thousand cops has jurisdiction in the terminal.
In a world where bureaucracy trumps geography, Grand Central has been designated the responsibility of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority Police, and MTA cops work for New York State.
“You realize we got no juice here in Grand Central,” Rice said as he parked the car in front of a hydrant on 43rd Street.
“I make my own juice,” Benzetti said. “Especially when a bunch of crazy Russians are up our asses. If we don’t find the diamonds, they’ll just decide that we took them, and they’ll ice us the same way they put away Zelvas.”
They entered through the Vanderbilt Avenue doors and stood on the West Balcony under a trio of sixty-foot-high arch windows.
“It looks like everything’s back to normal,” Rice said, looking out over the marble balcony at the vast concourse below.
“Except for the beefed-up security,” Benzetti said.
“I know. I counted five Staties when we came through the door,” Rice said. “Normally, there’s one.”
Benzetti grinned. “Nervous times.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Central Security Office. Lower level.” Benzetti checked his watch. “I got a friend working this shift.”
The two cops walked down the sweeping marble staircase, crossed the concourse, passed the circular marble-and-brass information pagoda with its famous four-sided clock, and went down another flight of stairs to the dining concourse.
They made their way through the food court, where Brother Jimmy’s, Zaro’s, Junior’s, and more than a dozen other celebrated New York food institutions had taken up residence underground, then down a ramp till they got to a door that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Benzetti rang a bell and flashed his badge at a camera, and the two of them were buzzed in.
“NYPD,” he said to the sullen-faced MTA cop at the front desk. “I’m looking for Sergeant Black.”
The cop eyeballed the shield, nodded, checked a directory, and dialed a four-digit number.
“Be right out,” the cop mumbled.
Five minutes later, a tall, attractive African-American woman with three stripes on the sleeves of her uniform came out and threw her arms around Benzetti.
“I know this ain’t no social call,” she said, stepping back from the hug.
“Baby, you know me. I don’t need backup for social calls,” Benzetti said. “This is my partner, John Rice. John, this is Kylie Black.”
They shook hands and Kylie escorted the two men inside. The grandeur and the classic beauty that made the building an architectural landmark was nowhere to be found in the command center. Whatever charm the space may have had when it was built more than a century ago had been painted or plastered over. What remained was an uninspired sterile cavern with fluorescent lighting, banks of monitors, and rows of people at desks and consoles doing their damnedest to keep an eye on every one of the six hundred thousand people who passed through the terminal every day.
“What can the MTA do for New York’s finest,” Kylie said, letting her tongue gently glide across her upper lip, “that we haven’t done already?”
“I hate to bother you,” Benzetti said, “but we need to look at some of America’s Funniest Home Videos from Tuesday night.”
“The bombing?” Black said. “We’ve already run the tapes for the NYPD, FBI, Immigration, Homeland Security—you name it. We’ve had everyone looking at that bomb blast except for the fat lady who runs the food stamps program.”
“We’re not here about the bombing,” Benzetti said. “Some reporter from the Post was mugged Tuesday night by some homeless prick who’s taking up residence in your lovely train station.”
“Mugged?” Kylie said. “First I heard about it. Usually our wretched refuse are pretty well behaved. They come here to sleep and use the toilets. The bus terminal is where you get most of your muggings. Grand Central is the home of the harmless homeless.”
“Well,
In a world where bureaucracy trumps geography, Grand Central has been designated the responsibility of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority Police, and MTA cops work for New York State.
“You realize we got no juice here in Grand Central,” Rice said as he parked the car in front of a hydrant on 43rd Street.
“I make my own juice,” Benzetti said. “Especially when a bunch of crazy Russians are up our asses. If we don’t find the diamonds, they’ll just decide that we took them, and they’ll ice us the same way they put away Zelvas.”
They entered through the Vanderbilt Avenue doors and stood on the West Balcony under a trio of sixty-foot-high arch windows.
“It looks like everything’s back to normal,” Rice said, looking out over the marble balcony at the vast concourse below.
“Except for the beefed-up security,” Benzetti said.
“I know. I counted five Staties when we came through the door,” Rice said. “Normally, there’s one.”
Benzetti grinned. “Nervous times.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Central Security Office. Lower level.” Benzetti checked his watch. “I got a friend working this shift.”
The two cops walked down the sweeping marble staircase, crossed the concourse, passed the circular marble-and-brass information pagoda with its famous four-sided clock, and went down another flight of stairs to the dining concourse.
They made their way through the food court, where Brother Jimmy’s, Zaro’s, Junior’s, and more than a dozen other celebrated New York food institutions had taken up residence underground, then down a ramp till they got to a door that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Benzetti rang a bell and flashed his badge at a camera, and the two of them were buzzed in.
“NYPD,” he said to the sullen-faced MTA cop at the front desk. “I’m looking for Sergeant Black.”
The cop eyeballed the shield, nodded, checked a directory, and dialed a four-digit number.
“Be right out,” the cop mumbled.
Five minutes later, a tall, attractive African-American woman with three stripes on the sleeves of her uniform came out and threw her arms around Benzetti.
“I know this ain’t no social call,” she said, stepping back from the hug.
“Baby, you know me. I don’t need backup for social calls,” Benzetti said. “This is my partner, John Rice. John, this is Kylie Black.”
They shook hands and Kylie escorted the two men inside. The grandeur and the classic beauty that made the building an architectural landmark was nowhere to be found in the command center. Whatever charm the space may have had when it was built more than a century ago had been painted or plastered over. What remained was an uninspired sterile cavern with fluorescent lighting, banks of monitors, and rows of people at desks and consoles doing their damnedest to keep an eye on every one of the six hundred thousand people who passed through the terminal every day.
“What can the MTA do for New York’s finest,” Kylie said, letting her tongue gently glide across her upper lip, “that we haven’t done already?”
“I hate to bother you,” Benzetti said, “but we need to look at some of America’s Funniest Home Videos from Tuesday night.”
“The bombing?” Black said. “We’ve already run the tapes for the NYPD, FBI, Immigration, Homeland Security—you name it. We’ve had everyone looking at that bomb blast except for the fat lady who runs the food stamps program.”
“We’re not here about the bombing,” Benzetti said. “Some reporter from the Post was mugged Tuesday night by some homeless prick who’s taking up residence in your lovely train station.”
“Mugged?” Kylie said. “First I heard about it. Usually our wretched refuse are pretty well behaved. They come here to sleep and use the toilets. The bus terminal is where you get most of your muggings. Grand Central is the home of the harmless homeless.”
“Well,
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