Murder in Greenwich Village Page 9

  “Very good and very bad. Ron, my partner’s been kidnapped and I think they may be holding him in the Second Avenue subway tunnel near Sixty-third Street.”

  “You part of that search party last night?”

  “Yes. We came up with nothing, but I have new information.”

  “Who’s authorizing this Second Avenue search?”

  “No one yet. I have to talk to the whip in my office. He’s more likely to say no than yes. Does that make a difference to you?”

  “You want me to go down there with you?”

  “Please.”

  “Makes no difference at all. What’ll they do to me, dock my pension?”

  “Thanks, Ron.”

  “I need a couple of hours to prepare and get down there. I’m living in Yonkers now.”

  “I can use a little time, too. I have to ask for permission—”

  “Which you won’t get.”

  “Which I won’t get. And I could use a little sleep. I’ve only slept two hours in the last two days.”

  “OK. I’ll pick up some industrial-strength bug spray and a few other goodies. Where can I reach you? We should do this at night.”

  She gave him her home, office, and cell numbers, then called Graves’s number.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m home. I have a new lead.”

  “It better not take you down to the subway.”

  “In fact, it does, sir.”

  “Get over here right away. We have some talking to do.” He hung up.

  She called Hack on the way over.

  “Find your guy?”

  “Yes. He’ll help me. We’ll do it tonight.”

  “And Graves?”

  “I’m on my way over to 137 now. He’s in a foul mood.”

  “He won’t let you do this.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’ll do it anyway.”

  “You want deniability?”

  “I don’t know you, Detective. I don’t need to deny anything.”

  “I love you, Hackett.”

  “Whoever you are.”

  Her assessment of Graves’s response was on target. For a man who had made his reputation as a calm, moderating individual, his demeanor was shocking. He was fuming.

  “You have any idea what that tramp through the Lex cost this city?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many man-hours, how much equipment was used?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you want to try another subway line?”

  “A piece of the Second Avenue tunnel. I don’t need an army to go with me.”

  “You listen to me, Detective. You stay the hell out of the subway unless you’re riding a train. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s an order. Go home and get some sleep—you look like hell—and show up here when you’re rested.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stood and started out of the office.

  “An order, Detective. You know what an order is?”

  MacHovec raised his eyebrows as she walked into their office. “Guess you got the word.”

  “Guess I did.”

  “So what’re you doing now?”

  “You want deniability?” she asked for the second time in an hour.

  “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m going home and getting a few hours’ sleep. And that’s the truth.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Anything doing here?”

  “Carl Randolph’s former cellmate is dead. Otherwise squat.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll talk to you, Sean. I just don’t know from where.”

  She called Hack and let him know. “I’m afraid I’ll lose my badge,” she said.

  “If it doesn’t work out, he won’t know you did it. And we’ll get you a good lawyer.”

  She laughed. “I’m glad you’re thinking ahead. I’m going to sleep if I’m not too keyed up. Ron’ll call to let me know he’s ready. He’s out buying bug spray.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  She told him. He approved. She went to sleep.

  When Ron Delancey called in the afternoon, she was sleeping so deeply, she awoke disoriented. He had everything they would need, and he was looking forward to his first trip down into the tunnels since his retirement.

  “You have the keys we need?” Jane asked.

  “I have everything. I’ll call you before I leave.”

  The keys were important. They were unusual in shape and could not be duplicated outside the TA. That he had them at all meant he had taken them with him. And Curtis Morgan had probably taken his with him to retain access to the tunnel.

  She showered and put on a pair of jeans, then opened a can of tuna. Sitting at the kitchen table she ran her hand over the smaller of the two holes left by two bullets in the winter, bullets that had been meant for her. One had almost passed through the table, and the second had gone only partly through, leaving the smaller hole. If either one had gone all the way through, Jane would be dead. The holes were a daily reminder.

  The phone rang. It was Toni Defino.

  “There’s nothing yet, Toni.”

  “Were you in the Lex last night?”

  “I was. I had a lead. I thought he might be stuffed in an alcove there, but we didn’t find him.”

  “Oh, God.” Toni started crying.

  “Toni, no one’s given up, and no one will. I’m chasing down another lead in a little while.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t tell you. Just believe me when I say we are all working to find him.”

  Toni needed more reassuring and Jane did her best, then finished the light lunch that would have to hold her till later tonight.

  Then Flora called. Flora Hamburg was an aging inspector who ruffled many feathers on the job, Hack’s included, but was well loved by the group she cared most about, career women.

  “That’s your partner, right?” she said with no introduction.

  “Yes.”

  “You folks ever learn how to keep out of trouble?”

  “When we find him, I’ll take a refresher course.”

  “Jane, what’s happening?”

  Jane gave her a rundown.

  “Graves must want your ass.”

  “He does.”

  “So what now?”

  “I’m following up a lead. If it works, you’ll hear about it.”

