The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [43]
“Speak for yourself,” I shoot back. “I’m done with the money. I’m just worried that when push comes to shove, we’re going to be knee-deep in he said/we said.”
“Well, let me tell you something, if we were, he’d be a moron. I mean, the way everything’s set up, we couldn’t have done this on our own. Even Shep knows that. So if he starts pointing the finger at us, it’s clear we have plenty of his own fingerprints to point at him. Besides, it’s not like we have a choice—he’s our only man on the inside.”
Once again, I fall silent. He’s on the money with that one. When it comes to the big picture, there’s still a ton of information we’re missing. And right now, as we cross 42nd Street and quickly approach the brass-and-glass doors of Grand Central Station, there’s only one place we can get it.
“You ready?” Charlie asks, pulling open the door and bowing butler-style. He’s watching me closely, checking to see if I’ll hesitate.
I stop at the threshold, but only for a second. Before he can issue the challenge, I step inside without looking back.
“Now we’re talking,” he croons.
“C’mon,” I call out, daring him to keep up. From the silence alone, I know what he’s thinking. He can’t tell if the bravery’s real, or I’m just anxious to get some answers. Either way, as I turn around to check the look on his face, it’s clear he’s thrilled.
For the first few steps, we’re running through a low-ceiling, claustrophobic subway tunnel. Then—like that moment when your car pulls out of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and all of Manhattan stands wide-open in front of you—we take our first step into the light… the ceiling rises up, up, up… and the enormous, marble-covered Main Concourse of Grand Central Station appears. Craning his neck up, Charlie can’t help but stare at the seventy-five-foot arched windows along the left wall, and the blue-and-white zodiac mural that decorates the vaulted ceiling.
According to the clock at the center of the station, we only have about three minutes. I turn back to Charlie as I run. “What’s the easiest way to—”
“Follow me,” he interrupts, excitedly taking the lead. I may’ve heard of where we’re going, but I’ve never been there myself. This place is all Charlie’s. With me barely a step behind, he makes a sharp left, weaves through the bottlenecked crowd of commuters and tourists, and races full speed toward one of dozens of stairs that lead to the station’s lower level.
“Nice and easy now,” I say, tugging on his shirt to slow him down on the stairs. I don’t want to make a scene.
Yeah, like anyone’s watching, he says with a raised eyebrow.
Leaping down the last three steps, Charlie lands with a thwack, his shoes smacking against the concrete floor. His feet have to sting in his dress shoes, but he doesn’t say a word. He hates I-told-you-so.
“Where now?” I ask, quickly catching up.
Without answering, Charlie takes off through the lower level of the station, which these days, is now just another food court. Charlie’s nose follows the whiff of heat-lamped fries, but his eyes are glued to a left-pointing arrow at the base of a vintage-tiled sign: “To Tracks 100–117.”
“And away we go,” Charlie says.
Up the hallway, we’ve got the food court on our left and turn-of-the-old-century track entrances on our right. I count the doorways as we go. 108… 109… 110. At the far end of the hall, I quickly spot the rabbithole—Tracks 116 and 117.
Darting through a door, we’re at the top of a tall staircase, looking down at the wide concrete platform. True to form, there’s a train pulled into Track 116 on the right side of the platform. On the left, though—on 117—there’s no chance that a train’s coming. Not now. Not ever. Simply put, Track 117 doesn’t officially exist. Sure, the space is there, but it’s not an active track. Instead, for the past ten years, it’s been filled with a long row of prefab construction trailers.
“This is where you used to play?” I ask as we stare at two construction workers through a lit window in the trailer.
“No…” he answers,