"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."