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Pops used to take me on train rides all the time, all over New York City and up and down the Hudson River. He was proud of being part of a system that moved millions of people every day. He told me to always be polite to the engineer and the conductor. They usually gave us a special nod when he flashed his MTA ID.
My train pulls into Grand Central and I follow the crowd to the main floor with its shiny gold clock and 125-foot-high ceiling mural illustrating the constellations of the zodiac.
I stop at the edge of the concourse and scan the people walking by. I see cops patrolling. I assume I’m watching for a Black man, since the texts came from “A Brother.” That’s all I know.
A young woman with locs falling over her shoulders stops in front of me like she’s about to ask for directions. She’s skinny and tall and can’t be more than nineteen or twenty.
“Looking for Brother?” she asks.
The expression on my face is all the confirmation she needs.
“Let’s go,” she says. With a strong stride, she crosses the terminal, turning back to make sure I’m behind her as she climbs the marble staircase on the west side of the concourse.
I hustle to keep up.
At the Vanderbilt entrance, a battered Hyundai is parked illegally, hazard lights flashing. Standing on the far side of the car is a Black man wearing a long tan coat, frayed at the collar. His eyes are darting left and right.
Is this the man behind the ominous texts? Is this Brother?
The young woman goes around to the driver’s side. I see her slip a folded bill into the man’s hand, and he leaves—she must have paid him to watch the car.
Guess that’s not Brother.
“Ride up front,” she says. “I’m not your Uber driver.”
She works her way through Midtown, then Hell’s Kitchen. When we’re in the northbound lane of the Henry Hudson Parkway, I ask, “Can you tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope.” Her eyes never waver from the traffic ahead.
She takes the 125th Street exit, and things start to look familiar.Veryfamiliar.
I don’t believe this. We’re heading for Jerome L. Greene Hall, a blocky building better known as “the Toaster.”
It’s the home of my alma mater Columbia Law. When I walk through the main door, powerful sense memories bring me back to when I first set foot in here.
We ride the elevator to the sixth floor, then I follow the young woman through a wide corridor. We stop abruptly in front of an office door I know well.
She leaves, and I step forward and knock beneath a plaque readingDR. CAMERON GRAHAM.
“Enter!” booms that familiar voice.
It’s him, all right. My old mentor. Also my tormentor and inquisitor. And a father figure after Pops died.
I push open the door, and there he is. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, Dr. Cameron Graham’s brown eyes are twinkling. Above his expressive face is a fringe of white hair.
“Brea Cooke,” he says, standing up with a broad smile. “It’s been too many years.” He must be in his seventies now and wearing the same outfit as always: black slacks, white shirt, blue necktie that’s tight to the collar.
“Dr. Graham, I’m glad to see you. But I’m not sure why I’m here.”
He turns serious. “Close the door,” he says softly, dropping his smile. “And call me Brother.”
CHAPTER
73
Concord, New Hampshire
Behind her desk at the New Hampshire Department of Safety, Detective Sergeant Marie Gagnon is rubbing her temples, frustrated by the meager contents of Suzanne Bonanno’s murder book.