James Patterson is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. Among his creations are some of the world’s most popular series, including Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett and the Private novels. He has written many other number one bestsellers including collaborations with President Bill Clinton and Dolly Parton, stand-alone thrillers and non-fiction. James has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops and has been the most borrowed adult author in UK libraries for the past fourteen years in a row. He lives in Florida with his family.
James O. Born is an award-winning crime and science-fiction novelist as well as a career law- enforcement agent. A native Flor idian, he still lives in the Sunshine State.
Why everyone loves James Patterson and Detective
Michael Bennett
‘Its breakneck pace leaves you gasping for breath. Packed with typical Patterson panache . . . it won’t disappoint.’
Daily Mail
It’s no mystery why James Patterson is the world’s most popular thriller writer. Simply put: Nobody does it better.’
Jeffery Deaver
‘No one gets this big without amazing natural storytelling talent – which is what Jim has, in spades.’
Lee Child
‘James Patterson is the gold standard by which all others are judged.’
Steve Berry
‘Patterson boils a scene down to the single, telling detail, the element that defines a character or moves a plot along. It’s what fires off the movie projector in the reader’s mind.’
Michael Connelly
‘James Patterson is The Boss. End of.’
Ian Rankin
PERSONNEL FILE
Detective MICHAEL BENNETT
6 foot 3 inches (191cm) 200 pounds (91kg)
Irish American
EMPLOYMENT
Bennett joined the police force to uncover the truth at all costs. He started his career in the Bronx's 49th Precinct. He then transferred to the NYPD's Major Case Squad and remained there until he moved to the Manhattan North Homicide Squad.
EDUCATION
Bennett graduated from Regis High School and studied philosophy at Manhattan College.
FAMILY HISTORY
Bennett was previously married to Maeve, who worked as a nurse on the trauma ward at Jacobi Hospital in the Bronx. However, Maeve died tragically young after losing a battle with cancer in December 2007, leaving Bennett to raise their ten adopted children: Chrissy, Shawna, Trent, Eddie, twins Fiona and Bridget, Ricky, Brian, Jane and Juliana.
Following Maeve's death, over time Bennett grew closer to the children's nanny, Mary Catherine. After years of onoff romance, Bennett and Mary Catherine decided to commit to one another, and now happily raise the family together. Also in the Bennett household is his Irish grandfather, Seamus, who is a Catholic priest.
PROFILE :
Bennett is an expert in hostage negotiation, terrorism, homicide and organiZed crime. He will stop at nothing to get the job done and protect the city and the people he loves, even if this means disobeying orders and ignoring protocol. Despite these unorthodox methods, he is a relentless, determined and in many ways incompArable detective.
L O N G I S L A N D
A list of titles by James Patterson appears at the back of this book
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CHAPTER 1
RALPH STEIN TRIED to swallow. His throat was too dry. He’d been in tight spots before, but nothing like this. He needed to buy time. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with it, but the longer he kept this guy’s attention, the greater the chance that he might get out of this. Or so he hoped.
Ralph cast a reassuring look over at Gary Halverson. But Gary was past the point of reassurance. Sweat poured down his face, making his thin hair stick to his forehead. The gray stubble on his chin glistened with perspiration.
“This isn’t necessary,” Ralph said to the guy.
“I agree,” the tall man with close-cropped brown hair mumbled. The guy looked pretty calm to Ralph. A real pro.
Ralph tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but it didn’t work.
“I can get some cash. I can give you more money than whoever’s paying you to do this.”
“Not about the money.” The man checked the two propane tanks he’d placed right in front of Gary and Ralph, and the cord he’d used to secure their hands to kitchen chairs. He showed no emotion and no real interest in chatting with Ralph.
Ralph figured both the cord and the timer were made of some kind of non-synthetic material that would burn away and leave no evidence. He looked around the kitchen. The walls were decorated with photographs and cartoons of sharks. Ralph’s favorite was a cartoon of a shark in an NYPD uniform. A street artist had drawn it for him when he was a patrol officer in Times Square. His eyes fell on the crayon portrait that his sister’s little granddaughter had drawn for him. She was an absolute doll. Ralph caught the sob before it came out.
