Killer Heat

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."

"You believe Pam was abducted from here, Detective? You think something happened to her before she left?"

"I'm thinking nothing good, pal," Mike called over his shoulder.

Then he put his head down and one hand on top of it to hold his thick black hair out of his eyes. "Don't know if she's here or in the deep blue yonder or in a better place. But we've got a maniac on the loose- or two."

He turned to Mercer and me. "We're looking for a serial rapist who likes to torture his victims and thinks he's safer by killing them. And a despondent Dylan-or his old man-who probably used this park as a playground."

I could see Dickie Draper through the open side of the former offi cers' club. His weight served him well today. He was anchored upright to the ground despite the wind, while the rest of us were fighting it head-on.

Before I could reach the covered building, there was a huge clap of thunder and a streak of lightning off in the distance. The cloud overhead burst and the rain poured down in torrents. I dashed the rest of the way for cover.

In the far corner of the windowless room, a thin young woman sat alone on a bench, wrapped in a trenchcoat. A policewoman wearing a Suffolk County uniform stood behind her.

"You and me will have to share this one," Draper said. "No need to bring in someone from the Queens DA's office till we know what we got."

"I'd be happy for help, Dickie. But we might as well get right on it."

Mike turned to Ranger Barrett as I approached the girl. "Nobody stops. I don't care if they're soaked to the bone. The search goes on until your men find every underground bunker and whatever else is hiding in the sand. I want this girl alive."

Mercer was on the phone to Peterson to demand more backup. "I'm Alex Cooper," I said. "I'm with the Manhattan District Attorney's Office."

"This here's Lydia," Draper said.

I sat opposite her, on another old bench with wobbly legs. She kept looking at Draper as though he had a second head, less than charmed by his manner.

"She's been telling me about Pam. She says that-"

"I think it's better if we back up a bit." I wanted this information from Lydia, not filtered through Draper in the retelling.

Lydia's eyes darted back and forth between the two of us. "Do you understand what this is all about?"

"I'm beginning to, I think."

"There's no detail too insignificant for what the detectives need to do. Every word, every description, every fact you know about Pam might be useful," I said. I needed the most critical information first, but I also needed to know something about Pam-her judgment, her strengths, and her vulnerability.

"I don't know her well," Lydia said. "She's a student at Stony Brook. She had an ad on MySpace for an apartment rental for the summer. I- um-I answered the ad. I had to make up some classes at summer school."

The two had gotten along well as casual acquaintances but were not close friends. Pam was a serious student, majoring in history, who loved her internship with the Park Service because it combined her interest in American history with her desire to spend time outdoors. "Tell me about this weekend. About Sunday," I said. "Did you see Pam?"

"No. No, I didn't. She had to be at the park-I mean here-by eight o'clock. I had dinner with her on Saturday. But then I went out for a while, so I slept in on Sunday morning."

Lydia's long brown hair hung on her shoulders. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat. Every time a roll of thunder sounded in the distance, she seemed to get more agitated.

"Did you speak to her after that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I told Mr. Draper that I did."

"How many times?"

"Twice. Twice more."

"When?"

"I guess the first time was around noon. She was supposed to turn in a bunch of things that the NPS had given her to use during the summer, for orientation. Pamphlets and stuff. She also had to return her ID and her uniforms," Lydia said. "But she accidentally left her backpack somewhere, so she called to ask me if it was in the kitchen, 'cause if not she was afraid she had lost it on the bus."

"How long was the conversation?"

"Like a minute or two. I went to look around the apartment, and the backpack was still on the floor, near the front door. Pam told me she was relieved-she could always turn the stuff in on Monday. She asked if I wanted to go out for dinner, you know, to celebrate the end of her job. I told her I had to study for a final exam on Monday morning and I wasn't in the mood to celebrate. That I'd let her know if I changed my mind."

"Did she say anything else in that first phone call? Anything about who she was with or what she was doing?"

Lydia shrugged. "No."

"The second call, did you make that one or did she?"

"It was Pam who called me again."

"What time? Why?"

Lydia looked past me at the roiling surf. "I'm not sure. Maybe two thirty. Maybe three. I was curled up in my bedroom with the door closed," she said plaintively, trying to explain what now seemed like indifference to Pam's situation. "I was cramming for a chemistry test. I resented every interruption, every phone call."

"Why did Pam call?"

"I don't know that either." Lydia's fingers were nervously scratching the inside pockets of her trenchcoat.

"What did she say, exactly?"

"She was all hyper, like excited. Sort of talking fast. Some of it making no sense."

"About what?"

"The first thing she asked me was what time did she have to be home for dinner. I told her I didn't know what she was talking about, that I'd already told her I couldn't go out with her. But she repeated something about our dinner date-looking forward to it and all. Then she said for sure she'd be home by eight."

"Do you know what Pam meant?" I asked.

"I thought she was showing off for someone, pretending she had a date. That's why I was kind of annoyed with her. I asked her what was going on, and that's when she told me she was with a guy."

"What guy? Did she tell you anything about him?"

