Mike sounded so tentative that even Delahawk caught it. “Rather vague, Detective. I’m betting the chief of police himself might have come out in full uniform to stop the circus, if you had legal grounds. No warrant?”
“There’s an exception for an interstate vehicle traveling with land-roving mammals, sir. We’ve got joint jurisdiction with the ASPCA to board any moving conveyance en route out of the state. Ms. Cooper here is our legal expert. She’ll explain.”
“This isn’t even your state.” Delahawk’s expression combined his annoyance with a touch of humor, recognizing Mike’s effort at complete overreaching.
“Where are you off to this evening?” Mike asked.
“Providence, Detective. I can’t imagine you’d want to be the cause of such disappointment to all the children there.”
“Can’t get to Rhode Island without going through the Empire State. You kindly let us board right here, or you’ll be stopped by the police commissioner of the city when you cross over the Hell Gate Bridge.”
The old red span that arched above the deadliest current in the East River had been built as the New York Connecting Railroad Bridge, the only way to link trains from Manhattan to the mainland, and to the Northeast Corridor route that led to New England.
Fontaine Delahawk motioned to the teen who waited beside him and held out his hand as he put one foot back up on the wooden stool. He seemed to know the sound of brazen deceit when he heard one. “Have the proper papers, Detective. Will you do that?”
“May we have a moment, Mr. Delahawk?” I asked as Mercer approached us.
He turned to look as I spoke. “It’s almost five o’clock, young lady. Don’t play games with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. Where did your trip start, and how long ago?”
“Sarasota, Florida. That’s our home. We left last fall, if it helps you to know.”
“And did you travel through Georgia?”
“Yes. We played Atlanta, of course.”
“And you’d have dates? Exact locations the train parked?”
“Certainly. We have to make those arrangements far in advance.”
“And your performers, do they live on this train?” I asked, raising my arm to point at the length of this village on wheels.
“Our artists, our stage crew, our mechanics. Two hundred and fifty of us. This is home, my dear. We’re not gypsies or carnies. We’re serious working people and this is our home for the better part of a year.”
“I need to talk with the detectives, if you’ll allow me that, Mr. Delahawk. Perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind, to just give me five or six minutes.”
“More likely for you than for your mates, miss,” Delahawk said as the teenager assisted him back onto the platform.
“Thirty-five cars is what I counted,” Mercer said as the three of us took a few steps away from the train to talk. “Some with great big windows; looks like there are entire families living inside. Others are closed up, with scenery in them, maybe. Or animals.”
“What do you want me to do here, Coop? I’m fresh out of bullshit for Delahawk. He’s got that takes-one-to-know-one style.”
The whole picture of the killer, the combination of traits that fit his modus operandi was coming into focus for me. I kept my eyes on the locomotive and talked fast.
“Get me on that train, Mike. That’s all I’m asking you to do. This killer could fly, just like your winged man in that stained-glass window he led us to. Come with me and I’ll show you how.”
“Well, try again to cozy up to chubby old Fontaine, ’cause he ain’t buying my cruelty-to-animals angle. You got probable cause or anything close to it besides your green-eyed intuition?”
“I’ll sniff out probable cause. The smell of it on that cattle car is stronger than the stink of Secaucus,” I said. “Think about how the toddler found Naomi’s severed head in the church fountain. What drew her to it?”
Mercer was in my corner. “A child’s backpack. A bright yellow backpack with cartoon characters and smiley faces. Like you’d take to the circus.”
“Or buy at a concession stand. Or lose there in the crowd.”
Mike was still mulling the whole situation over.
“Delahawk’s probably glued to the second hand on his cheap watch while I try to twist your arm,” I said. “Go back to what Faith Grant described this morning. The man who stalked her went from walking behind her on the sidewalk of 122nd Street to coming directly at her—facing her—from across Claremont Avenue. He went up like a cat on