Terminal City (Alex Cooper)

by Linda Fairstein

  “The Real Time Crime guys have run them six ways to Sunday and come up cold,” Mike said. “That one’s going to take detective work. Pounding the pavement.”

  “Starting now?”

  “I’m good to go,” Mercer said. “Get a jump on the morning.”

  We told Rocco we were leaving. Two of his men, he told us, were working with Corinne Thatcher’s brother. No one had come up with her laptop and cell phone, and the brother was trying to reconstruct contacts of both friends and professional associations for the detectives.

  “Where are you off to?” I asked.

  “I want to eyeball some of the garage workers,” Mike said.

  The Waldorf’s parking garage was on the 49th Street side of the building. If Branson and the feds were correct, that was closest to the Northeast Passage, which they assumed had been the killer’s point of entry.

  “It’s been done,” Rocco said. “Every shift has been interviewed.”

  “Not by me,” Mike said.

  “Like you know something my squad doesn’t. Get real, Chapman.”

  “Crack how the girl got in and we’re halfway home,” Mike said, looking over at me. “You and Mercer with me?”

  “I’m in,” I said. “Beats facing the music with Battaglia.”

  The three of us made our way upstairs and found a cushy trio of armchairs in the main lobby in which we sat to make our calls. Mike checked in at Manhattan North with his lieutenant Mercer called the SVU to report on the day and learn whether there was any news, and I avoided Laura—and the stack of messages she had undoubtedly been collecting from a district attorney who didn’t like to be ignored—by calling Nan Toth.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Still at the Waldorf. Nothing’s coming together the way we need it to.”

  “Same on this end.”

  “Raymond Tanner?” I asked. “Any sign of him?”

  “Zero,” Nan said. “There must have been a plan. Evan and I went up to talk to Judge Aikens. He’s peeved, to say the least. You can’t micromanage this one, Alex. You can trust Evan to keep his eye on the case and on the players.”

  “Thanks. And if you don’t mind calling Laura, please tell her I’m keeping her honest. She can say to Battaglia she hasn’t heard from me since I left the office.”

  I waited for Mike and Mercer to finish their calls. When I looked up after checking my texts, I saw Rocco Correlli sprinting from the basement stairwell toward the exit door that led to the garage.

  “Rocco! What’s the rush?”

  “I was chasing after you guys,” he said, stopping to catch his breath. “I figured you were outside in the garage.”

  The three of us were on our feet, phones off, as we walked to meet him.

  “Something clicked?” I asked. “Progress?”

  “Only if you think bad things happen in threes.”

  “Another?”

  “Corpse. Yeah. Another dead girl.”

  “Where is she, Rocco?” Mike asked.

  “On a train.”

  “Subway or commuter train?” Mike said. “You talking homicide?”

  “I’m talking a broad with a slit throat, naked and apparently sexually abused. Train tracks marked on her thighs and tail. She’s in a railroad car, Chapman. Some kind of private railroad car, sitting on an abandoned set of tracks right the fuck next to Grand Central.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “The feds found her,” Rocco Correlli said. “They were doing a sweep in advance of the president’s trip.”

  The four of us were on Park Avenue, walking to the glass-sided entrance of the MetLife Building on 45th Street, headed for the tall escalators that led down to the main concourse of Grand Central.

  “I didn’t know there was any such thing as a private railroad car,” I said, waiting for the traffic light to change.

  “That way of travel is mostly a thing of the past,” Mercer said, “but there are still scores of old cars—antiques—that are in private hands.”

  “And they just sit in the tunnels?”

  “No, no. Amtrak actually lets the owners—or renters—travel on certain routes, for a hefty fee. There are some real beauties, and as long as you’ve got a siding—a short piece of track that connects to the main rail—you can pretty much travel around the country in one of these.”

  “What do you know about the girl?” I asked Rocco.

  “Pretty much like Corinne Thatcher’s situation. No clothes, no phone, no computer, no personal belongings. Her ID is the first mystery we have to solve.”

  “Do they know who owns the railroad car?”

  “Not yet. They only found the body fifteen minutes before I got the call,” Rocco said, holding out his arm to the angry taxi driver as we crossed against the light.

  “Fresh kill?”

  “At least a day old,” Rocco said, turning to address Mike. “How come you didn’t sniff this out during your early-morning tour of the tunnels, bright eyes? Were you looking to be stiffed by the feds?”

  “It’s a big hole in the ground, Loo. I didn’t see any private cars.”

  “There weren’t any in the direction we walked,” Mercer said. “I know what they look like.”

  We had practically run the four blocks from the Waldorf entrance into MetLife, through the revolving doors, and down the moving staircase. Rush hour had begun, so we were jostled and crowded by end-of-day workers determined to make their return commute.

  Two NYPD officers were waiting for us at the foot of the escalator. Passengers were streaking down staircases, crossing the concourse, and making their way to their designated departure gates. They were oblivious to our arrival.

  The cops escorted us down the western staircase to the lower level. Instead of turning left, as we had in our morning excursion, we made a right and walked out onto another long platform. Trains rumbled in the distance, flashes of headlights occasionally penetrating the concrete archways in the darkened space.

