She got there early and flashed her badge so the attendant would let her park
in the rehab center lot at East 34th Street. He even moved a cone to open a spot for
her where she could sit in her Crown Victoria and observe the entrance to the
heliport across the service road that ran underneath the elevation of the FDR Drive.
One hour to go. The sun wasn’t due to set for about fifteen minutes; however a
storm front pushing in from the Ohio Valley had cast a high curtain of black
thunderheads against the western sky—enough to cause the cyclists using the
esplanade’s bike path between her and the heliport to switch on their helmet lamps.
The air thrummed, trash swirled, and the last Sikorsky of the day ascended over the
East River, rotated, and banked a graceful turn east toward Long Island. Ten minutes
later the fluorescents switched off in the mobile office trailer that served as the
headquarters and boarding area for the helicopter facility. Two cars exited, the
last one stopping as the driver, who wore a white shirt with epaulettes, got out and
padlocked a chain through the gate before he left, too.
She waited, watching everything closely now. The number of joggers and cyclists
dwindled, and cars became sparse, with only an occasional taxi passing by on its way
somewhere else at that hour. Then the lights around the helipad all cut off, all at
once: the orange floodlights, even the red aviation lamps that ran along the edge of
the pier. Strange. Could they be on a timer, or had they been doused deliberately?
A truck from a paper shredding company blasted its horn at an ambulette servicing
one of the nearby hospitals. While the drivers exchanged shouts and fingers in front
of the heliport, she momentarily lost sight of the area. When they cleared away,
everything seemed as before.
Five minutes away, close enough. She reached up to switch off the dome light before
she opened the car door and got out.
As a precaution, she walked half a block down the road to cross over beyond the
heliport’s line of sight. Keeping to the shadows, she arrived at the one-story
modular office-trailer for the helicopter operation. The building just fit beneath
the underbelly of the FDR, with about five feet of headroom to spare. The side
facing the road had no doors, only four unlit windows. She lowered her head as she
passed them and came to the north end of the structure, near the gate. Her vision
had adjusted enough to the darkness when she got there to see that the chain around
the gate now hung free. It had been popped, and the heavy-duty padlock swung at the
end of it, tapping lightly against steel pipe. She drew her gun and squeezed through
the opening.
The knob of the entrance door inside the gate wouldn’t turn, and a serious deadbolt
above it was likely engaged. There wasn’t enough light for her to see in the crack
if the brass tongue had been thrown. She moved on, inching forward, pressing herself
against the corrugated steel siding toward the landing area. She brought her service
weapon up to an isosceles brace and peered around that corner.
A fresh wind rolling down from Hell Gate blew across the blacktop helipad before
her. The only other sound to compete with Manhattan’s ubiquitous white noise of
traffic came from the lapping of the East River against the pilings. The area was
empty but for a single, parked helicopter occupying the space designed for five
choppers. Nylon tie-down straps held its rotors in place, although they rocked
slightly in the night air. The Sikorsky remained as it had landed, nose-in toward
the building, with its tail above the red and white striped curb that marked the
edge of the pier as a guide for pilots as they approached over the river. The craft
appeared every bit like a stealth bomber’s cousin at that moment: an ominous form,
pitch-black except for a faint glow coming from inside. Curiously, that glow was the
most foreboding thing on the pier. Because it beckoned to her in the darkness.