We were all conscious that the time was near for the mayor's press conference and that any information we might gather would come too late to be useful.
"On the right, that's the post hospital," Mike said.
We approached it together, climbing the imposing double staircase that led up to the front door of the elegant four-story brick building, so incongruous beside the old fortress just a couple of hundred yards away.
Mercer reached the top first and pulled repeatedly on the large brass door handles. "Locked. No give at all."
We were back down the steps in seconds and split up-I followed Mercer in a jog around the building-to check for broken windows or signs of entry, but there were none.
The main roadway veered to the left, and suddenly we were facing a magnificent tree-lined block of elegant brick mansions that could have been lifted out of Main Street in any prosperous small town in America. A beautiful grassy area and promenade surrounded the private homes. Elms and ginkgo trees bordered the structures like silent sentries.
"Colonels' Row," Mike said. "Built a century ago to improve the quality of life for the officers and their families who were stationed here."
The drizzle was steady now, and Mike ran up and down the paths and front steps of the first couple of houses while Mercer and I waited on the road for him.
"Damn it," he said. "I forgot how many of these homes were here.
We'll have to get some uniformed backup to get into every one of them during the next week."
"You don't think the guys from Night Watch checked this out, the morning after Amber's body was found?" I asked.
Mike looked at Mercer and shook his head. "I'm sure they gave it the once-over, but at that point there was no reason to think that the Battery Maritime Building was anything but an abandoned dumping ground for a dead girl."
While not pristine and certainly not lived in, the homes were fairly well maintained. It looked like with a fresh coat of paint and some basic landscaping, families could move back in and set up housekeeping almost at once.
"Why did they continue to build military housing here, even after the fortress was obsolete?" I asked, as Mike picked up his pace.
"Because this little island played a part in every single war America fought until the army closed the place down. The Revolution, the Seminole War, the war with Mexico, the Civil War, the Spanish-American War." He was spitting out the names faster than he could walk. "It was a major embarkation point of American troops during World War I, and even the most important New York induction center in World War II."
Opposite the far end of Colonels' Row was another massive brick building, fronting on the south end of the historic property. "Liggett Hall," Mike said. "Designed by one of New York's most famous architectural firms-McKim, Mead and White. Built to house an entire regiment-more than a thousand troops."
The dead quiet of the island was broken by the sound of a siren wailing in the distance. "Where's that coming from, do you think?" Mike laughed dismissively. "Maybe the feds ferried over in full force. C'mon. Let's get a sense of what's got to be done before they get in my face."
He cut across the roadway, beginning to huff a bit as we jogged up a slight incline.
Then he stopped to get his bearings, leaning on the vertical bars of a tremendous old navigation buoy about twenty feet high. "Down there is the South Battery. It faces on the narrow waterway that separates Governors Island from Brooklyn. Its bell was meant to keep enemy ships out of Buttermilk Channel, on the back side of the island."
The sound of the siren seemed to be getting closer.
"Come this way," Mike said, waving me off the roadway. Adjacent to the buoy, I passed the entrance to a small white shingled building, a Roman Catholic church named Our Lady Star of the Sea. This island outpost had all the makings of a small village. But across the way was an entirely jarring structure. It was of more recent vintage, and the dilapidated sign on top of the structure said SU- PER 8 MOTEL.
Mike and Mercer loped straight past the eyesore, and seconds later I was standing at the edge of another beautifully laid-out park, with a huge central green. Around it were a dozen wood houses, much older than the brick mansions of Colonels' Row. Each of them was painted a pale yellow with white trim, and each had a yard dotted with horse chestnut and maple trees
Nolan Park," Mike said. "The oldest houses on the island. These are where the generals were quartered. Ulysses S. Grant himself. And what they called the Governor's House is right up there, too. The sirens were drowning out Mike's voice.
"The highest point," he said, lifting his arm to show us, "that's Fort Jay, the original island fortress, built starting in the late eighteenth century, complete with a moat."
As we started to climb the hill, a shiny red fire truck barreled off the roadway and blocked our ascent. From behind our position, two black vans pulled up and eight men in dark suits and sunglasses- agents, no doubt-spilled out and walked toward us.
"Who's Chapman?" the lead man asked.
Mike raised his hands in the air. "Got me, man. Walking on National Park grass, right? Felony or misdemeanor? But I swear we haven't picked any flowers."
The two firemen-the island's only permanent residents-laughed as they watched the encounter from the cab of their truck.
"I'm Avery. Steve Avery, FBI. You seen enough?"
"Actually, I was hoping to buy a ticket for the twilight tour," Mike said. "The one that gets us inside the buildings before sunset. I think the mayor would kind of like us to."
"Well, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District hasn't put them on sale yet. Tell Battaglia to get in line. Besides, there really won't be much of a sunset tonight."
"The federal prosecutor is-?"
"National Park. National Monument up there," Avery said, pointing at Fort Jay. The dark clouds overhead were thickening. "One West Point cadet dead. And you guys haven't been able to figure it out, have you? So we're gonna put the three of you back on that boat, sail you over to America, and let you get on with your work, Detective Chapman. We'll check out the island and spare everybody any hysteria before tomorrow's event. It's a big fund-raising day for the island restoration project, and nobody wants to spoil that."
"My tax dollars at work with you guys in charge of security. I feel better already."
"Now why don't you get yourselves into one of the vans and we'll give you a proper send-off at the ferry?"
Mike turned and whispered to me out of the side of his mouth. "Give him your beautiful whites, Coop. Shake those blond curls. Lay on the charm."
I stepped forward and put on my best smile. "I'm Alexandra Cooper. I work for Paul Battaglia. It would make so much more sense if we put a team together and got this done before there's any more trouble. It's not crazy to think our perp may have been on Governors Island, at some point. That there may be something to help us identify him-maybe something that he left behind-if he was using this place around the time he killed Amber Bristol. Why don't we do it that way?"
"Because the sandbox isn't big enough to hold Battaglia this time. Your boss has grabbed too many cases from the U.S. attorney, and he doesn't seem to like anybody else sharing the spotlight with him."
"We really have a jump start on you guys, so you might as well let us help," I said, pushing a damp clump of hair out of my eyes, as drops of rain rolled down my neck.
"I hate to tell you you're all wet, Ms. Cooper," Avery said, returning my smile. "But you really are all wet.
TWENTY-SIX
We stopped at headquarters so that Mike could tell Lieutenant Peterson what needed to be done on Governors Island to coordinate with the feds. In addition to coverage of the next day's muster, Peterson planned to work with the FBI to allow uniformed cops to search the buildings.