  Rocco and Mike were directly behind the uniformed officers. I tried to keep pace with them as Mercer brought up the rear.

  Someone had turned on a row of overhead lights ahead of us. I could see an elongated railroad car against the black background of the interior space. It looked as though we were traveling back in time. The single coach was from a much earlier era, painted a bright red with black and yellow trim. It had to be more than one hundred years old but was restored to a high gloss.

  “That’s what they call private varnish,” Mercer said, expressing his admiration for the great-looking machine up ahead.

  “What does that mean?”

  He kept one hand on the small of my back, nudging me forward when he talked. “Late eighteen hundreds, before rich Americans had cars, they used to travel around in private trains, like this one. They were made of wood, so it was extremely difficult to maintain the exterior condition of them because of weather issues. Most owners varnished them so they really gleamed riding along those rails. Poor folk in small towns? They got to know pretty quick that the shiny varnished trains were the private ones.”

  “So who owned these?”

  “Back then? All the great railroad tycoons first. Leland Stanford, J. P. Morgan, Archer Dalton.”

  “Archer Dalton, of course,” I said, thinking of the case we had just worked in Central Park, with miniature antique silver trains as clues in the long-ago murder of Dalton’s only grandchild.

  “Then the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers and Meriweathers. I’ll take you on a tour when the next exhibition comes along.”

  “And now?”

  “Think of them as yachts on rails, Alex. Beautifully restored and as lavishly outfitted as you can imagine.”

  “Then this car is here for a reason, right? Someone can tell us who brought it here.”

  “They’re all regula
ted by Amtrak. Won’t be hard to do.”

  Rocco and Mike were at the foot of the steps that led up to the platform at the rear of the car. It looked as if a couple of federal agents had staked out the railroad car itself as their turf. Men from the NYPD and Metro-North security were gingerly walking around the tracks on either side, carefully avoiding the intense orange paint that highlighted the electrified third rail.

  I jogged the last few yards so that neither Mercer nor I would miss any of the conversation.

  Rocco was climbing the ladder of the train. As I approached, Mike took one step up, then glanced back and held out his hand for me.

  I looked down the exterior length of the bright-red car. Painted along the side, in burnished black letters almost two feet high, were the words BIG TIMBER.

  “What’s Big Timber?” I whispered to Mike.

  “Some little paradise in the middle of Montana. We’re about to find out how kinky the rich dude who owns this must be.”

  The agents led the way into the car as we tagged along behind them. We had been so close to Grand Central that we beat Crime Scene and the morgue team to the body.

  I had never seen anything quite like the interior of Big Timber. It was decorated exquisitely, with a Western theme and strong masculine influence. There was a bar against one side—heavy with Noah’s Mill and an assortment of other fancy bourbons—which was part of a lounge area, as if we were in an elegant country home. There were brown leather sofas—intentionally distressed to look as if they had some age on them—several armchairs, and between each of the windows an attractive array of black-and-white photographs, including some brilliant Edward Curtis images of Native Americans that were probably originals.

  “Nothing looks even out of place here, does it?”

  “No, ma’am,” one of the agents said.

  “Any signs of a struggle? Anything broken or damaged?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Can you cut the ma’am thing for a change?” Mike said, passing out gloves to each of us. “Makes her feel old. Just treat her like one of the guys. She gets off on that.”

  “Then I hope she’s ready for the scene in the bedroom,” he said, turning his back to us and moving forward.

  A door to our right separated the lounge area from a large bathroom—large enough to hold a stall shower, set up with a bench for steam treatments.

  “Looks like some blood in the sink,” the agent pointed out to Mike.

  They passed by the bathroom without going in. Three feet beyond was another door, the entrance to the bedroom.

  The scene of Corinne Thatcher’s murder had been repeated in this plush boudoir. This time, a girl who looked even younger than Thatcher—barely twenty, I guessed—was laid out across the queen-sized bed. Her throat, too, had been sliced from behind one ear almost to the other. She was naked, her legs spread apart. It was a sight I had hoped dearly never to see again.

  “Crime Scene?” Mercer asked.

  “They’re on the way,” the second agent said.

  “Either of you touch anything?” Mike said, starting a meticulous visual scope of the room.

  “We took Homicide 101, Chapman. I know that surprises you, but we both passed.”

  “Touch the girl?”

  “No need to. I know dead when I see it.”

  “So how’d you get into the car?” Rocco asked.

  The second agent picked up the narrative. “We’re part of the New York office. Often help out the Secret Service when there’s a presidential visit. When the orders came in with the change of plans from heliport to train station, we drew the short straw. Checking out this area. The White House on steel wheels is supposed to dock two tracks over in just about seventy-two hours.”

  “How did Big Timber get here and when is she supposed to leave?” Mike asked.

  The room was perfectly appointed. Forest-green curtains, again accented by Western décor—everything except deer antlers—and a slightly warmer shade of green on the upholstered headboard and blankets.

