Along the drive she’d spot-checked the AM radio for updates on the hurricane. The latest report said Sandy had crossed Cuba as a Category Two with wind speeds of 114 miles per hour, causing the unconfirmed deaths of eleven people. The eye didn’t make landfall on Hispaniola, but, as it churned north, Sandy’s powerful swirl dumped twenty inches of rain and killed about fifty souls in Haiti. As of eight that morning, NOAA had tropical storm warnings out for southeast Florida, and the entire Eastern seaboard of the U.S. had started getting serious about disaster readiness.
When the newscaster said, “We go now, live, to a joint news conference with the mayor, the governor, and a commissioner of the Port Authority,” Nikki cranked up the volume. Hizzoner sounded like his usual easygoing self as he announced he had already opened his Office of Emergency Management Situation Room and that all city agencies were synergizing in response to the coming weather event. The governor cited regular discussions with FEMA and the president, who was monitoring the situation closely. The MTA was preparing to move buses and trains to higher ground in the next twenty-four hours. The mayor chimed in that citizens could also expect to see workers sand bagging subway entrances and fastening plywood over sidewalk ventilation grates to prevent flooding. That image gave Nikki her first visceral feeling about a storm that had seemed so abstract until then. And the feeling she got was not just of impact but something more portentous: inevitability.
A reporter asked the governor if the charges against Commissioner Gilbert would adversely impact readiness. The question was followed by a pressroom full of murmurs.
“I’ll answer that,” said Keith Gilbert. Heat pictured him stepping to the microphone, sparing the governor from a perilous moment. “Shortly after I was sworn in last July, well before anybody even knew about this storm, I led the Port Authority in a readiness drill, rehearsing for an emergency such as this. We did it in full-scale, war games style using JFK, Newark Liberty, and the Bayonne Bridge as venues. Three months ago. This is how we roll. We plan. We prepare. Now we execute.
“I am about to activate the PA’s Emergency Management Office,” Gilbert continued. “Our highly trained personnel continue to inspect all assets for readiness and function. Maritime and air terminals are stepping up precautions. Construction at the new World Trade Center is battening down. Also, with an anticipated landfall early next week, I am ordering that, this weekend, critical staff—and that includes Operations and PAPD—will all be working.” The room started yelling out questions all at once. He didn’t call on anyone. Instead, he delivered his sound bite.
“One more comment to more directly address the reporter’s question. Twenty-one years ago, an event called The Perfect Storm lashed the north Atlantic. Now, we see that disparate components could similarly be gathering, poised to fall into place and create a perfectly larger catastrophe. You know I’m a sailor. I am. A sailor who’s weathered all kinds of seas. Anyone who’s sailed with me knows one thing. I know how to keep my eye on what’s important. And to know a real storm from a passing squall.”
During his dramatic pause, Nikki shook her head and muttered, “Politicians.”
Just as she had two days before, Heat pushed the call buzzer outside the security gate at Cosmo, Keith Gilbert’s mansion on Beckett’s Neck in Southampton. Moments after, a voice she recognized asked, “Help you?”
“Danny, hi, this is Detective Heat from the NYPD. We met on Tuesday?”
“…Yeah?” he replied through the tinny speaker. From his detached tone she couldn’t tell if that meant “So what?” or “Yes, I recall.”
“Would you open, please? I have a search warrant.”
When he came out, Danny ogled the document like it was radioactive. His gaze lifted from it to Nikki and then over to Detective Sergeant Aguinaldo whose unmarked SUV was parked parallel to Heat’s Taurus. “This is kind of above my pay grade. Mind if I call Mr. G?”