“How’d you know about us? Who sent you?” Ralph figured there were plenty of people who could’ve sent the guy, but why would anyone bother to track him down in Florida now? “C’mon, I can tell by that weird-looking timer you’re fi xing to those propane tanks that you’re no ordinary street hood. You have to know Gary and I were both cops. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
The man, who looked to be in his late thirties, stopped his work and sighed. He turned and said in a quiet voice, “It does mean something. Thank you for your service. Now please stop talking. This is a done deal. You’re kinda bumming me out.”
Ralph perked up. “You’re from Brooklyn, right? I never miss an accent. Especially from back home.”
The man continued working, ignoring Ralph.
Ralph kept it up. “Were you in the military? In World War II, Brooklyn led the country in recruits. Not so much these days.
New York has fallen off as a supplier of soldiers.” He looked at the man, hoping to spark some conversation. He got nothing.
The man fi nished adjusting a small green-and-brown device attached to one of the propane tanks. Then he looked up at Ralph and put his fi nger to his lips, prompting him to keep quiet.
Ralph tried to think things through. The man was probably thirty years younger than him. He was in shape and carried a Beretta 9mm. When he’d knocked on the door of Ralph’s little two-bedroom rental house in Hollywood Beach, Ralph had figured him to be a tourist looking to fi nd a bridge back over to town, or maybe the easiest way to get down to Miami. That was his fi rst mistake. He’d lost his edge in his old age.
Gary said, “I already sent the email, Ralph. Considering what the doctors said, I’m no worse off.”
One of the fi rst things the man had done after he’d pulled the gun was to make Gary write a good-bye email to his niece. Now Ralph watched as the man pulled the keyboard away from the computer on the kitchen counter and tossed it out the front door.
Ralph mumbled, “What the hell?”
Gary snorted. “It’s the difference in assignments. You did most of your time in narcotics, Ralph. I did a stint in homicide. He’s got my fi ngerprints on the keyboard. They’ll ID me from that. He tossed it outside like it was blown there by the blast. It’s pretty inventive, if I do say so myself.”
The man looked up and nodded at Gary. Just a little sign of respect. He pressed a plunger on the little gadget he’d attached to the propane tank on the right. Then he turned the knob on each tank until they could all hear the hiss of the escaping propane.
Then the man was gone. Silently and gracefully ducked out the open door and disappeared.
Ralph prayed the asshole didn’t know his sister, Rachel, lived right down the street. She didn’t need to be involved in this foolishness. When he thought about it for a moment, he realized he hadn’t needed to be involved in it either.
CHAPTER 2
RACHEL
STEIN CONNORS liked to stroll down the boardwalk on Hollywood Beach in the afternoons with her two grandchildren to visit her big brother, who’d moved into a little house nearby about a year ago. Ralph had spent eight years telling her he was going to retire from the NYPD and move to Florida. Now that he’d fi nally done it, she made sure to see him every day. Even though he was twelve years older than her, he was a great big brother. He deserved the best retirement in the world.
As Rachel walked, she held the hands of her five-year- old grandson and three-and-a-half-year- old granddaughter. They were both excited to visit Uncle Ralph’s house, with all the cool drawings and photos of sharks he had up on his wall. Suddenly, the little girl froze and scooted behind her grandmother’s sundress. Rachel looked up and saw a golden retriever being walked by a young woman. “It’s okay, sweetheart, he’s on a
leash,” she said in a soft voice. The little girl had recently conflated things overheard from a news report about a dog who’d mauled a girl in the Broward County town of Miramar, and she’d decided all dogs were dangerous.
The woman paused, realizing that the little girl was scared, and pulled her dog close. She encouraged the children to pet him, reassuring them that her dog was friendly. Rachel went with it, hoping it might be a way to cure her granddaughter’s phobia, and was pleasantly surprised when both kids started to pat the dog gently. As the woman leaned down, Rachel spotted her brother’s house across state road A1A, over the woman’s shoulder.
