The specific answer to the question was the combination of bee wings, honey, that Rooflite soil, fertilizer and felt. He believed those materials had come from the Brooklyn Grange at the old Navy Yard. It was the largest rooftop farm in the world, two and a half acres devoted to raising organic fruits and vegetables. Rooflite was a soil substance in which vegetables could grow quite well but that weighed far less than regular soil, which would be too heavy for rooftop gardening. The Grange also was a major producer of honey.
The closest residential area to it was Vinegar Hill, filled with old wooden structures. Perfect targets for Krueger, whose goal had been to rouse the city and state into banning the drilling. The more deadly fires the “earthquakes” caused, the better.
Don McEllis hunched over the map of the city and with a red marker drew exactly where the fault line ran under Vinegar Hill. It headed northwest then jogged north into the harbor.
“Here. I’d look about three blocks on either side of that.”
It would be a much more concise search than the entire fault, but there were still scores of buildings whose basements might contain the gas line devices.
“Scan the map, Mel, and get a copy to the supervisors—fire and police—in the area. Do it now.”
“Sure.”
“Sachs, you and Pulaski get down there.”
As they hurried out the door, Rhyme said, “Mel, call Fire…and the local precinct. Get as many bodies as they can spare, checking basements. Oh, and call the Detective Bureau, too. Larceny. Have somebody pull recent break-ins where nothing was taken.”
Cooper nodded and picked up his phone.
Rhyme called: “And not just Patrol. I want anybody with a badge. Anybody!”
Chapter 64
Almost impossible.
That was Sachs’s impression as she sped her Torino, a deep-red blur, along the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. She was glancing to her left—at Vinegar Hill. Ron Pulaski was probably feeling the same.
How could anyone possibly find the devices? Dominated by a single, towering smokestack from Algonquin Power’s electrical substation, the neighborhood was bigger than she’d expected. Six square blocks, the precinct commander had told her. But small blocks they were not.
She downshifted and tore off the exit ramp, skidding onto Jay Street, drawing a faint gasp from Ron Pulaski, though after all these years he was pretty immune to her Danica Patrick approach to driving. The blue flasher cut silently but urgently through the shadowy street, lined with industrial buildings, houses, apartments and residential lofts. The brick and stucco and stone walls were scuffed and scraped but largely graffiti-free. The trash cans were battered and cracked but the garbage remained inside.
The muscle car had bad-girl suspension and she felt the road in her back and knee, still sore from the abuse of the past few days. And the streets of Vinegar Hill were not all fully paved. The original Belgian block, sometimes erroneously called cobblestones, had worn through in many stretches. In others the granite rectangles, smoothed by centuries of horse, foot and wheel traffic, had never been asphalted over and were the only roadway.
Sachs swung the car toward John Street, the agreed-upon staging area. It was across from the substation, the sprawling yard like a science-fiction film set. Gray metal boxes, wires, transformers. She skidded to a stop in front of a red brick industrial building. Probably a factory in a former life, it was now home to a half-dozen advertising agencies, design firms and boutique manufacturers. “Monti’s Gourmet Chocolates” occupied the ground floor, and her nose told her the company made their enticing products on-site. She wondered when she’d last eaten. Couldn’t remember. Then forgot the question altogether.
In addition to four fire trucks and an FDNY battalion chief’s car, a half-dozen blue-and-whites and an unmarked sat clustered on the substation side of John Street. There were eight uniformed officers, two plainclothes detectives and a captain from the precinct, wearing a suit. He was a tall African American, lean, with skin very dark and a perfectly bald head. Archie Williams. She’d worked with him before. Liked his humor. He’d once put a very shaken assault victim at ease by saying, No, no, it would be easy to remember his name: Archibald. And he pointed to his shiny skull.
Williams said, “Detective.” He then glanced at Pulaski, who identified himself. A nod.
Beside the captain was the FDNY battalion chief, in uniform. The pale, stocky man was in his mid-fifties. Vincent Stanello. When he shook hands, Sachs was aware of an extensive scar, from a burn years ago.
He explained that firefighters were spreading out throughout the neighborhood with gas keys—long rods used to shut off gas mains underground, whose valves were accessed through small square doors on streets and sidewalks and in yards. “We’ve got a half-dozen shutoff teams working. Captain Rhyme said to stick to a swath through the center of Vinegar Hill. His office sent us this.” He held up his phone, which showed Don McEllis’s map.
“It’s the fault line. We need to search about two blocks on either side.”
Stanello sighed. “You know, we’ve got miles of pipes here. And you have to remember, we can only shut off utility-supplied natural gas. A lot of customers use propane from private companies. There’s no way to shut that off except at the tank in the home or office.”
Williams said, “I’ve told our Central Robbery people to drop everything else and start checking the paperwork. And we’ve got a bot running the nine-one-one tapes from Vinegar Hill.” He shrugged. “But unless somebody saw him in the act, I’d bet it wasn’t even called in.”
Williams asked, “When did he plant the device?”
Pulaski said, “Sometime in the past week, we think. Ten days. We aren’t sure.”
“So CCTVs won’t do much good,” Sachs said. Looking around at the hundreds of structures—all old and largely built of wood.
Sachs said, “Evacuate.”
“Evacuate what?” Stanello asked.
“Everything. Every building for two blocks on either side of that fault.”
“That’d be chaos,” Stanello said uncertainly. “There could be injuries. Elderly residents, children.”
Williams said, “And the press’ll have a field day if there is no bomb.”
“And what’ll they say if there is one and we don’t get people out?” Amelia Sachs hated to have to state the obvious.
The supervisors, Williams and Stanello, regarded each other.
The battalion chief asked, “You sure there’s a device in Vinegar Hill?”
Sachs thought: Sure? What exactly is sure?
She said, “Absolutely.” Then added a truthful component: “And he’s set one every day for the past two days. No reason to think he’ll change his pattern now. And if the prior devices’re any indication, we’re late in the day at this point. I’m thinking it’ll detonate at any time.”
A moment of silence. Then Williams said, “All right, we’ll do it. Evacuate as many as we can, check the gas lines in the basements, mark them safe and the residents can go back in.”
Stanello nodded. He lifted his radio to his lips and gave the command to his officer to start evacuating residents.
“And there’s a school here, right?” Pulaski asked.
“PS Three Oh Seven. A few blocks away.”
“Empty it,” the young officer said.
“It’s not along the center line,” Stanello said, nodding at the map on his phone.
Sachs was about to intervene but Pulaski said firmly, “It’s a school day. Evacuate it.”
Stanello paused a moment. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Williams walked to his officers. “Everybody, into cars. Loudspeakers. Just say there’s a possible gas leak, and everybody should leave the buildings immediately. Don’t take any belongings, just leave.”
“Come on,” Sachs said to Pulaski. “We’ll start knocking on doors too.” She called to Williams and Stanello, “We’ll start south, work our way east then north.”
They piled into the Torino and sped down to York. Pulaski was looking around, his face troubled. “How many people you think live here? Where his target zone is?”
She guessed the population of Vinegar Hill was fifty thousand or so. Much less in the area around the fault but she supposed a good number. “This time of day, eight thousand.”
“How many you realistically think we can evacuate?”
Sachs’s answer was a grim laugh.
Chapter 65