They entered through the Vanderbilt Avenue doors and stood on the West Balcony under a trio of sixty-foot-high arch windows.
“It looks like everything’s back to normal,” Rice said, looking out over the marble balcony at the vast concourse below.
“Except for the beefed-up security,” Benzetti said.
“I know. I counted five Staties when we came through the door,” Rice said. “Normally, there’s one.”
Benzetti grinned. “Nervous times.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Central Security Office. Lower level.” Benzetti checked his watch. “I got a friend working this shift.”
The two cops walked down the sweeping marble staircase, crossed the concourse, passed the circular marble-and-brass information pagoda with its famous four-sided clock, and went down another flight of stairs to the dining concourse.
They made their way through the food court, where Brother Jimmy’s, Zaro’s, Junior’s, and more than a dozen other celebrated New York food institutions had taken up residence underground, then down a ramp till they got to a door that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Benzetti rang a bell and flashed his badge at a camera, and the two of them were buzzed in.
“NYPD,” he said to the sullen-faced MTA cop at the front desk. “I’m looking for Sergeant Black.”
The cop eyeballed the shield, nodded, checked a directory, and dialed a four-digit number.
“Be right out,” the cop mumbled.
Five minutes later, a tall, attractive African-American woman with three stripes on the sleeves of her uniform came out and threw her arms around Benzetti.
“I know this ain’t no social call,” she said, stepping back from the hug.
“Baby, you know me. I don’t need backup for social calls,” Benzetti said. “This is my partner, John Rice. John, this is Kylie Black.”
They shook hands and Kylie escorted the two men inside. The grandeur and the classic beauty that made the building an architectural landmark was nowhere to be found in the command center. Whatever charm the space may have had when it was built more than a century ago had been painted or plastered over. What remained was an uninspired sterile cavern with fluorescent lighting, banks of monitors, and rows of people at desks and consoles doing their damnedest to keep an eye on every one of the six hundred thousand people who passed through the terminal every day.
“What can the MTA do for New York’s finest,” Kylie said, letting her tongue gently glide across her upper lip, “that we haven’t done already?”
“I hate to bother you,” Benzetti said, “but we need to look at some of America’s Funniest Home Videos from Tuesday night.”
“The bombing?” Black said. “We’ve already run the tapes for the NYPD, FBI, Immigration, Homeland Security — you name it. We’ve had everyone looking at that bomb blast except for the fat lady who runs the food stamps program.”
“We’re not here about the bombing,” Benzetti said. “Some reporter from the Post was mugged Tuesday night by some homeless prick who’s taking up residence in your lovely train station.”
“Mugged?” Kylie said. “First I heard about it. Usually our wretched refuse are pretty well behaved. They come here to sleep and use the toilets. The bus terminal is where you get most of your muggings. Grand Central is the home of the harmless homeless.”
“Well, one of your bums ripped off this Post reporter’s brand-new leather jacket. His wife is a friend of the mayor’s wife, and you can guess the rest.”
Black shook her head. “NYPD assigns two detectives from Robbery to get a bead on this dude’s precious jacket before City Hall shits a brick.”
Benzetti shrugged. “Hey, I got two years till I make my twenty. Somebody asks me to do something, I shut up and do whatever makes them happy.”
Black smiled broadly. “I’ll remember that, Detective Benzetti, next time I can think of something that will make me happy. Come on, I’ll set you guys up in a room with the tapes. Knock yourselves out.”
Chapter 22
THE TECH WAS gaunt and pasty. His name was R. J. or J. R. Rice and Benzetti didn’t pay attention, didn’t care. All they wanted was for him to leave.
“You guys know how to navigate this puppy?” the tech asked.
They were sitting in a cramped screening room with a computer, a thirty-inch monitor, and not much else.
“I’ve got a sixteen-camera surveillance unit at home,” Rice said.
“LOL,” the tech said, actually laughing out loud. “Well, this will be like going from a Buick Skylark to a Bugatti Veyron.”
“They both got four wheels and an engine,” Benzetti said.
“LOL,” the tech repeated, not laughing this time. “But don’t worry, it’s idiot-proof.” He held up both hands. “Not that I’m saying you guys are idiots.”
“LOL,” Benzetti said. “Just show us how to work the goddamn Bugatti computer and get out of here.”
Ten minutes later the tech left the room, and Rice pulled up the cameras on the main concourse.
“The bomb went off a little after eleven Tuesday night,” Benzetti said. “Start the search an hour before.”
The images were high-def, and finding Walter Zelvas in the late-night comings and goings of thousands of travelers took less than twenty minutes.
“Freeze it,” Benzetti said. “There he is, buying coffee at Starbucks.”
They tracked him as he walked into the waiting area, then fast-forwarded as he sat down, got up, checked the monitor, then repeated the process, getting more frustrated each time.
“His train is late,” Rice said as they watched Zelvas go back to Starbucks.
As the time code approached 11 p.m., Zelvas finished the second cup, crumpled it up, threw it in the trash, crossed the concourse, stopped to have a few words with a porter, and then entered the men’s room. Rice froze it again.
“There’s the guy the cops described. Beard. Poncho. That’s the Talibum — the guy with the bomb. He’s following Zelvas into the john.”
“That’s no bum,” Benzetti said. “That’s the guy Chukov hired to waste Zelvas. Pick them up on the bathroom camera.”
“There are no bathroom cameras,” Rice said. “Some crap about civil liberties.”
They watched the video at normal speed. Eighty-eight seconds later, Zelvas stumbled out of the men’s room, bleeding from the neck and firing his gun backward. Then he disappeared out of the frame.
Seconds later, the man in the poncho stood in the men’s-room doorway. He pointed a gun in the direction Zelvas had headed, but first he had to deal with the MTA police.
“This is like watching the Keystone Kops,” Rice said as the bearded man handily dispatched a cop with a bucket of soapy water.
The bum grabbed two grenades from under his poncho and pulled the pins, and the screen was engulfed in smoke.
“That bastard is slick,” Benzetti said. “See if you can pick him up on another camera.”
Rice bounced from one camera to another, but the smoke blocked them all. He hit fast-forward, but by the time the smoke faded, so did the bum. “I can’t find him anywhere,” Rice said.
“Chukov hired him, so Chukov can find him. Our job is to find the diamonds. Somebody knows where they are.”
Rice smacked his forehead. “Duh. Zelvas knows.”
“Duh,” Benzetti repeated. “Zelvas is dead.”
“He’s not dead in the video. Hang on.”
Rice surfed from camera to camera. “Got him,” he said after a few minutes.
They watched Zelvas stagger across the marble floor. He crashed into a bank of lockers, found one on the top row, and opened it.