She saw the flash a moment before she felt the explosion. She heard it too, but the visceral shock to her system was from the blast wave. The entire house seemed to burst at once.
Rachel fell to the sidewalk, still staring at her brother’s home, now engulfed in flames. As soon as she gathered her senses, she reached out and grabbed both of her grandchildren. She turned them away from the scene just as she started to feel heat from the quickly spreading fi re.
People on the beach were shouting. A blue Mazda, going south on A1A, swerved into an unoccupied bus bench. Everyone seemed to have their phones out, either taking photos or calling 911.
Rachel fl inched as more noises came from inside the house. Nothing at all like the initial blast, but loud pops and crackles. Two thoughts hit her at the same time. Her brother was dead. And if this woman hadn’t stopped to let the kids pet her dog, they all would be dead too.
Then she started to cry.
CHAPTER 3
I WASN’T USED to wearing a tie. It was one of those things I didn’t have to worry about in my day-to-day life. Unfortunately, I was about to attend a funeral. A cop’s funeral. A retired cop who’d died too soon. I guess that’s how we feel about anyone we like and respect who passes. Lou Sanvos had spent most of his career as a detective in narcotics. Like a lot of people, I lost touch with Lou after he retired about ten years ago.
The Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church on West 91st looked like something out of a Gothic literary story. Tucked in the middle of Manhattan, the stone walls and tower seemed somewhat out of place. And although I’d passed it about a million times in my life, this was the fi rst time I’d ever been inside. It somehow seemed more solemn than Holy Name, the Catholic church my family attended.
There were about 150 people here, a decent crowd for a guy
who’d retired almost a decade ago. I’d brought my new twentyfour-year- old partner, Rob Trilling, with me. He was having a hard time making contacts within the department, mainly because he was so quiet, and also because he was technically still on temporary assignment to Manhattan North Homicide. He couldn’t work a case solo yet. Currently, he was helping Detective Terri Hernandez with an investigation involving a gang responsible for at least two recent homicides. I figured there’d be a few people at this funeral still on the job who I could introduce him to. Besides, I liked having Trilling around. He was entertaining, quirky and unpredictable.
As we slipped into a pew near the rear of the church, I turned to Trilling and said, “You said you were a little weird, and that you like funerals. What do you think of this one so far?”
The young man almost smiled. I’d realized by now that Trilling wasn’t as gloomy and brooding as he often seemed. “I don’t necessarily like funerals, Bennett,” Trilling said. “I like the traditions and rituals. Back in Montana, I was in school with some kids from the Blackfeet Nation. When one of their own died, they had four days of mourning. And also cut their hair short to show that they were grieving. That kind of stuff impresses you as a kid.”
“After a funeral like this, we usually hold a wake at a bar and tell stories about the departed. That’s the NYPD tradition.”
Trilling said, “My grandfather always said that going to a funeral is the one thing that you can never expect any repayment for. The deceased can’t return the favor and come to your funeral. It’s sort of an act of good faith and respect. I always thought that was a good way to look at funerals.”
We watched silently as an honor guard marched down the center aisle of the church.
Trilling leaned in close and said, “I know Sanvos died in a car accident. What happened?”
I kept my voice low as a decidedly non- Catholic priest started to speak at the pulpit. I said, “Lou retired to White Plains to be near his kids. I heard he lost control of his car somehow and drove right through the front window of a store. The car caught fi re. Ironically, the store he crashed into was a fi re equipment and safety store.”
“It looks like he was popular. I’ve been to funerals with only three or four people in attendance.” Trilling looked around at the turnout.
“Aside from a long career in the NYPD, Lou did a lot for youth groups, especially in the Bronx. He really felt like the key to solving the gun crisis, as well as crime in general, was to provide kids with a safe place to grow up with decent role models. He focused on the worst neighborhoods that got the fewest resources.”
