Full Frontal Murder (27 page)

“To show to the Transit Authority people,” she said. “That's the next step, isn't it?”

The captain frowned. “I'm not sure how far back they have records for. If that's a very old tunnel—which seems likely—there may be no way of tracing it, even with a partial number.”

Marian was thinking. “Fairchild was on his way to Astor Place when Campos and O'Toole lost him. We could ask the Transit Authority to look there first, in the Ninth Precinct.”

“He could have been going to Astor Place for some unrelated reason.”

“He could have, but does it seem likely, Jim? He'd been going about his business for ten hours or so, before the tail lost him. He'd left Holland alone for all that time. It was about time to go check on him again.”

Murtaugh thought that over and then nodded agreement. “We'll ask the Transit Authority to check the Astor Place area first. You may have something there.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” she said dryly.

“You're going to kill me at eleven o'clock tonight.”

“That depends on what your ladylove does.”

“No, it doesn't. If she won't close the case, you kill me to prove you weren't bluffing. If she does close the case, you kill me to keep me from identifying you.” Holland's voice was bitter. “I knew I was dead the minute you let me see your face.”

Fairchild let a long silence build. Then, suddenly: “What do you see in her? She's not beautiful.
You're
beautiful. She's very ordinary.”

A photographer who cannot see
. “Marian Larch is
not
ordinary.” He looked at the man sitting next to him. “As I recall, you were rather interested in her yourself at one point.”

The remark seemed to rattle Fairchild. He tried to bluff. “I just wanted to get close to her to find out what the police knew.”

Holland laughed.

Fairchild slapped him. “Don't laugh at me. Don't you
ever
laugh at me.”

“I wasn't laughing at you.” Holland said with calculated testiness. “I was laughing at myself. Here I sit, with only hours left to live, worrying about a woman.”

That mollified him. “You haven't thought far enough ahead.” Fairchild massaged his temples. “Did you know I was married once? She left me. She said I was too … kinky.”

Holland said nothing to that. Then: “What do you mean, I haven't thought far enough ahead?”

Fairchild was scowling. “Say Marian does go on TV and announce the case is closed. Then what? If you die, she just reopens the case. I'll have gained nothing.”

Holland's eyes narrowed. “So you need to keep me alive.”

“For a while. I can't turn you loose, now that you know who I am. But I could send her a videotape every week showing you holding a newspaper with the current date. Just until it's safe. The police aren't going to worry about an old case forever.”

“I see. And how long would you keep me chained up here? Six months? A year?”

Fairchild turned to face him. He casually put a hand on Holland's knee. “I haven't decided yet.”

Holland fixed his eyes on the hand holding his knee. “That wasn't originally part of your plan, was it?” he asked softly. “When you set those young thugs on me, you meant to kill me no matter what Marian did. But now you're having second thoughts. Now you like the idea of my being chained here, you like knowing how dependent on you I am.”
Had he gone too far?
“Do you want to keep it that way? Are you changing your plan?”

The other man began slowly fondling Holland's knee. “I like to stay flexible. I can adjust to new situations.” Fairchild locked his captive into an eye contact that made his meaning unmistakable. “There's only one test question I ask when I'm deciding what to do. What's in it for me?”

“And?”

“What's in it for me looks tempting.”

Time for a diversion
. “But what if Marian won't close the case?”

That spoiled Fairchild's mood; he jumped up and began to pace, agitated. “Then I'll have to kill you, don't you see? Goddam stupid woman. I hate letting everything depend on Marian Larch!”

I don't
. “Why do you have to kill me? She'll never know.”

Fairchild stopped his pacing. “What?”

“If I don't come back, she'll assume I'm dead. That will let you decide how long you want to … keep me alive.”

Fairchild looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you so cooperative all of a sudden?”

Holland sighed. “This is my life we're talking about, remember. Of course I'm going to cooperate. Look, you could even send her one last video—if she doesn't close the case. I can play a very convincing dead man.”

The suggestion made Fairchild smile. “So then Marian-the-not-so-Magnificent gets to mourn her lover's death twice? The second time when your body turns up? Oh, I rather like that.” He bent over so his face was level with Holland's. “What an amusing idea.”

It was the first time since childhood that Holland had had to suppress an urge to spit in someone's face.

The men they'd talked to at the Transit Authority all agreed that the –14 on the videotape was from a numbering system so old that there were no records of it … and no way of identifying the tunnel in question. But it was a subway tunnel, no doubt about that. One of the men suggested that the number might mean the tunnel was the fourteenth branch off a main line, but that was no help without knowing what the main line was. The only way to locate the tunnel was to go underground and look for it.

The New York City Transit Authority had faced similar problems before—the homeless taking up residence in abandoned subway tunnels, kids who went exploring and got lost, even killers dumping victims they didn't want found. Most of the abandoned tunnels were no longer used for a reason, the primary one being that they were not safe. A few tunnels still remained that had been dug as aids to the original construction of the subway system, but none of those had been tiled. What they were looking for was a tunnel that once housed an operating line that had since been shut down.

All known accesses to such tunnels had been barricaded, either with cinder-block walls or with hurricane fencing set in cement. But the key word was
known;
there was no systematic way of tracking the old accesses, as the Transit Authority's predecessors either hadn't kept records or did keep records that had vanished over time. And there was another problem: old walls could crumble and fencing could be cut through. Maybe the known accesses were intact, maybe not. The men at the Transit Authority dug up the locations of all such blockedoff accesses they did know about and sent out a team to check for signs that an entryway had been found or forced through one of them. The team was supplemented with detectives and uniformed officers from Midtown South Precinct.

