SEVENTY-ONE
AS we headed uptown, Matt turned to me. “Tell me again where we’re going?”
“Under the Waldorf Astoria.”
“And how do you propose we get there? Dig?”
“Don’t be silly.” I held up my phone. “A friend of Joy’s in high school is now an assistant front desk manager at the hotel. I’m texting her for a favor.”
“You really think she’ll help us?”
“Of course! I employed her part-time back in New Jersey and gave her a great reference to get her started in hospitality. She’s also a former Girl Scout. We Scouts stick together . . .”
* * *
TWENTY minutes later, Matt and I were waiting by a mysteriously unmarked brass door near the Waldorf’s garage on 49th Street.
Joy’s friend met us with a security guard who used a pass card to open the door, and we were in!
Escorted by the guard, Matt and I descended several sets of stairs, coming to a dimly lit subbasement. After thanking the guard for his help, he headed back up while we moved into a vast and shadowy underground space.
Rusted train tracks crossed the dingy, dusty area, which was cluttered with construction materials and scaffolding. In the center of the space stood the famous armored train car believed to be Franklin D. Roosevelt’s, now a grimy shadow of its former glory years as a presidential Pullman.
“I still don’t get it.” Matt gazed down at me with a perplexed expression. “What’s the point of having a secret railroad track?”
“You have to remember, back in FDR’s day, trains—not planes—were the way most people crossed the country; and when the president’s train pulled in to Grand Central, about a thousand feet away, this track allowed him to arrive in New York in complete privacy. His bulletproof limo would roll right off the train car and onto that reinforced elevator, which lifted him to street level.”
“Then it was a security issue, during World War Two?”
“Yes, but also a public relations tactic. It saved the crippled president from being gawked at or photographed while he was struggling to get into or out of a vehicle. He was determined to keep his image looking strong for the good of the country and the world . . .”
“So why is this place still so secret?”
“It’s been this way for decades, sealed off from any access by the public—although it appears Perla has been hired to change that . . .”
I pointed to a high scaffold, across the long space. Perla was moving around up there, photographing the area and taking oral notes with her smartphone. In overalls, a hard hat, and her tough-as-nails stance, she looked ready for any construction crew in the city.
“Perla!” Matt called, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Who’s down there?”
“It’s Matt—Matt Allegro. We need to talk.”
“One minute!”
I watched as Perla secured her gear on a work belt and within the deep pockets of her overalls. Then she used a rope to rappel smoothly down the wall. When she reached the ground, she worked some kind of magic. With one swift movement, the entire rope fell to the ground.
As she neatly wound it up, I leaned toward Matt and whispered—
“Did you see that? She has a trick rope, like Panther Man.”
“It’s not a trick rope, Clare. It’s a rappelling technique called South African abseil. I use the same method when I’m traveling down from high altitudes in shade-grown territory.”
“How do you—”
“I wrap a doubled-up rope around a tree and around my body. When the rope runs out, I release and repeat, until I reach the bottom of the incline. If you’re on mountainous terrain and have only one rope, that’s the way to manage it.”
“Manage what?” Perla asked, moving over to us.
“Manage the coffee-hunting business. How are you, Perla?”
“Nice to see you, Matt. My God, it’s been years, hasn’t it?”
The pair firmly shook hands and Perla nodded down at me. “It’s Clare, isn’t it? Are you two back together? I thought you—”
“We’re still divorced,” I said. “But we’re working together now at the Village Blend. You should stop in for coffee sometime.”
“I should, but I’m addicted to Driftwood.”
“The coffee or the flotsam?” Matt said with a tight smile. “It’s hard to tell the difference.”
“I use a lot of cream and sugar,” she said with a shrug. “And it’s a lucrative business connection. They hire me to hang pieces in their chain stores. Mostly of . . . you know . . .”
“Driftwood?” I finished for her.
“That’s right.”
We talked a few minutes more in pleasantries, and her reason for being down here. According to Perla, a group of developers were hot to turn this secret train platform into a nightclub.
Matt glanced around. “In this wreck of a place? It’ll cost a fortune.”
“It will.” Perla nodded. “And the men who hired me claim they’re lining one up.”
“What exactly are you doing for them?” I asked.
“They want a feasibility report, and my seal of approval that they can preserve the historical integrity.”
“Can they?”
“Yes, if they follow my directives. Ultimately, it will be up to the city and state to approve the construction. Metro North is the owner of this platform, but the city would be involved in the permits, so it’s a sticky wicket—with plenty of wheels to grease.”
I nodded politely and gently changed the subject. “Perla, the reason we came to see you has to do with another sticky wicket, one involving your father.”
“You mean Gus?”
The way she said it sounded strange, as if she wasn’t comfortable with my referring to him as her father. Could it be because Madame’s suspicions were correct, and the man we know as Gus is really Silvio?
“You may not have heard,” I continued, “but the police arrested your sister’s husband today. They believe he poisoned Gus’s cold brew coffee, but we don’t believe it—we think someone else tried to hurt your dad.”
“Really? Who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. And in the process, we discovered Matt’s mother climbed into a vintage black Jaguar at the invitation of a man in a white suit. A man we think has been blackmailing Gus for going on sixty years.”
“Blackmailing him? Do you know why?”
“No,” Matt said, jumping in. “Apparently, he was on the Andrea Doria and witnessed something involving your father on the night it sank. We hoped you might remember what he saw . . . or at least help us identify this mystery man by name.”
She folded her arms. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything more.”
“We saw you on the security camera footage,” I pressed. “You met with your father for two hours the day before he was poisoned. Why?”
“Gus was the one who called me. He wanted to talk—and tell me the bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“He was recently diagnosed with cancer. The doctors gave him a year, maybe two. That’s why we had a lot to discuss . . . personal things.”
Matt appeared upset by the news, and I squeezed his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear that diagnosis,” I said to Perla—and Matt. Then I stepped closer to Perla and instantly regretted it. At her height, I had to crane my neck to meet her gaze. “Could anything Gus told you shed light on what’s happening now? Did he mention something about a man from Rome or the two people this man appears to be in league with . . .”
“I’m sorry, Clare. Like I said, I can’t tell you anything more.”
I gritted my teeth at her repeated choice of words. It seemed to me she did know more and wasn’t willing to tell us. For what reason? I had no clue—unless she herself was involved in this crime.
Matt also picked up on Perla’s stonewalling. “My mother is missing,” he said, impatience growing. “Do you understand that we’re worried for her safety? Are you telling us there is nothing you know? Not one thing that will help us find this alleged blackmailer who drove off with her?”
“If you think your mother is in danger, Matteo, you should contact the police. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m running late. I have an event tonight, and I’ve got to get ready.”
Before Matt could press her again, Perla’s smartphone rang.
“That’s my Uber car arriving. Come on, let’s go up together . . .”
* * *
AS we stepped out into the chilly, damp air of 49th Street, I half hoped to see a black Jaguar waiting for Perla, driven by my old buddy, the U-scar man.
But Perla’s Uber car turned out to be a Toyota Prius, driven by a slender young man with a neo-pioneer beard and J.Crew hoodie.
“Now what?” Matt asked as we slammed our van doors.
Before I could reply, my smartphone buzzed. I read the text.
“Sophia’s awake and her phone is recharged. She wants us to give her a ride back to the hospital so she can be with her father.”