Trilling mumbled, “I can see why you two were friends.”
That might’ve been the nicest thing my young partner had ever said to me.
CHAPTER 4
AFTER THE SHORT, official reception at the parish house of the church, I dragged Trilling to the Irish Rose, one of Lou’s favorite pubs. As soon as we stepped through the old wooden doorway, it was like entering another universe. The place was absolutely packed. Most of the people who’d attended the funeral were there, plus a bunch of cops just getting off shift, some still in uniform. There was a certain subdued rowdiness that Lou would’ve appreciated. The Saturday afternoon atmosphere magnified the emotions.
I nodded to half a dozen people as we walked through the crowded pub. Somehow we found a couple of stools at the far end of the bar. Without even asking, a stout bartender with a fancy curled mustache set down two Guinnesses in front of us.
A short, balding Black man with thick glasses crawled up onto a table and started banging a metal tray with a serving spoon. I
turned toward Trilling and said, “That’s Dave Sharp. One of the truly great guys in the NYPD.”
Sharp waited for everyone’s attention. “I’ll let you get back to drinking soon enough. I just wanted to remind everyone why we’re here. Lou Sanvos will never be forgotten in this town. His support for youth centers is unparalleled. Lou’s wife, Margaret, tells me she’s fine financially and that any money people might want to donate should go to Lou’s favorite cause: helping young people.
“I’m going to pass around the bucket, and anyone who feels like it can throw in a few bucks. We’ll split it between the two youth centers in the Bronx Lou worked so hard to build.”
Someone came up and tugged on Dave Sharp’s sleeve. He leaned down, then turned to the crowd and said, “And even though it’s not official, let’s not forget our own Celeste Cantor, who’ll be retiring soon and running for New York City Council. We’re hoping that’s just a stepping stone to bigger and better things.” That comment got a loud round of applause as Inspector Celeste Cantor — an attractive fi ftysomething woman dressed in a dark-blue pantsuit and not her usual uniform with more ribbons and medals than a nineteenth-century Bavarian count — stood up and waved to everyone in the bar.
Trilling said, “Cops can run for political office?”
“You have to retire fi rst. If she’s half as good a City Council member as she is a cop, we’ll all be in better shape soon.”
Cantor smiled when she noticed me at the corner of the bar. She pointed directly at me and started marching in my direction, fending off a few people trying to corner her as she approached.
After she gave me a hug, I introduced her to Rob Trilling. Cantor smiled and said, “We’ve both come a long way from patrol work in the Bronx, haven’t we, Mike?”
I turned to Trilling and said, “Inspector Cantor was part of a narcotics squad when she was a lowly sergeant. They called themselves the Land Sharks, after an old Saturday Night Live skit. It only took a couple of months before every dealer in the city took notice and worried about ‘the Sharks’ coming onto their turf. Even the commissioner referred to them as ‘the Sharks’ during a news conference.”
“And now I’m about to be cast out to sea.”
“If you’re running for City Council, I call that catching a wave.”
Cantor laughed. “As tough and dangerous as police work can be, I think I still prefer it to politics.”
I raised my glass of Guinness and said, “Hear, hear.”
Trilling turned and stared at me, so I quickly said, “Sorry — the Irish pub got in my brain.” I turned back to Cantor. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
A crooked smile, the result of a broken jaw from a protester, spread across her face. “As a matter of fact, I do have something you could help me with.”
I already regretted making the offer.
CHAPTER 5
KEVIN DOYLE HAD sat almost in the middle of the church during the service. He felt completely anonymous among the waves of cops and family mourning their loved one. He wore a simple blue suit. He could’ve been a piece of furniture, for all he was noticed. Doyle knew all about their loved one. He’d done his research. Lou Sanvos had gone to Hofstra on the GI Bill after he got out of the Army. After graduating, he’d decided to join the NYPD. It felt like Sanvos had done more for young people in the Bronx than all of the politicians in the whole city. That was a sort of activity Doyle respected. And it was that reputation that had made killing Lou Sanvos so upsetting.