  “Watch yourself. You want to be around for Medal Day.”

  Medal Day was in June. Jane had earned a medal for her first case at 137, the case that promoted her from third grade to first grade. Her father was counting the days. As she cleaned up the dishes, she wondered if they would still give it to her if she’d been fired. It would break her father’s heart.

  Finally, Ron Delancey called. He would meet her on the northeast corner of Sixty-third and Second Avenue and they would go on from there. He questioned her about her clothes and her sleep, sounding relieved that she had managed a few more hours.

  She called Hack and told him when and where. Then she traveled uptown.

  14

  “WELL, YOU’RE LOOKIN’ good. That your picture I saw on the front of the Daily News a while ago?”

  “That was it. Got myself in a little trouble and everyone thought I did something special.”

  “If this works, it’ll be special.”

  “It has to work, Ron. I have to find him. Two guys, maybe three, stuffed him in an old blue van, and no one’s seen him since. I’m really worried.”

  “We’ll give it our best.”

  This time they descended to the tunnel by lifting a grate on the busy sidewalk, the kind that Marilyn Monroe had stood on to have her skirt blown up. Ron had brought a backpack with flashlights for both of them, as well as night-vision goggles they would wear below.

  He went down first, showing her how to replace the grate after her and lighting the ladder they would use, rung
s embedded in a vertical concrete wall. Concerned, he kept the rungs above him lit for her and descended slowly.

  They went down at least sixty feet, possibly eighty, the longest vertical descent on foot of her life. She felt relief to reach the bottom, a line that carried trains to Roosevelt Island in the East River and from there to Queens. Ron had it timed so they could get to the Second Avenue branch before a train came by. At that point, the lighting stopped and they turned onto a trackless bed.

  They stopped there, and Ron dug in his backpack for two pairs of goggles, which they donned before continuing. Then he led her into an unreal underworld.

  “This is it,” he said. “The famous Second Avenue subway. There’s lots of places to hide someone around here. I can show you side passages used for storage. We’ve got bypass tunnels the guys use for working around utility lines. It wouldn’t be smart to hide something there; it could be found.”

  “What do they store?”

  “Machinery, steel girders, track and signal equipment, lots and lots of cable reels, including empty ones.”

  “Shit, we’ll never find him.”

  “Let’s get our bearings.” He leaned against a ten-foot-high chain-link fence and took some papers out of his backpack. “These are maps and they’re fairly up-to-date. I’ve penciled in what’s stored where, and that should give us some help deciding where to look.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Only if it works. Look. We don’t want to go here or here or this area over here. They’re stacked high with machinery. But these areas”—he ran his index finger over them—“these are places you could open the gate, stuff something in, and be on your way.”

  “Then let’s look there.”

  Although there was no danger of trains, the rats were plentiful and the water bugs more so. She called Gordon’s name several times and they stopped to listen for an answer, although none came.

  “Let me do the calling,” Ron said as they walked. “Your voice sounds like you were shouting all night.”

  “I was.”

  “Gordon,” he shouted, his voice much louder than Jane’s. “Gordon Defino. Rattle a fence if you hear me.”

  They stood still, Jane not breathing. Nothing stirred. Toni would call her again that night or the next morning, hoping for news. They had to find him.

  They checked out one of Ron’s storage areas, going inside and inspecting the contents, but it was just what it was supposed to be. They went on to a second one with the same results. They stepped into an alcove but found only pipes and tubes without marking, colors so faded they could not be identified.

  They came close to sewer pipes and water mains. This was what it took to run a city of eight million people. When a water main broke, as they did from time to time, flooding building basements and well-trafficked streets, this was where the fixers came, down to the netherworld beneath the streets.

  “Steam lines, over there,” Ron said, pointing. “Hot as hell.” Then he called Gordon again.

  Jane flashed her light on her watch. It was two hours since they had descended at Second Avenue. They were outside another storage area and Ron had his key out.

  “Something’s covered up in there,” Jane said. “Looks like burlap. Nothing else has been covered.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  He fumbled with the key and dropped it. “Oh, shit.”

  “We’ll find it.” She sounded more certain than she felt as she dropped to a squat. He had said he had knee trouble, and she didn’t want him getting hurt. “Just shine your light over here, Ron. I’ll do the crawling.”

  She had put on a pair of gloves and she leaned on the ground as he moved the light slowly from side to side. Where was the fucking key? He had been standing exactly in front of the lock, and she was sure the key had not dropped inside the fence, although she had heard it tinkle as it fell.

  He moved and looked at the ground where he had stood while Jane gently fluffed the earth or dirt or whatever it was. She was afraid of burying it deeper if she weren’t careful.

  “I’m sure it’s on the outside,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  She moved her finger carefully along the ground where the fence met it, but found nothing. He ran the light inside the fence, just to be sure, but there was no sign of the key.

