by Andrew Gross
“ ’Cause I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There are at least fifteen separate entrances to the main atrium of Grand Central Terminal.
I figure, at some point, I’ve probably gone in through them all.
There are the two main ones on Forty-Second Street, and the ones on Lexington and Vanderbilt Avenues. There’s the Fiftieth Street and Forty-Eighth and Forty-Sixth Streets, through the North Annex that lead directly onto the tracks. Down the main escalator from the MetLife Building. Through the alleys of Park Avenue East and West that border the Helmsley Building. There’s even the stairway from the Campbell Apartment, an old speakeasy situated off Vanderbilt Avenue that not many people know of and that Dave and I occasionally went to before heading home. I counted fifteen. There could be more.
But enough that the people who wanted to keep me quiet would never be able to cover them all.
I thought the best way for me to arrive was to come in directly on a train. With sixty-some-odd tracks on two different levels, at rush hour, there was no way they could watch them all. I left Jim and Cindy’s Explorer in a lot near the Rye train station and took the Metro-North into New York. I wanted to be sure I turned myself over to Joe’s contacts with the NYPD and not anyone else. No way the bastards who’d killed my husband would ever let me fall into the right hands.
The plan was to meet Joe at the information booth at the center of the Grand Concourse at 5:15 P.M. This was the height of the rush hour, when the crowds would be heaviest. I was told there would be three people from the NYPD waiting for me. Joe’s friend Burns, the assistant chief, who’d be wearing a blue New York Rangers cap, and two other senior detectives. No one could guarantee I wouldn’t ultimately be handed over to the feds—they had jurisdiction; it was their case. But the whole thing would be made public. The press would be fully aware. I’d be able to meet with a lawyer.
I had a story to tell—and I wasn’t about to tell it to anyone else.
My train from Rye rolled into the station at 5:04. I stepped onto the platform and blended in with the crowd. I had on the blue Patagonia pullover I’d taken from Vermont, a hooded microfiber shirt underneath. I wore sunglasses. I told Joe I’d meet him at the ticket counter just before 5:15. He said he’d scout the place out and make sure everything looked okay. The crowd pushed me forward, and the platform slowly fed into a narrow staircase leading to the upper level. I stepped in behind a black woman and her young son who’d gotten on in New Rochelle. My heart was starting to beat heavily. I got on my disposable phone and called Joe.
“I’m here,” I said when I heard him answer.
“I’m here too. Don’t be nervous. Everything seems to be a go.”
“ ‘Don’t be nervous.’ ” I chortled grimly. “Let me keep that in mind.” I pulled the hoodie up over my hair.
The kid in front of me stumbled on the stairs and I steadied him from behind. I gave him a smile and he shot a quick one back to me. “Reggie, watch yourself,” his mother said, tugging on his arm.
C’mon, Wendy, I begged my pounding heart. Keep it together.
I came out onto the Upper Concourse around Track 42, underneath the overhanging balcony.
The scene was just as I had hoped—a maze of commuters crisscrossing the vast Grand Concourse from all directions. Grand Central had always been one of my favorite spots, with the restored, majestic Beaux Arts ceiling, the food emporium down below, and the new Apple store on the east balcony. I just put my head down and told my heart to calm.
“Joe, I’m on my way,” I said into the phone. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
I crossed the main concourse as far from the information booth as I could, my face tucked into my jacket. I spotted the ticket counter. There were five or six windows open and lines at each of them.
I didn’t see Joe.
“Joe. I’m here,” I said, stepping into one of the ticket lines. Anything was getting me worried. “Where are you?”
“Right here,” he said.
I finally spotted him, hands in his pockets, the same corduroy jacket with the wool collar he had on the day before, waiting on one of the lines. I forced a brave smile and stepped in line next to him.
“How you holding up, kid?” he asked with a bolstering wink.
“I’m okay.” My nerves clearly apparent. “Barely.”
He squeezed my arm. “Everything’s gonna go down fine.” He glanced at his watch. The huge overhead clock in the station read 5:11. “I have their word.”
“Okay . . .” I blew out a tight breath. I wondered if lookouts were scanning the bustling crowd for me right now.
“Wendy, you know they’ll have to turn you over to the feds. But there’ll be a joint news conference and I’ve put my own attorney on notice. You’re free to change, of course, at any time . . .”
I nodded, a knot of worry forming in my gut. “I appreciate this, Joe. I can’t tell you how much . . .”
“Ready?”
“No. But if we don’t do it now, I don’t think I ever will . . .”
I was about to turn when he stopped me by the arm. “Wendy, whatever happens, I want you to know that it’s been one of the deep regrets of my life to have let you down back then. To have let your father down. The only thing that made it bearable to me was that I saw how you went on and got your life together, and met Dave . . . I want to see nothing more than for you to get back with your kids as best you can . . .”
“Thank you, Joe.” My eyes grew moist and started to sting. “That’s all I want too.”
“So let’s get on with it.”
Slowly, we wove our way across the concourse toward the information booth. My legs felt rubbery, and Joe held me by the arm to keep me steady. The place was mobbed, which was okay. It seemed like most of the world was rushing to make a train or just coming off one.
