long once he was caught.
He’d have taken him out if that damn train hadn’t arrived, and the man jumped across the tracks. He hadn’t expected him to act so rashly. After the train had passed, Ozan had followed him up onto the platform, but the crowds had been too thick to do anything to him. Knowing where the man lived, that would eliminate that problem.
Time to pay the man a visit at home.
An hour later, Ozan leaned against the side of the tunnel to catch his breath. He should leave the tunnels, leave Tesla to others. Catching Tesla wasn’t technically part of his mission, and he didn’t think that Tesla had received papers from 523.
Ozan didn’t want to quit. A force he couldn’t explain drove him on. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe Tesla was a gift to him. According to the report, the man was unable to go outside because of a mental condition. Which meant that he hid out in the tunnels, the perfect target for a game of cat and mouse. Ozan loved to play, although he rarely let himself indulge in those kind of games. This time, the temptation was irresistible.
He’d return to the murder scene to see if he could pick up Tesla’s tracks from there and follow them through the tunnels to find his house. Like everyone, Tesla was a creature of habit. His habits would betray him.
Ozan should have approached him right off, dragged him deeper into the tunnels, but the dog had made things unpredictable. Plus, Erol loved dogs. How could Ozan look Erol in the face if he killed a dog?
But this, this would be fun. Tesla was smart; he was clever. The way he’d jumped in front of the oncoming train and used it for rolling cover to escape was ballsy. And, since the guy couldn’t leave the tunnels, Ozan could take his time. He only needed to bag him before law enforcement did, and he intended to use them as hunters used beaters—tools to flush out his quarry and drive it straight toward him.
Ozan slowed and studied the murder scene, his crime scene, from a distance. Floodlights turned night into day. Police and crime scene people walked ponderously back and forth as if their very deliberateness would solve the crime. But he’d been careful, and clever. They’d never catch him.
Hot and cold poured over Ozan in waves, and his head pounded with pain. So much for the chewed-aspirin theory. He ignored the pain and soldiered on like the soldier he had once been, staying as far from the crime scene as he could while he searched for the dog’s prints. Tesla’s dog was probably the only dog in these tunnels. His ears strained to hear the rumble of an approaching train. He didn’t want to end up smeared across the tracks.
Dizziness swept over him. He slumped against the stone wall until it passed. Then he pushed himself upright again and tripped over a broken train tie leaning against the side of the tunnel. Anger took over. He swore and savagely kicked the tie.
“Hey!” called a voice behind him.
Ozan whirled to face the speaker. No one had gotten that close to him without him noticing in a long time. He must be sicker than he thought.
“Police,” said the shadow between him and crime scene. “You’re not allowed down here.”
He should run. Even sick, he was a fast runner. He could get a quick lead. But the officer, too near already, kept coming. Ozan shouldn’t tempt fate by confronting him. He shouldn’t even be here at all. He should run.
But his head hurt, his muscles felt weak. It’d be easier to deal with this guy right here. If the guy wanted to cause trouble, he’d show him trouble. Why should he be the one who ran away? An alarm bell clanging in his fevered brain told him that this line of thinking was very wrong.
He ignored it.
Instead, he lifted a piece of broken train tie. Solid and heavy, its weight felt right in his hands. The tarry smell of creosote drifted up from the wood.
“I’m sick,” Ozan called to the man who had disturbed him.
He lowered the tie so that it was hidden by his leg. Just in time, because the policeman shone a flashlight at him, right in the eyes. Damn bastard. Ozan held his arm over his aching eyes to shield them from the bright light. He managed a weak smile and held up his other hand to show that he had no weapons. Just an innocent guy.
The train tie leaned against the back of his calf. He couldn’t use it yet. Where was the second cop? Usually they ran in pairs.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.” The cop was young, Ozan saw that now. He had almond-shaped brown eyes, so like Erol’s, and short black hair. Chinese? “We’re going to need you to step this way.”
He’d said “we.” Where was the other one?
“Of course, Officer,” Ozan called. The meeker he was, the closer he’d be able to get.
The flashlight stayed pointed at his eyes, and Ozan kept one arm up as the policeman moved closer. A telltale vibration under his feet told him what to do next.
“You do look a little under the weather,” said the cop. “Would you like us to help you get to medical care?”
Careful not to telegraph the movement with his eyes, Ozan swung the broken piece of wood like a bat, catching the unprepared man on the temple. The man collapsed backward onto the tracks. The thunder of an oncoming train covered the sound of his fall.
Ozan kept a tight hold on the piece of train tie and ran, ducking left into another tunnel, heading for the darkest parts, even though he didn’t have a light.
From behind him came the shrill screech of brakes. Simple physics told him that the train wouldn’t stop in time to avoid the man on the tracks. The young cop was dead. If the blow hadn’t killed him, the oncoming train had. His partner would stop to check, though, and Ozan’s lead would grow.
He settled into a quick trot. He could get out of the underground system through a broken access door about a half-mile away, where he’d entered. After a quarter of a mile, he dropped the train tie. No one would ever search this far afield, even if they thought the cop had been murdered. The cop’s death would likely be blamed on impact with the train. Ozan was probably in the clear. So close to the scene of 523’s murders, though, he couldn’t take that for granted. And he had to come back for Tesla.
He cursed himself for his inattention and recklessness. He counted off his mistakes in his head. First, the policeman should never have gotten so close to him without being noticed. There was no excuse for leaving himself vulnerable. Second, he should have had an escape route planned for every second that he spent down here. That was standard procedure, and he’d violated it. Third, he should have run instead of provoking a confrontation, or he could have played off the man’s offer of medical help. He most likely would have gotten away without having to kill a man. The train had been a lucky coincidence, and he couldn’t depend on coincidence. At least he had done everything necessary to get home safe to Erol. Erol needed him.
Still, Ozan had made a long list of mistakes, and he never made mistakes.
What was wrong with him?
Chapter 15
November 28, 8:44 p.m.
Underground maintenance room
Subway system
Joe leaned his back against the rusted metal door. He flicked on the flashlight and swept the room with its beam. The musty space was about the size of his first dorm room, big enough to lie down in, but barely. It contained an old mop and bucket, a pile of rags, a three-legged wooden stool, and a stack of yellowed comic books. He pictured a long-ago maintenance man hiding here, reading during his breaks.
He checked the walls and found a light switch. Crossing his fingers, he flicked it on.
Buzzing fluorescent lights washed the room in pale blue. Before he’d moved down here, he had expected the tunnels and rooms to exist in a state of perpetual darkness, but had instead found lights affixed to many tunnel ceilings and working lights in long-deserted rooms.
He sat on the stool, and Edison put his warm muzzle in his lap.
“We’re in a bit of a bind, Edison.” Joe leaned his head against the wall. A bit of a bind? That was an understatement.
Joe was screwed, but maybe he could find a good home for the dog. Edison, after all, was innocent of everything, and he had good job skills to boot.
Edison whined.
The logical move was to call Daniel, meet him someplace, and go in for questioning. He’d done nothing wrong—everything would be fine. Except that he couldn’t do it. It meant that he would have to go outside.
He hated his agoraphobia. No matter what the psychiatrists said, he viewed it as cowardice. He should be able to man up, take a deep breath, and go outside. Logically, he knew that going outside wouldn’t kill him. Staying down here and playing hide-and-seek with the police and a killer might.
But he couldn’t go outside.
After he’d left his house, he’d run through the tunnels for over a mile and switched from the commuter train tracks that ran through Grand Central to the subway lines at Times Square. They were more heavily patrolled, he imagined, but at least they were patrolled by cops who weren’t specifically looking for him.
The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) Page 10