Carmella Romero often said, gravely, that she was a spy.
The fifty-eight-year-old had shared that comment with her four children and eleven grandchildren. The basis for her claim was that she worked for the government as an agent.
Though in her case, the employer wasn’t the CIA or James Bond’s Secret Service. It was the New York City Traffic Enforcement.
The stocky, gray-haired woman, a lifetime resident of Brooklyn, had decided two years ago after her last daughter had flown the nest that she was going to get a job. A fan of TV shows about police, like Blue Bloods, she thought a career in law enforcement might be nice (and Tom Selleck could be her commissioner any day!).
Being a gun-toting cop wasn’t in her future, given her age (the cutoff at NYPD is thirty-five), but there was no age limit for TEAs. Also, she was regularly furious when Mr. Prill, a neighbor, parked wherever the hell he wanted to—in front of the hydrant, on the sidewalk, in the crosswalk. And he was rude when you called him on it! Imagine. And she decided she’d had it. He and people like him weren’t going to get away with anything anymore. Carmella Romero had a sense of humor, as well, and appreciated that quality in others. She’d loved it when Traffic Enforcement put up signs: Don’t Even Think of Parking Here. How could she not want to go to work for an outfit like that?
No, she wasn’t in the Blue Bloods world of law enforcement but now she had a chance to do something a little closer to what real cops did. She and all the other TEAs (never “brownies,” don’t ever say that), as well as every city worker in this part of Brooklyn, had been enlisted to evacuate buildings and get into basements in Vinegar Hill to see if there was a little white device that looked like a thermostat attached to the gas line.
An IED!
Improvised explosive device. (She knew the phrase thanks to, ta-da, a case that Tom Selleck’s son had run; it didn’t come up much in Traffic Enforcement briefings.)
Carmella Rosina Romero was Bomb Squad Girl for a day.
The block she had been given contained three-, four-and five-story walk-ups. Like many in Brooklyn, with easy access to Manhattan, they would be packed with tenants. And the construction was old. Oh, there should have been recent renovations to bring them up to code—maybe, if the landlords were honest—but the buildings still would be tinderboxes, compared with new construction.
She was walking to the first one on her “beat,” on the corner, when she froze.
Beneath her there was a trembling.
Was that it? The fake earthquake she and the other city folks had been briefed about?
Her radio clattered, “Be advised. All those on evac duty. That was confirmed as a detonation of an IED near Cadman Plaza. Evacuation is now critical. You’ve got about ten minutes until secondary explosion and fire.”
Romero sped forward on stocky legs, feet pointed outward, to the corner building, intent on hitting the intercom and ordering the evacuation.
Flaw: No intercoms. Not even a doorbell. You apparently had to let somebody know ahead of time you were coming to call. Or maybe you just shouted your arrival.
She shouted.
No response.
Think, woman. Think, Agent! What the hell? Pulling a loose paver from the street, she smashed the glass of the door and leapt back from the falling shards. She opened the door from inside and burst into the building, calling, “Police. Gas emergency, evacuate the building!” Pounding on doors and repeating the warning.
A door in the back opened and a Latino man in T-shirt and jeans stepped out, frowning. He was, it turned out, the superintendent. She told him about the danger and, wide-eyed, he nodded, promising he’d tell the tenants.
Her radio clattered, “TEA Romero, come in. K.”
With a thumping heart—she’d never been summoned by dispatch before—she called in. “Romero here. K.”
“You’re on Front Street?”
“Affirmative. K.”
“Further to the evac, Central Robbery in Brooklyn reported a break-in a week ago. Eight Oh Four Front. Somebody in hard hat and safety vest was seen using a bolt cutter to get through the basement window. Nothing was missing. That’s the profile of the suspect. We think he might’ve put the device in there.”
“It’s three doors down from me!” Then she reminded herself of protocol and said, “K.”
She said this coolly. But was thinking, Dios mío! Crap!
“We’ve got Bomb Squad on the way, Romero. Try to get out as many as you can. You’ve got about nine minutes left. Keep that in mind.”
In the distance, sirens began to wail.
“Roger. K.”
She sprinted to the building, an old one, four stories high. It wasn’t the biggest on the street but it was the most vulnerable, given its all-wood frame. It would go up like a gasoline-soaked rag. The windows were closed against the March chill but she could see lights inside some of the front-facing ones.
No intercom again.
And this building didn’t have a door containing a window; it was solid wood.
Hell.
Eight minutes left, she reckoned.
She looked at the basement windows, protected by metal grates, which were secured by heavy-duty padlocks.
“Get out!” Romero began shouting. “Gas leak. Get out!”
Nobody responded. She picked up a stone and flung it at a second-floor window—the first-story windows were, like the basement, protected by gratings. The projectile shattered a pane. If anybody was inside, they didn’t notice or chose not to respond.
Yes, this was the target. She could smell the gas now.
“Evacuate!”
No response.
Looking around, she noted a line of cars parallel-parked across from the building. She noted a Lexus and other nice vehicles too, in addition to some more modest wheels. If Agent Carmella Romero knew anything, it was cars. She walked up to the Lexus and kneed it hard in the front fender, denting the metal. The alarm began braying.
She passed by the Taurus and a Subaru. But slugged a Mercedes and an Infiniti. Horns sounding fiercely.
Windows began opening. On the top floor of the building, Romero noted a woman and two small children looking out.
“Get out! There’s a gas leak!”
Her uniform apparently added authority to the command. The woman disappeared fast. Several others appeared in windows too and she repeated the command in English and Spanish.
Romero looked up and down the street. No Bomb Squad yet. No other police.
Six minutes now.
The front door was opening and people were running out. The smell of gas was very strong. She held the door and encouraged them to run, as she shouted loudly into the dim hall, “Gas leak, gas leak! Evacuation. The building’s going to blow!”
If even just three-quarters of the apartments were occupied, there had to be at least twenty or thirty people remaining inside. Some asleep maybe, some disabled.
No way to get them all out.
A deep breath. Carmella Romero, flashing on Commissioner Selleck, ran to the basement door. She descended the rickety stairs on her thick, sure legs. Her nose tightened at the rotten-egg smell of the gas odorant. A wave of nausea hit her.
The basement was damp and dim, the only light from the grated windows in the front, small ones, above eye level. It was hard to see anything at all, let alone a tiny device on a gas line, which was probably intentionally hidden from sight. But there was no way she was going to click a light on.
Thinking: We’re looking for bombs in basements; they damn well could’ve issued us flashlights.
Four or five minutes left, she guessed.