“Just stay to my side,” he said.
The bronze-gilded information booth came into view. The three men standing around it. One was in a blue cap. Burns. That had to be him. One of the others was shorter, bearded, wearing a flat-brimmed hat and black leather jacket. The last one looked Hispanic; it was hard to make out. Someone bumped into me from behind, practically scaring the wits out of me, I was so jumpy. “Sorry,” he muttered as he passed by.
“Joe, I’m scared,” I said. And not just by the threat that the government people might be here. Because of what I was doing. Everything falling apart. My life. My husband dead. My kids doubting me. Whether I’d be spending the rest of my life in jail . . .
“I know. I know, Wendy. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
I scanned the station. It all appeared like normal, rush-hour activity. But inwardly, I figured that anyone we passed by might well be undercover NYPD or the feds. The young woman with the backpack going over the train schedule. The Hispanic guy on the cell phone turning his back to me.
“There they are,” Joe said, eyeing the counter. “We’re almost there. All right, stay behind me.”
He took my arm as he was looking about, putting his body in front of mine. Through the crowd, I saw the three NYPDs. All that went through my mind was Dave. The people who had killed him were going to portray me as a killer. Someone completely unstable. A promiscuous thrill seeker who was cheating on her husband. They had framed me for Dave’s death just as they were trying to frame Curtis at the hotel. I imagined the headlines. I just prayed people would believe me.
As we got closer, my gaze fell on the tall man in the Rangers cap. He had a trusting, ruddy face. He gave me kind of a ready, officious smile, for a moment kind of putting me at ease.
The last ease I was about to feel for a long while.
Because a second later Joe looked up at the balcony and grabbed my arm to stop me in my tracks. Then I heard him groan above the din, “Oh, shit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Alton Dokes scanned the floor of Grand Central Terminal from his perch on the great staircase next to Michael Jordan’s St
eak House.
It seemed like every fucking person in New York was rushing by, making it virtually impossible to fix on anyone in particular, even through his high-intensity field binoculars.
He quickly located the three NYPD personnel hovering near the information booth in the center. Dokes chortled. They were severely misled if they thought for a second this was going to be an NYPD operation. That would bring in press and a lawyer. They had already opened the door to way too much as it was. However the stupid bitch had managed to be up in that hotel room, she’d turned a routine operation into a raging shit storm. Hruseff was dead and they could only hide what he’d been doing there so long. And what was behind it.
Now it had fallen into his lap, Dokes reflected, and it wasn’t going to go any further.
He knew how to do his job. There’d be a fuss at first, maybe the press would dig in, but ultimately it would all calm down after they failed to find anything. There was only one place anyone would suspect. They had the photo image of a top Zeta operative who was already in New York ready to be sent out to the various press and investigative agencies to take the blame for this. He and Hruseff were old pros at this kind of thing, but Ray was gone.
Now it was up to him.
Dokes swept his glasses around the bustling concourse.
The trail ended here.
He had no idea which direction the two would be coming from, only that they’d be heading for the information booth. He glanced at the image on his cell phone. Not the woman. Esterhaus. He centered on a dozen faces all moving toward the booth. Nothing yet. It was possible they would use some misdirection. He checked his watch: 5:14 P.M. The NYPD people were looking around.
C’mon, show yourself, dollface. It’s time . . .
Then something caught his eye.
From the southwest quadrant of the concourse. A man in a plaid jacket. Dokes looked again at the photo on his phone. The man seemed to be guiding a woman in a blue parka. He couldn’t fully see her; her face was inside a hood. He couldn’t get confirmation—she had on sunglasses. But he was sure. It had to be her.
There’s our gal.
“Six o clock. Two people. Blue parka. Hood,” he whispered into the radio.
His man on the balcony confirmed, just as businesslike. “I’ve got them, sir.”
The two wove through the crowd, using it for cover. Dokes checked the cops again. So far it seemed they hadn’t spotted them yet.
Then there was an opening in the crowd, and he pressed the mike close to his lips and said calmly to the shooter, his eye peering through the scope of the sniper’s rifle, “At your call, Wendell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Don’t move!” Joe grabbed me, forcing me to a stop.
My heart jumped out of my chest. “What’s wrong?”
His gaze was fixed, but not where I expected, in the direction of the information booth. He was looking upward, at the second-floor balcony, directly in front of us.
He shifted in front of me. “Just stay behind me.”
“Joe . . .” My heart seized with alarm. “What’s going on?”
“Wendy, I want you to slowly back away,” he said in a businesslike voice. His hand was on mine, his body directly in front of mine.
That’s when I followed his gaze and noticed the glint. Coming through an opening in the balustrade on the second floor. And a kind of shadow behind it. The glint again. It could be nothing. It could also be the light glancing off the lens of a sight.
A shooter.
My alarm ratcheted up to fear.
“I’m sorry, but I think we’re going to call this off,” Joe said, making sure he was directly in front of me. “Wendy, I want you to just back away with me. No sudden movements. Just stay directly behind . . .”