Doyle’s dad used to say, “We need to do more for the community because too many people do nothing.” Doyle had joined the Army because of his dad’s civic sense. And now Doyle had
eliminated one of the few people who did more than their share.
Doyle had planned it perfectly. The light traffic up in White Plains had made him feel exposed, but the higher speed limit on the outskirts of town allowed Lou Sanvos to go fast enough for Doyle to tap the front bumper of Sanvos’s Lincoln Continental with his stolen Ford. Physics did the rest. After Sanvos’s car slammed into some kind of safety supply store, Doyle had been prepared to stop and fi nish off his target, but when he saw the fi re, he knew his job was done.
Doyle remained seated in the church as the service concluded, taking in the architecture and traditions. A young Greek Orthodox priest, dressed in a traditional white cassock for funerals, paused at the end of the aisle and looked at him.
“Are you all right, my son?”
Doyle nodded. He didn’t need anyone remembering him. “Just getting ready to light a candle for Lou.”
“That’s very thoughtful. We’re also collecting money for the youth centers Mr. Sanvos helped create. The donation box is up front.”
Doyle nodded to the priest as he stood up. The shrapnel in his left knee sent a quick spike of pain through his body. It happened so often he was surprised he still noticed it. Maybe it was judgment. If it was some kind of punishment, it wasn’t enough.
The priest said, “Are you in this parish?”
“No, Father, I’m Catholic. Just here for the funeral.”
“Are you a police officer?”
Doyle smiled and shook his head. “Not even close.”
He turned toward the main entrance to the church, where he stopped and lit a candle for Lou’s soul. Then he dug a twenty out
of his pocket and slipped it into the donation box the priest had mentioned.
Outside, the fresh air felt good on his face. He looked up at the gathering clouds and decided to head back to his hotel. He’d worry about any messages later. He’d done enough for the cause this week.
CHAPTER 6
CELESTE CANTOR MOVED through the crowd like a great white shark. No pun intended. She was graceful and smooth, and anyone who noticed her got out of the way immediately.
I left Trilling at the bar and followed behind her like a remora. She certainly wasn’t cold or menacing. She stopped and talked to a couple of people as we worked our way to an empty table in a corner.
An old-time narcotics detective gave Cantor a hug. He said, “Did you hear about Tabitha Arnold? She died from carbon monoxide after she got drunk and passed out in her kitchen with her car running in the garage.”
Cantor nodded. “And I just heard Ralph Stein and Gary Halverson both committed suicide down in Florida.”
The retired narcotics detective shook his head and looked down at the floor. “I heard. I knew Gary had advanced lung
cancer. I just can’t believe they’d use propane tanks to blow themselves up.”
It was a shock to hear from a credible source about the retired detectives, longtime associates who’d started as patrol partners. Police suicides were becoming an epidemic.
Cantor continued to make her way through the crowded pub, graciously accepting congratulations from a half dozen people on her imminent retirement. A few people also wished her luck in her campaign.
It felt like forever, but we fi nally reached a quiet table in the corner. Cantor sat right next to me and leaned in close so no one would overhear our conversation.
She said, “You heard about Ralph Stein and Gary Halverson. And poor Tabitha Arnold. Now we have Lou Sanvos. We all know the statistics on police deaths. But for four retired cops to die this close together . . . makes me a little nervous. They were all members of the Land Sharks. Sooner or later, you start to see a pattern.” She reached over and squeezed my arm. “I was hoping you’d come to the wake, Mike. You’re one of the few people I really trust.”
I saw where she was going but kept my mouth shut. No way I wanted to volunteer for something. I was going to make her say it out loud.
She looked me in the eye and said, “I want you to look at these deaths. But quietly. Just you on it for now. I don’t want to start a panic. I can get you a special assignment. You can report only to me. What do you think?”
I didn’t want to speak too quickly. I considered several options. Then I said, “I’m not sure why we need to keep it quiet. A little coverage might help flush out information, if there’s anything to it.”