The men had formed a semicircle behind me. Lydia looked around at their faces and hunched her shoulders as the thunder boomed again.

"You're all staring at me like I'm supposed to solve this for you," she said. "I barely know the girl, and I have no idea who she was talking to. I didn't know anything about a serial killer when she was on the phone."

Lydia removed her hands from her pocket. I took them between mine, clasped them together, and tried to keep her engaged and cooperative.

"We understand you had no reason to connect any of this to Pam.

Please keep talking, Lydia. Please tell us everything she said to you.

What did she tell you about the guy?"

"Weird. I even asked her, 'What guy?' Twice she said to me, 'You know, the one who comes to the fort every week.' "

"That's great, Lydia. Pam had talked to you about this young man before Sunday."

"That's what's so odd, Miss Cooper. She had never mentioned him to me. Pam talked about her job, about the other interns. She loved anything that had to do with history. But she didn't have a single date these two months, much less say anything about a guy she met at work."

"You're certain? You just didn't miss something while you were studying?"

"Pam never talked about a guy. Not once the entire summer.

I mean, she was hoping to meet someone interesting, but it didn't happen."

Either Lydia had been too deeply immersed in her periodic table of elements to listen to the earlier references or Pam was trying to make a point during that second phone call.

"What did she say?"

"I told you. She was with somebody, like I was supposed to know about who she meant," Lydia said. "Only I didn't."

"What were her words, her exact words?"

Lydia took her hands from mine and tucked her feet under the bench. She seemed to be trying to think.

I pushed her. "The words Pam used, tell me those."

" 'I haven't forgotten about dinner. I'll for sure be home by eight.' That's how she started. I told her I didn't know what she was talking about. Then she said. 'You know that guy I told you about? The one who comes here every week? Knows all these hidden places in the old fort?' 'What the hell are you talking about?' I asked. Then it was something about history. That he wanted to show her something historical.

Like a family place."

"Family place?" I turned my head and looked at Mike. Whose family, I wondered, and what kind of place.

"I think what she said was where his family went for holidays." The rain was teeming now and the tide was rising on the beach. I couldn't imagine Troy Rasheed and his family on a holiday outing, but I had visions of the Dylans at their vacation house a few miles away. I was as confused as Lydia.

"What holidays?"

Her words were clipped and firm. "I don't know. If I hadn't been so annoyed about the interruption, maybe I'd have asked more questions. It was just so unlike Pam. Then she said she was going and that she'd call me again when they got there."

"Got where?"

"Wherever the hell she agreed to go. Look, Miss Cooper," Lydia said, standing up, "at the time she called, I thought she was just showing off for this guy, pretending she had something else to do that night. I studied, I went to sleep and got up early. Pam wasn't there.

Great. I figured she and her history pal hit it off. Nothing strange about that. I took my exam, went out with a bunch of friends from school, spent the evening at the library, and when I came home late last night I realized Pam's backpack was still by the door."

"Did you try to reach her?"

"Yeah. Sure. I called her cell but it didn't even go to voice mail. I called five times. It just isn't like her not to follow the rules, you know? Not to turn in the park uniforms and stuff," Lydia said, laughing a bit.

"She's such a nerdy kind of good girl."

Lydia walked to the end of the bench, facing out to the rough sea, and sat down. "I had no one to call, didn't know the people she worked with. Then I was watching the late news, and the story about these girls who'd been killed came on. It didn't seem possible that it could have anything to do with Pam. But I kept watching, and there was a local news story that showed one of the bodies was found in Brooklyn, not too far from here."

Elise Huff, wrapped in the green blanket, was dumped in the marsh off Belt Parkway, right across Jamaica Bay from where we stood. "That's when you called the Suffolk police?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just a few hours ago." Lydia dug her hands back into her pockets. "I'm kicking myself now 'cause I think maybe Pam was trying to signal me."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"She was so wound up, I guess she was really excited about whatever she thought she was going to see. But at the same time she was making a point to whoever was with her, if he was listening, that she had to be somewhere, with someone, by eight o'clock. Pam was obviously trying to let him know that she had talked about him before, even though she hadn't, I swear it. Like maybe she was a little bit afraid and wanted to warn him someone knew she was with him."

"You're doing very well, Lydia. Everything you know, every idea you put together-it all helps us," I said. "Has anyone asked you, did Pam say where she was when she called that second time?"

"Oh, yeah. She was right here."

"On her post, at Fort Tilden?"

"Yes, she and her friend-well, this guy-they were driving around the beach."

"I got them working the Lear girl's cell phone already, Alex. Looking for pings. Seeing if we can trace where she's gone. Getting nothing from it so far. Could be he ditched it," Dickie Draper said, waddling closer to me. Then he looked at Lydia. "Must be wrong about where Pam said she was. Think harder. They don't let anybody drive on the beach here. The only vehicles these park personnel are allowed to use going over the sand are dune buggies."

Lydia pursed her lips. "I'm telling you what Pam said, Detective.

That he was driving her all over the beach, showing her things she'd never seen before. In his jeep. I'm pretty sure she said he had an old army jeep.