by Cleo Coyle
“You sounded like my mother back there,” Matt said as we climbed back into the van.
“I consider that a compliment. Your mother knew more about Manhattan’s geology than Perla Campana. And her advice to me is still truer than ever.”
“Really? What did she tell you?”
“That surviving New York boiled down to one maxim: If you want to build anything on this island, you better find some bedrock underneath.”
SEVENTY-ONE
AS we headed uptown, Matt turned to me. “Tell me again where we’re going?”
“Under the Waldorf Astoria.”
“And how do you propose we get there? Dig?”
“Don’t be silly.” I held up my phone. “A friend of Joy’s in high school is now an assistant front desk manager at the hotel. I’m texting her for a favor.”
“You really think she’ll help us?”
“Of course! I employed her part-time back in New Jersey and gave her a great reference to get her started in hospitality. She’s also a former Girl Scout. We Scouts stick together . . .”
* * *
TWENTY minutes later, Matt and I were waiting by a mysteriously unmarked brass door near the Waldorf’s garage on 49th Street.
Joy’s friend met us with a security guard who used a pass card to open the door, and we were in!
Escorted by the guard, Matt and I descended several sets of stairs, coming to a dimly lit subbasement. After thanking the guard for his help, he headed back up while we moved into a vast and shadowy underground space.
Rusted train tracks crossed the dingy, dusty area, which was cluttered with construction materials and scaffolding. In the center of the space stood the famous armored train car believed to be Franklin D. Roosevelt’s, now a grimy shadow of its former glory years as a presidential Pullman.
“I still don’t get it.” Matt gazed down at me with a perplexed expression. “What’s the point of having a secret railroad track?”
“You have to remember, back in FDR’s day, trains—not planes—were the way most people crossed the country; and when the president’s train pulled in to Grand Central, about a thousand feet away, this track allowed him to arrive in New York in complete privacy. His bulletproof limo would roll right off the train car and onto that reinforced elevator, which lifted him to street level.”
“Then it was a security issue, during World War Two?”
“Yes, but also a public relations tactic. It saved the crippled president from being gawked at or photographed while he was struggling to get into or out of a vehicle. He was determined to keep his image looking strong for the good of the country and the world . . .”
“So why is this place still so secret?”
“It’s been this way for decades, sealed off from any access by the public—although it appears Perla has been hired to change that . . .”
I pointed to a high scaffold, across the long space. Perla was moving around up there, photographing the area and taking oral notes with her smartphone. In overalls, a hard hat, and her tough-as-nails stance, she looked ready for any construction crew in the city.
“Perla!” Matt called, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Who’s down there?”
“It’s Matt—Matt Allegro. We need to talk.”
“One minute!”
I watched as Perla secured her gear on a work belt and within the deep pockets of her overalls. Then she used a rope to rappel smoothly down the wall. When she reached the ground, she worked some kind of magic. With one swift movement, the entire rope fell to the ground.
As she neatly wound it up, I leaned toward Matt and whispered—
“Did you see that? She has a trick rope, like Panther Man.”
“It’s not a trick rope, Clare. It’s a rappelling technique called South African abseil. I use the same method when I’m traveling down from high altitudes in shade-grown territory.”
“How do you—”
“I wrap a doubled-up rope around a tree and around my body. When the rope runs out, I release and repeat, until I reach the bottom of the incline. If you’re on mountainous terrain and have only one rope, that’s the way to manage it.”
“Manage what?” Perla asked, moving over to us.
“Manage the coffee-hunting business. How are you, Perla?”
“Nice to see you, Matt. My God, it’s been years, hasn’t it?”
The pair firmly shook hands and Perla nodded down at me. “It’s Clare, isn’t it? Are you two back together? I thought you—”
“We’re still divorced,” I said. “But we’re working together now at the Village Blend. You should stop in for coffee sometime.”
“I should, but I’m addicted to Driftwood.”
“The coffee or the flotsam?” Matt said with a tight smile. “It’s hard to tell the difference.”
“I use a lot of cream and sugar,” she said with a shrug. “And it’s a lucrative business connection. They hire me to hang pieces in their chain stores. Mostly of . . . you know . . .”
“Driftwood?” I finished for her.
“That’s right.”
We talked a few minutes more in pleasantries, and her reason for being down here. According to Perla, a group of developers were hot to turn this secret train platform into a nightclub.
Matt glanced around. “In this wreck of a place? It’ll cost a fortune.”
“It will.” Perla nodded. “And the men who hired me claim they’re lining one up.”
“What exactly are you doing for them?” I asked.
“They want a feasibility report, and my seal of approval that they can preserve the historical integrity.”
“Can they?”
“Yes, if they follow my directives. Ultimately, it will be up to the city and state to approve the construction. Metro North is the owner of this platform, but the city would be involved in the permits, so it’s a sticky wicket—with plenty of wheels to grease.”
I nodded politely and gently changed the subject. “Perla, the reason we came to see you has to do with another sticky wicket, one involving your father.”
