Terminal City (36 page)

“How about if I throw in some bacon with the eggs?” I asked.

“Crisp. You know the way I like it.” Mike patted down my hair and kissed me on the crown of my head. “I’ll see you on your way home. Thanks for listening.”

“Then you just wait here for him to do something else?”

“Oh, no. We’ve got some messages planned to go out over the loudspeaker shortly after ten o’clock, designed to rattle the cage of Nikolay Blunt, wherever he is in this maze. We need to smoke him out, Coop, and bring him down. His killing spree is over.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

I had given up finding any more information online about Nikolay Blunt and was about to call it a night. “Ready to go, Yolanda. Who takes me down to the detail who’s driving me to Vickee’s house?”

She picked up the landline to call her command, spoke to someone on the other end, then answered me. “My partner is on his way up to fetch us,” she said. “Seems Lieutenant Correlli has the suspect’s sister in the station. They want you to talk to her before you head home. Do you mind?”

“It’s exactly what I’d prefer to do. It makes me feel useful.”

I thumbed through Walter Blunt’s Metro-North employment records. It listed three children as his dependents at the time he was employed here. Nikolay was the eldest, with a younger brother and sister.

I studied the senior Blunt’s file until Yolanda’s young partner appeared in the doorway. “I’m supposed to bring you to down to the stationmaster’s office, okay?”

“Should we take the laptops?” I asked Yolanda.

“You can leave your stuff here, Ms. Cooper. I think your supervisors want to fill you in on what’s been going on. Then I’ll escort you back up along with the young lady you’ll be interviewing. They want you to keep working up here, ’cause it’s good space and it’s away from the commotion on the concourse.”

“Commotion?”

“You know. They’re trying to shut this place down soon.”

I gave Yolanda a thumbs-up. “Looks like I bought myself an invitation to work in the sandbox with the guys. Do you want to wait for me here?”

“I’m on you like glue, Ms. Cooper.”

We wound our way back to the elevator. The young cop unlocked it with what looked like a master key, and it creaked its way down to the bottom of the ramp below the main floor.

The three of us exited and started our way up. At the intersection on top, where a right turn led to the old waiting room and the left toward the concourse, it was obvious that even more uniformed officers from a cross section of agencies had arrived.

Some of the men and women looked like SWAT team members, with guns and helmets and bulletproof jackets obvious to all. There were more K-9 patrols than I had ever seen in one place. Everyone seemed to be herding civilians to exits on the sides and ends of the vast terminal.

“Attention, please,”
the rich male voice spoke sternly to the stragglers.
“Grand Central Terminal is closing down in fifteen minutes. You have fifteen minutes to get yourself to the platform if there is a train headed for your destination, or to make your way back onto the street. We apologize for the inconvenience this may cause. Watch your step, ladies and gentlemen. Watch your step and remember to mind the gap.”

We stopped for a minute to let a group of men who seemed slightly intoxicated weave past us prodded by two agents, who were in street clothes with their badges flapped over their pockets. They appeared to be coming up from the Oyster Bar, unhappy to have their revels interrupted.

“That voice sounds so familiar to me,” I said to the cops.

“It’s one of the men from Homicide,” the young man said. “He’s taken over the controls in the stationmaster’s office and seems to be having a mighty fine time of it.”

We made the left turn and headed for the concourse. There was indeed a commotion, and most of the officers seemed to be struggling to respond to angry and confused commuters who were standing their ground.

I had never been in Grand Central when the information booth that was in the center of the floor was empty, but those employees had obviously been dismissed for the night. Cops with dogs were standing along each of the departure gates on the far side of the room, guiding passengers to the last trains waiting to pull away from the platforms.

Police had even taken over the carts that sanitation workers used to scoot around the station. There was a small fleet of machines, zigzagging across the floor, trying to round up the more stubborn people who weren’t moving toward the exits. They looked like a fleet of Zambonis clearing the ice after a hockey match.

I glanced up at the constellations painted on the ceiling. The majestic celestial figures seemed to be the only part of the terminal undisturbed by all the activity below.