“That’s where personal and public interests overlap. Obviously, it’s no secret I’m running for City Council. If these deaths turn out to be something other than what they appear, it’ll look bad for me on the campaign trail that I didn’t catch it. This is the sort of thing that falls directly under me as an inspector. But if I have you look into things, and if it turns out to be more than random deaths, I look proactive in having recruited you to solve them. You’re the best homicide detective out there. Hands down. No one will question me about these deaths if they know I assigned you the investigation.”
I appreciated her honesty about how this could affect her campaign. She was also right. These deaths alarmed me and deserved to be investigated.
I slowly nodded. “I’ve got some time. But I don’t need to be reassigned to you. Harry Grissom is on vacation. I’m the acting supervisor on the squad. I should be able to cover this without drawing too much attention.”
Cantor patted me on the arm. “I knew I could count on you. As I get closer to my retirement date, I fi nd I have less and less time for real police work. As I said, you’re one of the few people I trust to do it for me. I’ll get you some reports to read over the weekend so you can get a head start.”
Just as I was about to temper her expectations, Cantor stood up to greet a well-wisher. Whether it was official or not, she was already on the campaign trail.
CHAPTER 7
I GOT HOME a little earlier than usual, but I now had on my iPad copies of police reports from White Plains and Hollywood, Florida, along with a report from the Westchester County Medical Examiner. My initial look through the details of these retired cops’ deaths told me that the investigating detectives hadn’t suspected anything beyond either suicide or accidental causes.
I made it all the way to the kitchen before any of my kids even noticed I was home. Chrissy jumped up from her homework to give me a hug. Jane, who was walking out of the kitchen, gave me a gentle pat on the belly. At least it was better than the stern look my teenager often threw my way these days.
Trent sat at the opposite end of the dining room table, doing his own homework. I leaned in as a concerned parent, willing to offer assistance.
“Whatcha working on?”
“Algebra.”
I tried not to recoil too violently. I patted my son on his shoulder, mumbled, “Good luck,” and eased my way into the living room. Ricky and Eddie were playing a video game from the couch. The rest of the kids had to be around here somewhere.
I took notice of my wife, Mary Catherine, sitting on a lounge chair on our balcony. She wasn’t typically one for “lounging” during the day. In fact, I could easily imagine Mary Catherine calling an Army general too soft for giving his soldiers an hour off during a combat tour. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. But maybe it’s not.
The fl ip side was that, as exacting as her standards could be, Mary Catherine was also the kindest and most loving wife and mother imaginable. Though we were technically still newlyweds, for the better part of a decade now she’d been acting as mother to the ten children I’d adopted with my late fi rst wife. And now we were embarking on a brand-new experience for the both of us, being in the early months of expecting an eleventh child after a grueling IVF process.
The more I thought about a new baby around the house, the more terrifying it became. I’d never considered having ten kids a huge challenge. We had fun. We worked well together. And now that a couple of the kids were older, life had gotten a lot easier for me. I didn’t know why I kept thinking adding one more would drive me over the edge. I calmed myself down and tried looking at it from a different perspective.
I had to admit the idea of a smiling infant held a lot of appeal. I loved a baby’s laughter. I wanted this baby every bit as much as Mary Catherine did. The kids were on board as well.
I went to the balcony and leaned down to kiss her hello, taking a moment to look at her. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Just a little tired. I thought I should get off my feet for a few moments. What about you? How was the funeral?”
I shrugged. That’s like asking how someone enjoyed their visit to the dentist. Most people don’t like funerals. Unless you’re Rob Trilling, who was a little odd. I said, “I might’ve agreed to do something for Celeste Cantor.”
“Something like an investigation, or something like maintenance around her apartment?”
Mary Catherine’s Irish accent made most things sound cheerful and funny. Basically, any time she told a joke, I laughed out loud. This time was no exception. I shook my head. “It’s not a big deal. I should be able to clear it up before Harry gets back from vacation.”