For such an extensive deployment of manpower, Marian had Jim Murtaugh to thank. Not only had he put more Mid-town South personnel on the search than could really be spared, but lord knew how many favors he'd called in to get the Transit Authority to move so quickly. But when she tried to thank him, he wouldn't let her. “If we can't protect our own,” he'd said, “we can't protect anybody.”

Now he was trying to get her to go home and grab some sleep while she could. “How can I sleep?” she protested. “I want to know the very minute they find something!”

“And you will. I'll call you myself. But it could be a long search. If they find all their known barricades are intact, they're going to have to search for a new way in. That's
miles
of track in the Astor Place area alone.”

She shook her head. “I'll wait here.”

“No, you will not,” he said bluntly. “Marian, how much sleep have you had in the last few days? You look like hell. Your face is pinched and white, you have purple pouches under your eyes. You're no good to me if you're dead on your feet. Go home and sleep. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. That's an order.”

Marian sighed. “You will call me?”

“The minute I hear.”

“I'll be only a few blocks away. I'm staying with a friend.”

Marian walked through the blistering heat to the brown-stone on West Thirty-fifth; it was empty when she got there, but Abby had given her a key. Marian didn't go up to her room with the four-poster bed; instead, she curled up in a comfortable armchair in Abby's living room and put her cell phone on the table next to the chair. She laid her head down on the broad armrest, about two feet away from the phone.

Sleep, dammit
, she told herself. She raised her head to check on the phone.

It was still there.

27

The telephone ringing woke Marian out of a light sleep.

It was Murtaugh. “They found a breached access. Where are you? I'll pick you up.”

Marian's heart pounded. “I'm right up the street.” She gave him the number.

She stood waiting on the sidewalk in the heat; at least the late afternoon sun was behind her and she didn't have to peer into the glare for Murtaugh's car heading west on Thirty-fifth. The captain pulled up to the curb and she climbed in. “Ninth Precinct?” she asked. “Was I right about Astor Place?”

“Ninth Precinct,” Murtaugh confirmed. “I've already talked to DiFalco. He's giving us some help.” The captain smiled. “So long as it's understood
he
is in charge of the operation.”

Marian grunted. “That's DiFalco, all right.”

Captain DiFalco of the Ninth Precinct was Marian's old nemesis. During the short time she'd served under his command, she'd hated every minute of it. They'd butted heads more than once, and Marian looked upon her transfer to Mid-town South as something of an escape. The less she saw of DiFalco, the better … usually. Today she was grateful for his help.

Murtaugh said, “The access point that was breached isn't outdoors—it's inside an IRT tunnel about a half-mile down from Astor Place Station. It's literally a hole in the wall, where the cement had started crumbling and was helped along by person or persons unknown. The hole opens into an adjacent tunnel, long unused.”

“Then that's it,” Marian said.

“Not quite. There's a whole slew of other tunnels branching off from there—we'll have to search all of them.”

“Hmm. The team that's supposed to be tailing Fairchild—have they picked him up again?”

“No.”

“Then he could be in there right now.”

“He probably is.”

That could be dicey. Fairchild would be able to see the flashlights of approaching searchers and duck away into the darkness. Marian wasn't nearly so concerned with catching Fairchild as she was with finding Holland. But she wanted to find him alive; Fairchild could easily put a bullet into his prisoner before making his escape.

Murtaugh read her mind. “We know the place Holland is being held is lighted—the tapes showed a few lanterns sitting on the ground. We'll instruct the searchers to douse their flashlights as soon as they see another light source down there.”

“I'm going to join one of the search teams.”

“There are plenty of searchers. You don't need—”

“I'm going to search.”

Murtaugh said no more.

Astor Place was crowded with men from the Transit Authority as well as cops. Marian spotted Perlmutter and others from Midtown South as well as detectives from the Ninth Precinct. Captain DiFalco was giving instructions in a loud, self-important voice. Passengers scurrying by threw him curious glances but didn't stop to see what was going on.

Gloria Sanchez detached herself from the crowd around DiFalco and came straight to Marian. She threw her arms around her and gave her a big hug. “God, I'm sorry, Marian,” she said. “What you musta been goin' through! But don't you worry—we find him.”

“Yes,” Marian said, grateful for the hug. “We'll find him.”

“I been tryin' to call you—both your place and Holland's. I didn't know about Holland until today.”

“Oh … I've been staying with Abby James.”

Gloria's eyebrows went up. “I thought she was in California. For that movie.”

“She was. But they kicked her out.” Marian moved over to hear what DiFalco was saying.

Gloria stared after her. “They kicked her out of
California?”

“This little gizmo,” DiFalco was saying, holding up a black plastic object about half the size of a remote control, “sends out a beacon signal. Everybody carries one. Everybody.” DiFalco caught sight of Murtaugh and nodded an abrupt acknowledgment. “To activate it, just push this button here.” He demonstrated. There was no audible sound; only the pulsing of a green light the size of a pinhead showed the instrument was working. “We're not using walkie-talkies because we need a silent approach. Walkies don't work too good down there anyway.”

A man from the Transit Authority was passing out the beacons and flashlights as well. Marian took one of each; Gloria joined her and did the same.

DiFalco said, “The signal will show up on this tracking device.” He looked around. “Sanchez, you got the tracker.”

“Gee, thanks, Captain.” She took the tracking box and slung the strap over her shoulder.

“If you spot the victim or the perp, start your beacon immediately. Sanchez's team will follow your signal and act as backup. Don't use the beacon if you get lost.” He smiled sourly. “Don't
get
lost. Stick with your teams, all of you.”

“I'm going with your team,” Marian said to Gloria. Gloria nodded.

Murtaugh spoke up. “May I add one thing?” He emphasized the necessity of stealth. “The minute you see a stationary light in there, turn off your flashlights. And move quietly—don't make a sound. We mustn't give this perp any advance warning at all. It could prove fatal to his prisoner.”