Killer Heat

TWENTY-FOUR

An RMP with lights and sirens made our trip from Police Plaza to the old terminal building in less than two minutes.

We left Dickie Draper behind at headquarters, to help Guido triage the data in the police reports that would be the subject of media scrutiny.

Mike got out and handed the driver a slip of paper with a Brooklyn address on it. "Eunice Chapman, she's expecting you. Bay Ridge. She's going to give you a box full of old catalogs. Take them to-your apartment okay, Coop? Drop them with Ms. Cooper's doorman," he said, adding my address to the note.

Mercer walked to the entrance of the northernmost ferry slip. It was the place through which Mike and I had entered to climb up to the grim room in which Amber Bristol's body had been found. Now, a twelve-foot wire mesh fence blocked the way, with a sign that warned: ACTIVE DRIVEWAY-NO PARKING. And in smaller letters below: "Watch for vehicles entering or leaving the site. "Yo. Anybody home?" Mercer shouted.

Mike came up behind him and called again. "Would have been nice if someone actually had been looking for vehicles leaving the site the night Amber was dumped. A man in a blue jumpsuit came from behind the interior building. "Yeah? Whaddaya want? Mercer flashed his badge. "Police. We need a lift to Governors Island."

"Next service run is at four o'clock. You make arrangements with anyone?"

The Lt. Samuel L. Coursen was berthed at the dock, just thirty feet ahead of us. It was three fifteen and Mike was impatient. "The captain's expecting me."

"He is? He didn't say nothin' to me."

"Hurry up. We're trying to beat the rain."

The man looked confused but unlocked the gate, and before he could close it again Mike was leading us to the ramp of the old motor vessel.

"That's where Amber's body was," he said to Mercer, pointing up behind us to the landing at the top of the building's rust-encrusted staircase.

"Good place to leave it. Looks pretty uninviting to me."

There was bright red lettering on the door that said: DANGER-HIGH VOLTAGE. Everything around the space was so filthy and dilapidated that it didn't seem surprising that no one had ventured in to find the missing woman until the stench became overwhelming.

Mike stepped over the railing that separated the aft platform of the ferry from the landing bay and held out his hand to help me over.

Two men came running down the staircase from the bridge of the boat. Mike explained to them why we needed to cross as quickly as possible.

"C'mon. You can drop us off and be back here in twenty minutes."

They reluctantly led us up to the wheelhouse, called over to tell the crew on Governors Island to expect them, and fired up the engine.

"Any of you ever been over here before?" the captain asked.

Only Mike answered. "Yes. Twenty years ago, when it was the largest coast guard base in the world."

"I thought you said it was an army post," I said.

"That's why it was built in 1776, when George Washington sent the first garrison there. By 1966, it was turned over to the coast guard."

I covered my ears as the copilot blasted the ferry horn to announce our departure to the boats around us on the river.

"How long's the ride?" Mercer asked.

"Six minutes. It's just eight hundred yards from Manhattan."

"Ferries are open to the public?"

The captain answered with a firm "No."

"But that's all about to change," Mike said. "This is the year they announce a plan for the island's future, isn't it?"

We pulled out into the swirling gray water. Landing off to our right, dwarfing us, was one of the Staten Island ferries, and ahead on the river was a lively mix of pleasure craft, small yachts, water taxis, sailboats, and Circle Line tour ships.

"What future?" I asked.

"One hundred seventy-two acres of prime New York City real estate," the captain said. "The city and state have to figure out how to use it-jointly. It's all in the planning stage now, for redevelopment as civic space, with an arts center and recreational activities. The island's a pretty spectacular place."

"I had no idea it was so large," I said.

"The historic district is only twenty-two acres," Mike said. "The National Park Service still owns it. That piece will be restored and maintained while the rest is developed."

"There's a national park on Governors Island?"

I looked across at the massive stone fortification on the southern tip of the island.

"Any private boats go there?" Mercer asked.

I knew he was thinking of the short, easy ride from the mainland to the dock at Bannerman Island.

"The forty-two seats on this old reliable is all you've got, at the moment," the captain said, gesturing to the pier ahead. "Trying to land there is worse than threading a needle when you're drunk. See those two slips? They run perpendicular to the current, which is always trying to drive you away. Pretty rough. And on either side of them, you got a brick seawall that could smash a small vessel to smithereens."

"And who rides with you?"

A sloping manicured lawn topped by a series of two-story colonial brick buildings ran down to the water's edge.

"We got some park rangers who patrol the area from ten to five. Then we get a few developers and government types who come back and forth for planning and surveying. Occasionally retired army personnel who were stationed here years ago request permission to come back, show their families around."

