Killer Heat (30 page)

“You don't get it, Alexandra, do you?” Shauna Dylan said,
pulling at the handle on the screen door as she burst into tears
again. “You don't get why my whole family is broken up.”

“I understand how painful it must be, how-”

“You understand nothing,” Shauna said, letting the door close
behind her and turning out the overhead light on the porch.
"Kiernan thinks it's my father who killed that whore. Accused him
of it when he came home from court yesterday. It's our own father
he's been trying to protect.

FORTY-FOUR

Igot squat from Jimmy Dylan,“ Mike said. ”What the hell were you
doing out in the rain? “Chatting up one of his daughters.”

Mike made a U-turn and headed back to the Belt Parkway. “I know
it's a bad simile in light of poor Wilson Rasheed's demise, but I
practically fell on my sword in there to get some help from
Dylan.”

“Metaphor.”

“Whatever. The girl know anything?”

“I keep going back to your interrogation of Kiernan. If Troy
murdered all three women, why did Kiernan admit packing up Amber
Bristol's belongings? And why did we find them in Rasheed's house?
”You think they're a team, Kiernan and Troy? “I can't imagine that.
But the girl says there was a big blow-up when Kiernan came home
after his arraignment.”

“About?”

“He accused his father of killing Amber Bristol. Look at it from
Kiernan's perspective.”

“Good job, Alex,” Mercer said, thinking it through slowly.
“Suppose Amber came to Ruffles, maybe after her Friday night
session with Herb Ackerman, at his office. She'd been fighting with
Jimmy for weeks 'cause he was trying to break things up.”

“And he'd booted her out of the Brazen Head,” Mike said. “We
need to get to Kiernan as soon as possible,” Mercer said. “I've got
his sister working on it-well, thinking about it, at least.”

“If Amber was a nuisance to Kiernan, he might have put her right
in the hands of a deadly predator hungry for his first kill. What
if he told the bouncer to get rid of her,” Mike said. “Figuratively
speaking- or is that a metaphor for something, too?”

“Could have done that without even knowing the guy was a freak,”
I said. “And Shauna Dylan also told me Troy was using his father's
name. He goes by Wilson.”

Mercer reached his arm over the seat back and high-fived me.
“She going to call her brother?”

“No promises. I told her it had to happen before morning if it's
to be of any use. She's got my cell number.”

“Where's your car, Mercer?” Mike asked.

“Seems like a few days ago, but I have a vague memory of parking
down at the courthouse this morning. Alex, you mind if I use your
dining room table for a few hours?”

“I don't need-”

“I know you don't. I just don't feel like taking the extra time
to drive all the way home and back into Manhattan at the crack of
dawn. Wake Vickee up just to aggravate her and not even get to see
the baby. Might as well start going through the files Nelly Kallin
gave us till my eyes give out.”

Mike's apartment, not far from my own, was too small for even a
sofa. Mercer had crashed at my place many times over the years, and
this way he would get a jump on reading the information that
Commissioner Scully-and Battaglia-would want by midday.

Mike dropped us in front of the door and we each carried a
bundle of folders to the elevator.

“I can't even begin to help you tonight,” I said to Mercer.
“I've got to get a few hours of sleep. The guest room is all made
up, when you're ready.”

“I don't like the fact that he's out there, Alex. We're losing
this race.”

“I'll see you in the morning,” I said, closing the door to my
bedroom after spreading out the files on the long formal table
where Mercer liked to work.

I took a steaming hot shower, slipped on a nightgown, and got
into bed. As exhausted as I was, Mike was right. When I closed my
eyes, I watched either a replay of Kerry Hastings being dragged
along the street when the taxicab was rear-ended or saw the body of
Wilson Rasheed pinned to the floor of his cabin.

I tossed and turned until shortly after six thirty, when I was
sure I heard voices in my living room. I got up, wrapped a robe
around me, and went out to look.

Mike was standing over Mercer's shoulder, and both were
drinking coffee.

“How did you get in here? Did I sleep through the bell?”

“I called Mercer on his cell. He opened the door.”

“What's wrong?”