Mary Catherine smiled. “It’s hard to think of Lieutenant Harry Grissom actually leaving the job for a few weeks to visit a beach in the Caribbean. I’m glad you’ve always recognized there is a whole world outside of the NYPD. Of course, Harry never had any kids, so he doesn’t understand how much time a real family can take.”
“He knows how much time a wife can take. He’s already experimented with those three times,” I said. Then I added, “This vacation might have something to do with Lois Frang, the Brooklyn Democrat reporter he met during the sniper investigation. She seems nice.”
Mary Catherine giggled and sat up in the lounger. I gave her a hand, helping her to her feet. She used the opportunity to give me a hug. We walked into the living room together.
I saw both Ricky and Eddie immediately set down their
video-game controllers. They never did anything like that when I walked into a room. Mary Catherine was defi nitely influencing these kids.
As we started toward the dining room, I noticed a hitch in Mary Catherine’s step. Then she started to sag. I reached to support her at the elbow, guiding her toward the recliner. Just as Mary Catherine plopped into the chair, she was out. I mean fullout unconscious.
Commotion brewed around me. Jane stepped in from the dining room to see what was going on. She immediately took control of the other children and started barking orders like a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever experienced panic like this before. I had to get Mary Catherine to the hospital. Now.
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS NOT long after dark. Rob Trilling was feeling a little worn-out from the funeral and meeting so many people. But he still had commitments. He’d been helping Terri Hernandez out on one of her cases, a series of homicides, including one in Manhattan North’s jurisdiction. Now he sat in the passenger seat of a city-issued Ford Explorer, looking through binoculars at a warehouse. Some people called it a “clubhouse.” Nice way to spend a Saturday evening.
From the driver’s seat, Terri Hernandez said, “It’s getting late. We’ll give it another ten minutes, but I have a birthday party for my younger sister I’m not going to miss. She’s dating a big, goofy white guy who loves the band Kiss. I don’t want to miss his official introduction to my father.”
Trilling didn’t answer. They’d been watching people come and go from this building for a couple of hours. Informants said
members of this gang they were currently surveilling were responsible for the deaths of two rival gang members, whose bodies had washed up in the East River.
The gang had turned from street-level drug sales to importing cocaine and heroin. A smart move. Less exposure and higher profits, if more hassle. It looked like the two dead men had been trying to do the same thing.
All he and Hernandez were doing now was figuring out who was a member of the gang and who they did business with. So far, they’d identified seven gang members and five associates. The killer had to be one of the people they’d already identified. Now they just had to figure out which of them it was. Then make a case. Then take it to court. Easy.
Trilling had a special interest — these people were the remnants of one of the gangs Gus Querva used to run. They purposely didn’t use a gang name. But that didn’t change what they were. Before getting killed by a sniper, Querva had been a drug lord pretending to be a community activist, and Trilling hated what he’d done to the community, and how the media had covered his supposed investments in the neighborhood.
Terri Hernandez seemed agitated. Trilling knew she and Bennett were close, but she was nothing like his talkative senior partner.
“How much younger is your sister than you?” Trilling asked.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re never going to meet her.”
Trilling held back a retort. Instead, after a few seconds, he said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“I don’t like guys like you. Jocks who get moved into homicide after barely any time on patrol.”
“I never asked to be moved.”
“I did, for years, before I fi nally got my shot.”
“I get that. But I’m not a jock.”
“You look like one.”
Trilling said, “Looks can be deceiving. For instance, you look like a nice, pleasant person.”
Hernandez sighed loudly. “Look, I know you didn’t ask to move into homicide. It wasn’t right how everyone piled on you when Gus Querva got shot. But it’s just frustrating to see someone who’s been on the job less than two years already in basically the same position as me, when I’ve been on eight years.”
“We’re not in the same position. I’m still on temporary assignment and not even a detective. I’d say you’ve moved up the ladder well.”
“You can say whatever you want, but you’ve got a lot to prove before I take you seriously.”