As we crossed the floor, headed for the stationmaster’s wing—out of sight behind the staircase to Vanderbilt Avenue—I was conscious of stares from many of the officers patrolling the terminal. I must have looked a bit bedraggled at this late hour, in my sloppy outfit, escorted by a pair of cops—more like a belligerent passenger than part of the law enforcement team.

Rocco Correlli saw me coming and waved me into the office.

“Good work. You found a sibling already?”

“Pug did it, believe it or not. I’m not sure it’s such a good thing.”

“Why?”

“It’s Blunt’s kid sister, twenty-three years old. Same name as the mother, so she wasn’t that hard to find. And she’s a waitress at a joint in the theater district, six blocks from here.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“She’s refusing to talk. I got Chapman in there, hoping he can use some of his charm to weasel something out of her. Then I thought maybe you being a woman and all, she might open up to you.”

“Feels like that’s the only use you have for me, Loo. It doesn’t always work that way, but let me give it a try.”

Rocco walked me down the short hallway to the office in which Mike was sitting with Zoya Blunt.

“Hey, Coop. C’mon in. Meet Zoya.”

“Good evening. I’m Alex Cooper.” I held out my hand, but she wouldn’t take it.

“Pug found her on Facebook. Drove right over to the west side and picked her up. Isn’t that right?”

Zoya Blunt was slight and small in stature. Her dirty-brown hair was short, framing her pale, unsmiling face with waves. She was wearing a tight black skirt over opaque black stockings, a white T-shirt, and a short apron with pockets, which still held order slips from the restaurant at which she worked.

“I don’t want to be here, miss. I want to go back to work.”

“I’ve explained to you, Zoya,” Mike said, “you’re not going anywhere until you talk to me about your brother.”

The girl couldn’t have been here very long, but already Mike was short on patience.

“Maybe I could sit down with you for a while,” I said. “There’s a private room upstairs. We could just be talking there, out of the way of these—uh, bullies.”

She looked from me to Mike.

“Really, Zoya, Mike’s got a tough job to do. He’s not unreasonable. I can make you comfortable upstairs, where I’ve been working.”

“I’m not going to be comfortable anywhere. I’ll get fired for leaving the floor during a Friday night dinner hour.”

“We’ll see that you don’t get fired,” I said. I leaned in toward her and tried to cut through the scowl on her face. “Young women have been murdered, Zoya. We have every reason to—”

“I read the newspapers. I know about the murders.”

“If for some reason it’s not Nikolay—”

“You can’t even pronounce his name right.”

“Sorry for that. But if for some reason we’re wrong, you can help clear him.”

Mike was standing behind me now. “I’ve told her all that, Coop. She’s determined to stand by him, I guess. If that’s her game, there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

“Let me work with her a while.”

“Maybe she had a hand in it, you know? I never thought he got this done all by himself. Didn’t I always say I thought he had an accomplice?”

Zoya Blunt threw her head back in disgust. When she faced me again, there were tears streaking down her cheeks.

I needed Mike to lay off the “bad cop” stuff, but I feared that it might not be an act.

“Why don’t you give us some time, Mike?” I said. “Leave us alone in here.”

“Time isn’t gonna change anything,” Zoya said. “You’re both too stupid to know that.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been called ‘stupid,’” Mike said. “I usually like to know why.”

“You actually think I might have had something to do with these killings?” she asked. “Or with my brother?”

Mike took his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to Zoya. “Maybe so. Maybe that’s why you’re all clammed up.”

“You really think you can keep me here against my will?”

“That’s the last thing we’d want to do,” I said. “But the commissioner might direct me to get a material witness order.”

“What the
F
is that?”

I wouldn’t have a prayer getting one for Zoya Blunt at this point in time. “It means a judge would agree with us that you have information about your brother that’s too important to us to let you go.”

“Screw it. You can’t find a judge in the middle of the night,” she said, blowing her nose, as her mood went from tearful to defiant.

“I can’t tell you how good Detective Chapman is at doing just that.”