“There's another girl gone missing, Coop. A twenty-year-old
named Pam Lear.”

“Twenty,” I said, cringing at the thought of another victim in
the hands of this monster. “What do you know?”

“It happened sometime between Sunday evening and yesterday
morning. Her roommate on Long Island reported her missing when she
didn't come home again last night. The Suffolk County cops are on
their way in with the roommate now. We were just waiting for you to
wake up so we can have a go at her.”

“Where was Pam last seen?”

“At her job, Coop. On Sunday,” Mike said, hitching his thumb on
his belt. “She was a summer intern, a guide with the National Park
Service.”

“Does that mean a uniform?”

“Light brown shirt and dark brown trousers. Smokey Bear
hat.”

“What park?” I asked. “Where?”

“Fort Tilden. An abandoned army post.”

“Not quite as dramatic as Governors Island,” Mercer said, “but
another military ghost town.”

“Where is it?” I asked, turning back to the bedroom to throw on
some clothes.

“You were a stone's throw from it last night, when we were in
Queens,” Mike said. "The kids in Breezy use the place like it was a
playground, Coop. It's less than a mile from the Dylans' house.

FORTY-FIVE

It's as dark now as it was in the middle of the night," I said,
looking at the clouds overhead as I climbed the steps of Joe
Galiano's Bell 412 shortly after 7:00 a.m. for the short chopper
ride to Fort Tilden.

The rain had let up for the moment, but the sky was
threatening. “Good to see you again, Alex. Yeah, they've got storm
warnings posted for the whole region. The damn thing is moving up
the coast awfully fast. We're trying to evacuate folks from Beach
Channel Drive before it hits,” Galiano said. “Air is the only way
to go.”

Mercer and Mike came in behind me and belted themselves in as
the pilot readied for liftoff. This time, as he hovered before
thrusting out over the river, the heavy machine lurched when
caught by a fierce gust of wind.

Galiano cleared the Manhattan Bridge and then set a course
straight through the middle of Brooklyn. There was no point trying
to talk to Mike. The turbulence had him braced in his seat,
silently staring down at the apartment rooftops for the ten-minute
ride to Queens. “Where can you put her down?” Mercer asked. The
ocean was churning below us, and the small islands that still
dotted Jamaica Bay- pinheads among the swells-looked likely to
meet the fate of their one-time neighbor Ruffle Bar.

“You don't know Tilden?”

Mercer shook his head. “I've only seen it on a map.” Mike
mumbled without picking up his head. “During the cold war in the
1950s, Fort Tilden was the first place in New York City to house a
Nike missile base, to defend against nuclear attack from the Soviet
Union.”

“Nike missiles, in the Rockaways?” Mercer asked.

“Makes a sweet little landing strip for me, now that the base
has been mothballed,” Galiano said. “Those Nike Hercules that were
deployed at Tilden were forty feet long, with nuclear warheads that
could destroy an entire formation of bombers.”

He circled over the area again and found his target, swinging in
the wind as he aimed for a cracked stretch of cement in the middle
of the deserted beach.

Two park rangers came running in our direction from beyond a
fence that seemed to cordon off the old missile site from the rest
of the facility.

“Detective Chapman?” one asked. “The young lady is just a short
ride away from here-the roommate of the missing girl. The police
are on the bridge now, and Detective Draper is here already, sir,
if you'll follow me.”

I had dressed for the foul weather. I expected it would be a
long and unpleasant day. The navy rain jacket I wore was a gift
from a friend in the Hostage Negotiation Unit. It had an NYPD logo
on the front, and the words TALK TO ME on the back.

It was as though we had landed on the dunes of the Vineyard's
South Beach. There was a wide swath of sand rising to crests
covered with beach grass and bayberry bushes. Gulls patrolled the
choppy shoreline, picking at empty shells that had washed up among
the strands of seaweed.

A ranger led us up over the dunes on one of the many trails that
bordered a small maritime forest of gnarled pines and cottonwoods.
I paused on the incline, and as I looked off in every direction
there were footprints in the sand-far too many footprints to be of
any value in an investigation.

The second ranger brought up the rear.