Trilling nodded. “That sounds fair.”
Hernandez groaned in irritation. “What’s it take to get you worked up?”
“More than just a reasonable conversation, I guess.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or just messing with me.”
Trilling was careful not to answer but let a little smile form, which he knew would drive her crazy.
She groaned again.
That made his smile grow.
CHAPTER 9
THE DRIVE TO Mount Sinai was as terrifying as anything I’d ever faced. Even in my life as a cop. I gripped the wheel of my Chevy Impala tightly so my hands wouldn’t shake. Saturday evening traffic was somehow manageable. But I still didn’t feel like I was driving fast enough.
Mary Catherine had come into semiconsciousness as we rode down in the elevator. She’d wanted to walk, but I’d insisted on carrying her to the parking garage across the street. Images of Mary Catherine with a baby and a smile on her beautiful face gave me near superhuman stamina as I’d raced to the car with her in my arms. The panic I felt affected my judgment. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would’ve called for her to be transported in an ambulance. Then again, I would’ve paced the rug down to threads if we’d had to wait for an ambulance to arrive. Who knew how
long that would’ve taken on a Saturday night. It was pointless to wonder about that now.
Once at Mount Sinai, I felt nothing but frustration. Despite making world-class time to get here, we were then shoved into an exam room and told to wait. A young man in scrubs took some blood and tried to soothe our anxiety by saying someone would be along shortly. Finally, a technician took Mary Catherine for some scans, but half an hour later we were back in the same room, still alone and scared.
Mary Catherine lay sprawled on a narrow examination bed, above the sheets and coarse blanket. I held her hand as she put on a brave face, turning to me and asking, “Michael, what if this isn’t meant to be? What if the baby doesn’t make it?”
“Let’s see what the doctor has to say.” It was lame but all I could think of.
“But what . . .” Mary Catherine started to sob. A truck plowing through the window couldn’t have hit me any harder. I felt helpless. One of the worst feelings in the world; one of the reasons I became a cop. I wanted to help people. Now I couldn’t even help my wife.
I was worried about the baby, but I was more worried about if Mary Catherine was in any kind of danger. At least I was smart enough not to blurt out my concerns. Of course, the whole episode also made me think of my late wife, Maeve. The early days of her cancer diagnosis, the fear, the anger, the feelings of unfairness. Why us? I was reliving every one of those agonizing minutes as we waited for a doctor to walk through the door and deliver news. I had to take a breath.
Mary Catherine clutched my hand, and I pulled hers to my
lips and kissed it. I said in a soft voice, “I love you. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”
“I love you too, Michael.” She let out a couple of sobs and managed to add, “I already love this baby, whoever he or she is. I don’t care if it’s Seamus Bennett or Rose Bennett.”
“I’m not sure what’s more surprising,” I said. “That you’ve already come up with baby names or that you’d want to name a boy after my grandfather.”
“You don’t agree?”
“No, I love it. It’s just unexpected.” I kissed her hand again. “Where did Rose come from?”
She had a hint of a smile as she admitted, “Titanic.”
That made me smile too. That was all I needed. A moment of relief. A step away from worry.
A young doctor stepped into the room.
I heard Mary Catherine’s intake of breath.
The doctor did not have a smile on her face.
CHAPTER 10
ROB
TRILLING GRABBED the mail from his box.
“Did you save this city again today, Rob?” his super asked.
Trilling smiled at the comment. “Wasn’t able to do much today, George.”
“I saw your girl today. That one, she don’t say much, does she?”
Rob shook his head as he walked away. “Mostly a language barrier,” he mumbled. He trudged up the stairs, feeling the stress of the day and wanting nothing more than to lounge on the couch and watch TV. Provided his roommates accommodated his wish.
Rob looked both ways down the hallway before he opened his front door quickly and slipped into his apartment. He heard the TV on low. When he stepped all the way into the room, he saw it was a rerun of Sesame Street . The kids’ show had done wonders for his roommates’ English skills in a very short span of time. All five of them.