We veered away from the information booth, Joe’s arm around my shoulder, his body shielding me from the spot he’d been fo-cused on.
He said, “I want you to find a way out of the station. Without drawing any attention to yourself. Do you have one?” His head craned back and forth. To the balcony, the information booth, the police there starting to look at him with some befuddlement.
“Yes.” I nodded, shock waves shooting down my spine. I did have a Plan B. If things went wrong. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think we’re quite as alone as I hoped. So I want you to take that way out. I’ll be in touch. We’ll work something else out, when I know exactly who we can trust. Just stay in the crowd, okay? That’s vital . . .” I glanced back at the balcony as he eased me forward. “Whatever you do, just—”
I never heard the shot. Just a spitting sound as Joe lurched forward with a gasp. I turned and saw a hole in his coat and his face go white and blood coming from his shoulder.
I screamed. “Joe!” My eyes fixed on him in horror and disbelief.
“Get out of here, Wendy,” he said, his eyes reflecting something between concern and helplessness. He pushed into me to get me going, just as another thud zinged in, a groan seeming to come straight from his lungs, blood seeping through his fingers. “Go! Now!”
I couldn’t. My feet were paralyzed. What have they done to Joe?
Even though he was the only thing protecting me from being hit myself, he pushed me away. “Wendy, now!”
I took off.
The woman I’d noticed a moment ago studying the schedule moved toward me, but Joe staggered into her, grabbing her arm and taking her down with him as he fell to his knees. Another shot came in, hitting her.
I screamed and pushed my way into a throng, just as people began to realize what was happening and started to scream as well.
I began to run. I looked back once at Joe, helpless, blood pooling on his chest. The woman he was entangled with took out a gun and started to shout at me. “Stop that woman! Stop!”
I fled into the crowd, darting in and out before the NYPD people even got a sense of what was happening. I heard the panicked murmur spread like wildfire, “Someone’s shooting! Someone’s shooting!”
I knew I had to get out of here now.
I hunched my face deeper into my collar and hurried away from the center of the station, praying that the next thing I felt wouldn’t be a sniper’s bullet tearing into me.
I moved toward the Vanderbilt Avenue staircase, to run down to the lower floor, praying that by now the guy with the rifle either had to flee himself or had lost me in the throng.
Then I caught sight of someone else standing at the bottom of the staircase. Staring directly at me.
The black agent who had chased me at the hotel.
Dokes.
Everything in me turned to ice.
Frantic, I backed away from him, bumping into people passing by. For a second he stood as frozen as me, then he spoke into a radio. Our gazes locked on each other. I saw him reach into his jacket for a gun.
I took off across the Main Concourse.
I knew I was a sitting duck. The NYPD cops were everywhere, and a guy was peering through a sniper’s scope, all searching for a woman in a blue parka, sunglasses, and hood.
I sprinted into a large group of Asian tourists moving toward Lexington Avenue and pushed my way into the middle. I tore off my parka and threw it to the floor. I pulled off my sunglasses and shook out my hair, knowing anyone looking for me would be focused on the woman they’d all seen a moment before.
I turned and saw Dokes pushing his way through the bustling crowd, trying to follow me. Maybe twenty or thirty yards behind. My thoughts went to Joe. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead. I only knew what he would want me to do.
I ran.
I made it across the terminal to the east annex, where most of the shops and retail food outlets were.
But I was petrified to try to get to one of the main entrances. I was sure they would be covered.
Then it hit me. The subway entrance. It was just up the platform. A hundred yards from me.
That was my best way out.
I
bolted out of the crowd and wedged myself between a businessman and a woman on her cell phone, and made it to the southeast underpass beneath the giant schedule board. I knew I was finally out of reach of the guy on the balcony. But I did spot the bearded NYPD detective I had seen at the information booth who was frantically sorting through the people passing by him. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him if I just turned myself in as planned. Someone had given me away! The only thing I had going for me was that he’d be looking for someone in a blue parka and sunglasses.
I put my hand over my face as if I was talking on my cell phone and went right by him, catching sight of him jumping up and down and as he craned for a better view. From here it was only about fifty yards up the ramp to the subway entrance. There, I was pretty sure I could get lost in the myriad tunnels and trains at the Forty-Second Street station.
But then I made a mistake.
Instead of remaining huddled in the crowd, I turned around to see if the NYPD guy was coming after me.
And I found myself staring at Dokes. He had stopped to get a better vantage point and was scanning the area where he thought I’d be. His gaze locked on me. He grabbed his radio and came after me. He was around twenty yards behind.
I darted out of the cover of the crowd.
Now he had a bead on me, and I realized that my life was only as good as my being able to get to the subway. I fled up the Forty-Second Street ramp, jammed with rushing commuters who knew nothing of what had happened back in the main station, knocking into them as I darted by, frantically glancing behind me to see how close Dokes was.
He was gaining.
He knocked down a pedestrian in his way, shouting, “Federal agent!” Closing the gap on me.
I sped down the subway steps, forcing myself past the slower pedestrians, fumbling through my purse for my transit card. I looked back up the stairs and saw Dokes darting through the crowd.
My heart constricted with fear.