Mike pulled on the back of my shirt collar.

I let her take a few breaths before I went back to what she had said a minute ago. “Why shouldn’t we think you’d have something to do with your brother? Aren’t you close?”

“Nobody’s close to him.”

“When’s the last time you saw him, Zoya?” I asked.

She lowered her head and twisted Mike’s handkerchief into a ball.

“I haven’t seen Nik in more than a year, okay?”

“You remember when it was?” I asked, pressing her harder than she wanted to be pressed. “Do you remember if you’ve heard from him since then? We need to know everything about him we possibly can.”

“We need your help trying to find him,” Mike said. “There are dozens of cops out here looking for him. If you don’t give us a hand, he’s likely to get hurt.”

“You think that matters to me, Detective?”

The tears were flowing again.

“He’s your brother,” Mike snapped back. “I’m sure it matters.”

“Here’s why you’re stupid, Detective. I don’t give a damn if he gets hurt,” Zoya Blunt said. “The last time I saw Nik was the night he raped me.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

“Why don’t you leave us alone for a few minutes?” I said to Mike.

Zoya Blunt had put her head on the table and cried to the point that her shoulders shook.

“I didn’t mean to be so rough on you, Zoya,” Mike said, kneeling beside her to try to get her attention. “I—I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have known. I never told anyone.”

“I can get you all the help you need,” I said. “We’ve got counselors who deal only with this issue.”

She didn’t speak. I wanted to hold out the hope of psychological support but didn’t want to waste a minute of time in the search for Nik Blunt.

“Would you like me to do that?” I needed to get a conversation started with the suspect’s sister. I wanted to take her back up to the operations room with Yolanda and get her talking.

“There’s only one thing I need, and you can’t give me that.”

“What is it? I’ll certainly try.”

“I lost my family, Ms. Cooper. I lost my entire family because of Nik. You can’t do a goddamn thing for me.”

I walked away from the table, to the far end of the room.

“You’re right about your family. I can’t change that. But I can do things for other people, for people who don’t deserve to be damaged any more than you do.”

“Not my problem.”

“Would you mind getting one of the crime scene photos, Mike? I think the lieutenant has a folder of them. A picture of Corinne Thatcher is what I want.”

Mike nodded and left the room.

“I don’t want to see any pictures, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay with me, Zoya. I want you to look. I want you to pick your head up off this table and stop wallowing in your own misery. Tell us what you know about Nik and where he might be hiding. I’m not going to let go until you do that.”

“How would I know?”

“Have you ever met either one of the young women he killed?” I asked. “Or the young man? Did you recognize their names and their photographs in the papers?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Did you know any of them? Do you know if Nik knew any of them?”

“More stupid questions.”

“I’m going to keep asking them until I hit one you know the answer to. I’ve got friends out in this terminal. Great friends, who cover my back every day of the week. And I’m not going to let a single one of them get cornered by your brother.”

Mike returned to the room with three eight-by-ten photographs in his hand. I took them from him and laid them on the table just beyond Zoya Blunt.

“This is what we do for a living, Zoya. Day in and day out. We see people who’ve been violated in the worst possible ways, who’ve been butchered and battered and left for dead,” I said. “Take a look at this.”

She didn’t move.

I walked around her, so that her head—still resting on the table—was facing me. “Pick up your head, young lady,” I shouted in her ear.

Zoya’s head practically bounced off the table, but still she wouldn’t look at me.

“We know that Nik hears voices,” I said. I was hoping my bluff would work, counting on my intuition that the person Jean Jansen heard fighting with Lydia was Nik Blunt.

Her eyes opened and focused on me for the first time. My hunch was confirmed.

“Look at these photographs, Zoya.”

“No, no. You tell me what you know about the voices. How did you find that out?”

“We have a witness.”

“Then you don’t need me,” she said. “Tell me who the witness is.”

“Look at the pictures,” I said, grabbing the photos that showed Corinne Thatcher’s throat, sliced open from one side of her neck to the other. “Look at what Nik did to her.”

“I don’t want to look.”