Nico opened the door to pass into the next wagon. On the platform, which was like a small open vestibule, a man sat in a folding beach chair, looking at the scenic vista as we raced along the Hudson River.
We entered another dormitory-style car, and I scanned the names of the eight occupants as we hurried past.
Another platform and there was the brass nameplate, a more permanent fixture than in the other cars: FONTAINE DELAHAWK.
Nico faced the door and rang the buzzer.
Mike saw a chance to get around him, grabbed my hand, and pulled me in the direction of the next twenty-odd cars in the long train as we heard the deep voice of Delahawk ask who was at the door.
I looked over my shoulder as I ran behind Mike. Nico appeared to be stunned as he waited for Delahawk to open up for him. We were already through the rear of the car—a solo apartment—and into the next one.
Here the names were also illustrated by an amateur artist. The four suites seemed to hold the all-important costume designer and three performers who worked with animals.
“Keep running, Coop,” Mike said as he led the charge forward. “Let’s get as deep into the company—as many cars back as we can—before Delahawk lumbers along. We just need to talk to somebody. Anybody who’ll point us in the right direction, or tell us we’re off base.”
I paused to catch my breath. “We can’t be too far wrong, Mike. Kristin only called for Nico, only knocked on the wall to summon him, when you described our suspect. She was eating out of your hand till that very moment.”
We were on the move again, working our way back through the train. Three cars later, Mike stopped to adjust to the darkness as we entered another subterranean tunnel. We were crossing under the narrow strip of water that would take us east and out of Manhattan, into the Bronx, for the trip to New England.
I was leaning against the window and skimming the eight names on the whiteboard that faced me. One of them was familiar, not just because it was more American than the foreign surnames. I repeated it to myself silently, then said it aloud. “Bellin.”
“What?”
“That name. Bellin.”
“Yeah?”
“Daniel Gersh,” I said. “You told me to call his mother this morning.”
“So?” Mike was ready to move ahead. He pushed off from the wall.
“That’s her name now. Bellin. His stepfather is Lanny Bellin.”
Mike made an abrupt about-face and stepped in front of me to open the door to the suite of cubicles.
“It’s the fourth name on the list,” I said to him.
He counted three doors and banged his knuckles once on the fourth one, twisting the handle at the same time. I was at his shoulder, peering in.
Reclining on the single bed, listening to his iPod and looking almost as surprised as I did, was Naomi’s brother, Daniel Gersh.
FORTY-TWO
“THE elusive Daniel Gersh,” Mike said. “Aka Bellin.”
Gersh backed himself up into the corner of the bed and removed the earphones. “What do you want?”
“I know you told us you were going to take acting classes in the fall, but somehow I didn’t figure you for clown school.”
“I’m not—”
“A real Pagliacci, huh? A homicidal clown. Great act to take on the road, Daniel.”
There was a crackling noise overhead and I could see a small speaker in the ceiling, next to a recessed light fixture.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” There was a cough as the person cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, good evening. This is Fontaine. I need your attention for a moment.”
“You’re out of your mind, Detective. You got this all wrong,” Daniel said.
“It would appear that two officers of the New York Police Department have joined us for the next leg of our trip. This is no cause for alarm. None at all. I’d ask that you all stay in your rooms for the next hour or so. We will of course keep the Pie Car open later into the evening. Do not—I repeat—”
“Make it right for me,” Mike said. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Tell me about your friend and what cubicle he’s holed up in, Daniel.”
“Do not have any conversation with these officers,” Delahawk continued. “I suggest you keep your doors locked and do not have any conversation with them, nor answer any of their questions.”
“What are my rights?” Daniel asked, looking at me for an answer. “I’ve got rights, don’t I?”