  Dressers were built against the wall, under the windows on one side of the room. Mike opened the drawers and then the closet. There was a man’s leather jacket and some corduroy slacks hanging up but nothing out of order.

  Only the bed looked as if it had served as an abattoir for the same butcher who had taken the lives of Corinne Thatcher and Carl Condon.

  “Seems there’s this whole association of people who own railroad cars. This one belongs to a cattle baron from a town called Big Timber in Montana.”

  “Long way from home, isn’t it?” Rocco said.

  “Planned the trip a year ago. Got all the clearances from Amtrak and—”

  “I don’t get it,” Mike said. “The damn thing’s got no engine. How does it move?”

  “The owner pays, Detective. Not only a couple of bucks a mile to ride on Amtrak’s rails, but they get coupled up to long-distance trains by a switch engine and crew. Takes an arm and a leg to finance. Then they get charged fees for parking at sidings at major facilities.”

  “And this cattle tycoon, he did all that?”

  “His office is faxing over the paperwork to prove it. The Northeast Corridor—anywhere in the run from Boston to DC—that’s the most restrictive route. And he’s had A-plus clearance all the way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s a good customer. Been here before and follows the rules,” the agent said, looking at his notes. “Like you can’t carry propane into New York, on account of all the tunnels in the city and under the rivers. They know this guy. He’s not a risk.”

  “Have you talked to him?” Mike asked. “Maybe he’s got a rough side they don’t know about. Maybe he’s got train tracks branded into his cattle.”

  We were all thinking about the distinctive marks on the bodies of the three victims.

  “He was expecting to be here this week, like I said, but flew down to a cattle auction in Texas at the last minute,” the agent said. “Big Timber is parked here legally until Saturday. Been in town about ten days.”

  “So now we’ve got to talk to all the engineers and conductors and security team and track workers to see whether anyone’s come and gone from this machine,” Rocco said. “Without pulling detectives off the Waldorf and the work on the first two homicides. Scully better come up with some manpower.”

  “And the blood,” I said. “There’s so much blood. Could it all be from this poor girl? I keep thinking of that speck on the curtain at the Waldorf.”

  “We should have a result on that Waldorf DNA by tonight or tomorrow. It would be great if it isn’t Thatcher’s. Maybe something in this bathroom sink belongs to the killer,” Mike said.

  “You have any movement on the Thatcher toxicology?” Rocco asked.

  “You’re kidding, Loo, right?”

  “We’ll have to do the same here, of course,” I said.

  The analysis of biological tissue for toxicological purposes—the detection of drugs—was a lengthy process. Solvents had to be used first to separate the drug from the actual tissue. Then the purification of the drug was carried out by more extraction procedures, which used alkaline and acid solutions. The work was slow and time-consuming, and even when a positive identification of a specific drug was achieved, it couldn’t be reported without confirmation by a second method of analysis.

  “It might be weeks before we learn what was in Thatcher’s system. The tox docs at the lab are flying blind,” Mike said. “We have no reason to know what hit her.”

  “Okay,” Rocco said, “why don’t you all step out till Crime Scene gets here. Maybe we’ll get lucky with something our boy dropped on the floor.”

  The lieutenant was talking to the two FBI agents and me. He was letting Mike and Mercer poke around the space, trusting their skill and ability to keep order till the team arrived.
/>   The agents and I walked out past the bathroom, through the lounge, and started to make our way down the rungs of the ladder off the rear platform.

  Murder always seemed to draw a crowd. A small group of rubberneckers had already gathered around Big Timber.

  Some wore the uniforms of Metro-North station employees, others were dressed in work clothes, a few commuters straggled behind, and some men and women who appeared to be moles completed the growing circle. I could see Dirty Harry on the far side of the third rail, excited to be watching an official police operation.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said to the feds. “I think you need to clear the area. It’s neither smart nor safe till we know what happened here.”

  “Let’s get some names,” the first guy said to the second. “It’s like they say about arson. The pyromaniac sets the place on fire, then circles the block and comes back to admire his handiwork. Maybe we got our killer right here.”

  They were right about many arsonists, who come back to the scene of the crime, masturbating as the flames they lighted engulf the targeted building.

  “Do what you have to do,” I said. “But that sort of deranged-looking guy back there, playing with himself? He’s harmless. Lives in the tunnel. I’m going to wait inside the station. Here’s my card, in case you need me.”

  “Wish we could take your word for it, ma’am, but that’s not our way of operating. We’ll clear the area and set up a perimeter. Talk to everyone who’s lurking around.”

  I stepped through the small group that had gathered and walked back into the lower concourse. The Crime Scene detectives would have to pass me in order to get out to the platform and do their work. I skirted the commuters and found a seat at a table in front of the Shake Shack concession, texting Mike and Mercer to tell them where I was.

  More than half an hour passed and still there was no sign of the elite team.

  The public service announcements boomed throughout the vast space—a woman’s voice, like the recording of a car’s GPS—urged passengers to report luggage or packages that were unattended, to stand back from the edge of train platforms, and to avoid slippery patches when wet. I half expected her to announce the news that there was a dead woman on the tracks at a nearby departure gate.