“You mean Gus?”
The way she said it sounded strange, as if she wasn’t comfortable with my referring to him as her father. Could it be because Madame’s suspicions were correct, and the man we know as Gus is really Silvio?
“You may not have heard,” I continued, “but the police arrested your sister’s husband today. They believe he poisoned Gus’s cold brew coffee, but we don’t believe it—we think someone else tried to hurt your dad.”
“Really? Who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. And in the process, we discovered Matt’s mother climbed into a vintage black Jaguar at the invitation of a man in a white suit. A man we think has been blackmailing Gus for going on sixty years.”
“Blackmailing him? Do you know why?”
“No,” Matt said, jumping in. “Apparently, he was on the Andrea Doria and witnessed something involving your father on the night it sank. We hoped you might remember what he saw . . . or at least help us identify this mystery man by name.”
She folded her arms. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything more.”
“We saw you on the security camera footage,” I pressed. “You met with your father for two hours the day before he was poisoned. Why?”
“Gus was the one who called me. He wanted to talk—and tell me the bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“He was recently diagnosed with cancer. The doctors gave him a year, maybe two. That’s why we had a lot to discuss . . . personal things.”
Matt appeared upset by the news, and I squeezed his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear that diagnosis,” I said to Perla—and Matt. Then I stepped closer to Perla and instantly regretted it. At her height, I had
to crane my neck to meet her gaze. “Could anything Gus told you shed light on what’s happening now? Did he mention something about a man from Rome or the two people this man appears to be in league with . . .”
“I’m sorry, Clare. Like I said, I can’t tell you anything more.”
I gritted my teeth at her repeated choice of words. It seemed to me she did know more and wasn’t willing to tell us. For what reason? I had no clue—unless she herself was involved in this crime.
Matt also picked up on Perla’s stonewalling. “My mother is missing,” he said, impatience growing. “Do you understand that we’re worried for her safety? Are you telling us there is nothing you know? Not one thing that will help us find this alleged blackmailer who drove off with her?”
“If you think your mother is in danger, Matteo, you should contact the police. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m running late. I have an event tonight, and I’ve got to get ready.”
Before Matt could press her again, Perla’s smartphone rang.
“That’s my Uber car arriving. Come on, let’s go up together . . .”
* * *
AS we stepped out into the chilly, damp air of 49th Street, I half hoped to see a black Jaguar waiting for Perla, driven by my old buddy, the U-scar man.
But Perla’s Uber car turned out to be a Toyota Prius, driven by a slender young man with a neo-pioneer beard and J.Crew hoodie.
“Now what?” Matt asked as we slammed our van doors.
Before I could reply, my smartphone buzzed. I read the text.
“Sophia’s awake and her phone is recharged. She wants us to give her a ride back to the hospital so she can be with her father.”
SEVENTY-TWO
TRAFFIC was heavy and we couldn’t find parking so I sent Matt and Sophia into the hospital while I slipped behind the van’s steering wheel and circled the block for fifteen minutes.
The rain ended for a time. But big drops began falling as Matt made a dash for the driver’s side.
“Slide over!”
“How is Gus doing?” I asked, moving to the passenger’s seat.
Matt slammed the door and pulled on the shoulder harness. “Still no improvement. Sophia’s going to stick close to him tonight.”
“Did you check with Admitting?”
He nodded. “No sign of Mother. Now what do we—”
“Matt! Look!”
I pointed to a woman wearing a familiar black raincoat, hood up. She was just leaving the hospital—the same hospital where Gus Campana was fighting for his life.
“That looks like my Phantom!”
“How can you be sure? It could be any woman in the same coat.”
“Move the van up. Try to get in front of her so I can see her face. If it’s that fashionista with the cat glasses, she could lead us to your mother!”
But the traffic was too heavy and slow moving—and our Phantom was outpacing us down the block.
“That’s it! I’m getting out to chase her on foot—”
“Wait!” Matt yanked me back and pointed. “She’s getting into that taxi up ahead.”
“Then you know what to do. Follow that cab!”
* * *
AS the rain poured, we headed to Second Avenue, then straight downtown.
“Don’t get too close!” I warned. “We don’t want to spook her.”
We passed 14th Street and then 10th and 8th and 6th . . .
“Where is she going?”
“If we’re in luck, she’s leading us straight to your mother.”
By the time we reached 1st Street, the rain tapered off and the clouds began to recede. With no need to protect her hair from the rain, my Phantom finally flipped down her hood as she exited the cab at the corner.
I fully expected to ID that haughty middle-aged woman with the cat glasses. But I realized with a jolt that the woman we were following was much younger, much skinnier, and much blonder. She was also someone Matt and I had seen before.
“Who is that?” Matt asked. “Why does she look so familiar?”
“Because she works for Gus. Do you remember that young blonde who greeted us in the jewelry store? The girl in the baby blue minidress and giant Louboutins?”