"Anyone keep track of their names?" Mercer asked.

"I don't know. Check with the rangers. They've been holding events here from time to time during the summer. Real pain in the neck for us. We've had pretty slow going for so long."

"What kind of events?"

"Rock concerts, dance recitals, ball games on the old polo grounds-"

"Polo?" I asked.

"Yeah, while it was an army base for a couple of centuries, the cavalry trained here. There's a big polo field," the captain said. "July and August are the worst."

"Why?"

"Last couple of years, GIPEC's been holding-"

"GIPEC?"

"Governors Island Preservation and Education Corporation. They run the place," the captain said, navigating around a long barge headed slowly upriver. "They've been using the parade grounds and the old fort to stage Civil War battle reenactments on Sundays."

"What kind of battles?" Mike asked. "Who shows up?"

"It takes all types, Detective. You get these history buffs who like to dress up in old uniforms and chase each other around. Military nuts."

"But who watches them? How do people get here?"

"There's always a crowd. We don't have much capacity on this sweet thing, so GIPEC rents some of the water taxis to get people on and off for the day."

"Is there an event tomorrow?" Mercer asked.

"Next big one is Labor Day weekend. But there'll be a rehearsal tomorrow. There's one every Sunday. Fifty or so guys, in the old blue and gray. A few gawkers come along for the ride. We'll make a couple of extra runs, use our freight boat as backup, and get them all over. It's only the big displays I need help transporting the sightseers."

"Weapons?" Mike asked.

"The Park Service has that old stuff stored away here. Cannonballs and muskets spread all over the place. These boys are just out to amuse each other. Nobody gets hurt."

Mike flipped open his cell phone and dialed Peterson's number.

"Talk fast," the captain said. "You won't get any reception on the island."

He was steering the nose of the boat toward the landing dock, patiently trying to control it as the aft end fishtailed in the strong current.

"Loo. You still in Scully's office?" Mike asked, then repeated the story about the battle reenactments to his boss. "You're going to need a detail here tomorrow if the mayor stays on course. The press will be all over the place by morning. Have someone checking IDs at the old ferry terminal, okay? Slip number seven. The last thing we need is our killer walking around the battlefield with live ammo. Talk to you later."

The stern of the ferry bounced off the pilings in the pier and we swayed from side to side as the shore crew stabilized her.

"Gives me more reason to think this may have been where our guy was headed with Amber Bristol-maybe even while she was still alive," Mercer said.

"I'm surprised Battaglia didn't push me on coming over when Amber's body was found at the terminal," I said.

"He doesn't have any constituents on Governors Island, Coop. Nobody to vote for him. High anxiety but low priority."

The shore crew-three men and a young woman in dark blue jumpsuits-secured the boat before they took the chain off to let us disembark. At the end of the ramp was a tall man in a khaki uniform, arms crossed and unsmiling.

"I'm Russell Leamer," he said. "Park Service. Commissioner Scully's office called. I understand we haven't satisfied your curiosity."

At the top of the landing was an enormous black cannon, mounted in a cement surround, made to appear more benign by the field of red impatiens that had been planted around it.

"It's more than curiosity, Mr. Leamer," Mike said. "Three women are dead, and the killer has some fixation with the U.S. military service. One of his victims was dumped right on top of your ferry terminal."

"We let some of your men poke around, Detective. They were here the very next day."

"That was before we knew what we were looking for, Mr. Leamer."

"And exactly what are you looking for now?" Leamer asked, his arms locked in place across his chest.

Mike looked from Mercer to me. We had very little time before the mayor made his announcement and the media would attempt to swarm over all of the places directly or indirectly connected to the disappearances and deaths of our three victims.

"You'll hear the news shortly anyway," Mike said. "The guy who killed the girl in the abandoned offices over the terminal-well, he probably murdered two others. He might have been trying to get here with his victim. Maybe had a place to hide her on the island."

Leamer's expression didn't change. "Hard to get lost in a crowd over here. We know everything that goes on."

Mike started to walk around Leamer, who stretched out an arm to stop him.

"Look, the mayor and the police commissioner want this done, and we're going to do it."

"You're standing on federal property, Detective. You want to swim around to the part of the island the city owns? Be my guest. Otherwise, the three of you need to sit on one of those benches and wait for the agents."

"What agents? FBI? You've called in the feebies?"

"Yeah. I've asked for a detail to come over from the city. You want a guided tour, they can take you."

"C'mon, Coop. Stick with Mercer," Mike said, as he continued to charge up the incline and called back to Leamer. "By the time the feds figure out what's going on around here, there'll be more bodies than they can count.