“This is a public park now?” I asked.

“Yes, ma'am. Seven miles of beach. Not usually empty like this,
but we've cleared it of all the birdwatchers and bathers 'cause of
the storm.” The entire skyline of Manhattan unfolded to the
northwest, under a mantle of dark clouds. I'd never seen the sight
from a beach, and it was one more painful reminder to look over at
the great hole where the twin towers used to stand.

Mike and Mercer were standing still on the highest point of the
dune, atop a sun-bleached wooden staircase, trying to get their
bearings as they scoped the area. I joined them.

Ranger Barrett was answering their questions. “It's operated as
a seasonal park only. Pam just had a summer job with us. In fact,
Sunday was her last day.”

“She was here?”

“Yes, sir. Came here Sunday morning. She signed in.”

“And left when?” Mike asked, cupping his hand to his ear. The
wind was carrying away our words.

“I have no idea, I'm sorry to say.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it was actually an unusual situation, Detective. We don't
have a very big staff, and the Park Service pulled some of them
out for a special program they were running at another
facility.”

“Governors Island,” Mercer said. “Had to be the muster.”

“That's exactly right, sir,” Barrett said. “Since it was Pam's
last day and all, I don't think there was anyone around to care
whether she signed out or not.”

“But she was assigned right here?”

“Yes, yes, she was.”

Men were scrambling up and down the dunes, moving in and out of
a dozen or so structures, most without windows or roofs. “Who are
they?” Mike asked.

“All the civilians are gone, sir. Those are rangers that have
been called in for the search. And a number of your men from the
local precinct.”

Mike took a single latex glove from his rear pocket. He walked
onto the beach and scooped a handful of sand, filling two fingers
of the glove and knotting its top. “Elise Huff. The sand in the
green blanket around her body. Could be the guy had her out here.
They can com pare this to Dickie's sample.”

A small caravan of black Crown Vics approached in the distance,
undoubtedly carrying Dickie Draper and our new witness. “Where can
we do this interview?” Mike asked, starting to walk down the far
side of the dunes.

“Can you see that gazebo?” Ranger Barrett said. “The long
building behind it was the old officers' club. There are still
some benches in there. It's all I've got for shelter.”

“Don't trip, Coop,” Mike said.

There were Virginia creepers and bayberry bushes criss-crossing
the paths, concealing huge blocks of cement that were visible in
the sand every few feet.

“Cannon casements,” the ranger said. “The fort was active from
1917 until it was decommissioned in 1974.”

“Local kids play here?” Mike asked.

“That's one of our biggest problems,” he said. “Talk about an
attractive nuisance.”

Barrett sidestepped the trail and kicked some sand off a rusting
metal door that was set into a cement block. There was a large red
X sprayed onto the door.

“These bunkers are everywhere. Kids in the neighborhood know
their positions better than my rangers do.”

“Why the X?” I asked.

“That means someone has checked inside this morning, made sure
there's-well, no body. No evidence.”

At the base of the sandy hill off to my right was an enormous
concrete arc the size of a Greek amphitheater, its open side facing
the ocean. Two uniformed cops were walking up and down its many
layered façade, also looking for clues.

“What's that?” Mike asked.

“When this place boasted antiaircraft guns and giant cannons,
here and in Sandy Hook, New Jersey, that were supposed to make New
York impregnable to attack by sea, the batteries were all right
there where you stood, on the highest dunes. If the enemy overran
the fort, the thick arc meant the guns couldn't be turned around
and used against the city.”

“And inside?”

“A metal gate shuts off the interior space in case of attack.
It's got a warren full of empty rooms dug underground that used to
hold the gunpowder and artillery shells.”

Mike shook his head and started to walk more briskly toward the
black cars. “Get as many man as you can in there. I want every
crevice of this place turned inside out, Mr. Barrett.”

“We're short on personnel, sir. With the storm coming so
fast-”

“And we're short one girl, Barrett. I'll get you all the cops
you need, but you'd better show them every possible hiding place.
You sift every grain of sand before you even think about getting
off this beach.”

“You believe Pam was abducted from here, Detective? You think
something happened to her before she left?”