“Good God. It’s Monica!”
“She must have been the one who knocked me down outside of Gus’s courtyard.”
“What the hell was she doing inside that compound when everyone was gone?”
“Poisoning Gus is my guess.”
Matt’s jaw clenched. “Clare, what are we going to do?”
“For starters, make the turn onto 1st Street and keep following her. We need to see where she’s walking . . .”
He did as I advised. Then, halfway down the block, she completely disappeared.
Matt cursed in three languages. “Where did she go?!”
“She couldn’t have ducked into a building. There are no doorways up there. Drive forward, closer to where she vanished . . .”
As Matt drove the van to the middle of the block, I realized where our prey had gone: down a secret New York street called Extra Place.
“Oh, man!” Matt slapped the steering wheel. “I should have remembered. This is the cruddy alley where my friends and I used to sneak into CBGB’s back door.”
“Yes, Matt, ‘used to’ is the operative phrase in this neighborhood.”
The famous music club was long gone, its legendary 315 Bowery address now a John Varvatos store for men’s designer clothing, an apt reflection of the area’s radical gentrification.
The rugged bohemian roots were nearly wiped out, along with the grime, debris, and freewheeling graffiti. The Lower East Side tenement houses on either side of this hidden lane had vanished, too. Slick glass and steel luxury buildings stood in their place, with first-floor retail space rented to three upscale restaurants and a minimalistic home goods store.
Unfortunately for us, this hidden New York half street was a pedestrian-only affair.
“I’m jumping out to follow on foot,” I said. “You park and catch up, okay?”
“Be careful, Clare, and wait for me before you do anything stupid.”
“Don’t worry, Matt. If anything stupid needs to happen, I promise, we’ll do it together.”
SEVENTY-THREE
WHEN Matt caught up with me, I was loitering outside a casual seafood restaurant at the very end of Extra Place. The eatery served four kinds of lobster rolls, peel-and-eat shrimp, and New England clam chowder.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“I am if Monica is inside.”
“She is.” I pointed through the plate glass at one of the butcher-block tables. “The moment she sat down, she began typing into her smartphone. I say we grab seats across the room, order a couple of lobster rolls, keep our heads down, and watch to see if she meets up with one of our three suspects. With luck, it will be our blackmailer or one of his associates . . .”
But it wasn’t.
To my shock—and especially Matt’s—the man who strode into this glorified version of a lobster shack was the last person we expected.
“I can’t believe it,” Matt said.
Neither could I.
Clad in blue jeans, boat shoes, polo shirt, and Windbreaker, the man of wealth who took a seat across from Monica appeared to be the successful entrepreneur who’d passionately put together a consortium of investors for his dream-come-true project—the re-creation of a lost Italian luxury liner.
“Is that Victor Fontana?” I whispered.
My ex-husband’s shocked expression was confirmation enough. This was the very man who’d invited Matt to submit a last-minute entry in the Andrea Doria coffee competition.
“Stay put and keep your head down,” I commanded. “Fontana’s met you, but he doesn’t know me . . .”
Before Matt could object, I grabbed o
ur table’s tray and sauntered over to the condiments bar to gather ketchup, mustard, cocktail sauce, and napkins from the tall dispenser, anything that would lengthen my eavesdropping time.
Unfortunately, the restaurant was crowded and too loud to overhear one word of Monica and Fontana’s conversation. But I was able to see one very important exchange.
Monica reached into her black raincoat pocket and pulled out a small brown bag. Out of the bag came a white velvet box. She handed the box to Fontana, who opened it with intense interest.
Then his fingers dipped inside, and when they came out, I heard Matt’s loud gasp at my ear. Whipping around, I found him lurking behind the napkin dispenser.
“Matt, what are you doing?!”
“Shhh. Stay quiet.”
I tried, but it wasn’t easy.
Victor Fontana seemed pleased as punch by the treasure Monica had brought him. With glee, he pushed up his Harry Potter glasses—small, round frames that seemed calculated to emphasize the boyish good looks gradually fading from his forty-something face.
Then he tapped his smartphone. As he lifted it up for Monica to read the screen, I got the impression he was showing her a wire transfer.
She clapped her hands and thanked him.
Then he thanked her.
With exuberant awe, he lifted the jewel higher, examining its beauty in the day’s fading light. Seeing it this clearly, Matt and I knew.
The little blond store clerk just sold Victor Fontana the Campana family’s priceless Eye of the Cat.
SEVENTY-FOUR
MATT and I stayed quiet until Fontana left the restaurant. He appeared to be in a hurry, and we knew how to find him—along with the stolen jewel he’d apparently just purchased.
But Monica was another matter.
Suspecting her of attempted murder, as well as grand theft, we confronted her on 1st Street.
“We’re going to have a long talk in the back of our coffee van,” I told her, taking hold of one arm while Matt took the other. “And you’re going to answer every one of our questions. Or we’re driving you straight to the Sixth Precinct and you can answer official questions after a night in jail.”