  “I can get another key, but it’ll take a day or two.”

  “Ron, that key is here. We’ll find it.”

  He got down on the ground himself and started searching. He moved back a few paces and then forward, slowly. “What’s that?”

  “What? Where?”

  “Under your right foot.”

  She retreated carefully. A tiny piece of silver metal showed through the dirt. She ripped her right glove off and used her fingernails to coax it up. In half a minute she had the key. She couldn’t help smiling.

  “I knew I shouldn’t’ve taken it off my big key ring,” Ron said, putting it back where it belonged and then inserting it in the lock. He pushed open the gate and they went in.

  Jane pulled the burlap off whatever it was covering. Underneath was a stack of olive-drab metal boxes with yellow markings.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Ron said.

  “What is it?”

  “Guns. Look at the yellow stencil on this one. Berettas, .40-caliber. I bet these were owned by the federal government.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. That’s how they were packed when I was in the army.” He flipped open the top box and pulled out a dull handgun, dust on its oiled surface. “A Beretta,” he said. “.40-caliber. They don’t use ’em anymore, but they were standard army-issue.”

  “Two hundred twenty-seven missing guns,” Jane said.

  “They were stolen over ten years ago from the armory at West A Hundred Sixty-eighth Street and Columbus Avenue. They were involved in the killing of Micah Anthony.”

  “I remember that. Is it ten years already?”

  “Yeah. That’s what my team’s been working on. Let’s look around this area for Defino. If he’s not here, he’s not in the subway. I think they would keep him near the guns. They all knew where the guns were.”

  They spent fifteen minutes and came up with nothing. Then they covered the boxes again. Jane took one Beretta with her to prove her story in case the guns were gone when they sent a recovery team for them. Then they reversed direction and went back to the city above their heads.

  On the street level, her legs shaking from the climb, she found a pay phone and called McElroy. He was gone for the night. So was MacHovec. Reluctantly, she keyed Graves’s number.

  “Graves.”

  “This is Jane Bauer.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Second Avenue and Sixty-second.”

  “I want you here. Five minutes ago.”

  “I found the missing two hundred twenty-seven guns, Inspector, and I’m holding hard evidence in my hand.”

  “Are you on a cell phone?”

  “No, sir, a landline.” Cell phones were easier to pick up by eavesdroppers.

  “Say that again.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Ron drove her downtown, although home was in the other direction.

  “How do I look?” she asked him.

  “Not too clean.”

  “He’ll have to take me as I am. This may be the last time we meet on the job.”

  “He won’t fire you, Jane. You just made a big find.”

  “Thanks to you. If I were cleaner, I’d give you a hug.”

  “Let me know how it turns out.”

  She got out and called Hack from a pay phone.

  “The guns from the Anthony case?”

  “Right there in their original boxes stenciled in yellow and covered with burlap. Some grenade launchers too. I hadn’t heard they were missing.”

  “You talk to Graves yet?”

  “I’m on my way up.”

  “You’re good, Bauer.”

  “It wa
s Delancey. He knows every nook and cranny down there.”

  She took the elevator up, too tired to try the stairs. She stopped in the ladies’ room, looked sorrowfully at her reflection, then washed her hands and face. The smell of the spray was still there, or perhaps it was stuck in her nostrils, where she would smell it for the next week.

  Inspector Graves looked up as she reached his doorway. “Sit down.”

  She took a chair, dropped her jacket on the floor, and waited.

  “You disobeyed a direct order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Anyone else would have used an obscenity. Through all his anger, he still maintained a surface polish.

  “I’m a detective’s partner.”

  “That doesn’t override an order.”

  “I’m sorry.” She stood, removed the Beretta from her pocket, and laid it on his desk.

  He stared at it, faced with a dilemma. His detective had disobeyed a direct order but had made the biggest find in ten years. “Where did you find them?”

  “In a storage area in the Second Avenue subway tunnel near Sixty-third Street. I have a map.” She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and held it.

  “How did you get there?”

  “With someone I know. He’s not on the job.”

  “You and I have a rip coming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Meanwhile, we’ll have to pick up those guns.”

  “Inspector, if I can say something. If Gordon is still alive and his kidnappers find out that we know about the guns, that could be a signal for retaliation.”

  “True.” He looked at her and then away. “We’ll have to post people at the site in case they check it. Stay where you are in case I have questions.” He dialed a number from memory. “This is Insp. Frank Graves. I have an urgent notification for the chief of detectives. . . . Thanks, I’ll wait for his call.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes while Graves waited for the phone to ring. It was Saturday night. The chief of D’s might be spending time with a fabled lady friend whose number was known only to the person Graves had spoken to. When the phone rang, Graves wrote down a number and then dialed it.

  “Insp. Frank Graves here, sir. I have an urgent notification for you. I’d like to know where to deliver it. . . . That’s fine. I’ll be there within half an hour.”