“Your son is a fine detective, a credit to the force,” I said.
“But he will never be ‘Michael Bennett.’ If he keeps trying for the impossible, it will cost him his life.”
She was dead serious. I had to wonder if there was any truth to what she was saying. Had I put Hollis in danger? Or was Ott to blame?
As I stepped back into the room, I found Hollis sitting up in bed, reading a book about serial killers. Of course.
“I see you’re studying for our next case, but I can say with authority our serial killer case is closed,” I said. “You made a lot of the important breakthroughs. You should be proud.”
“I just followed your lead,” he said. But then his bright smile faded.
Hollis had responded well to praise in the past but now seemed distracted. He hadn’t really been listening to what I was saying because he had been waiting to tell me something.
He stopped to gather himself, as if rehearsing his next words in his mind before speaking them. “I wasn’t reading that book for our next case. In fact, there won’t be another case. Not with us working as partners. Not any case.” He stopped short, choked up, and stifled a sob.
What the hell is Hollis talking about?
“What are you saying?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
He raised a hand, and my gaze followed, settling on the stack of papers resting on his night stand.
“What’s that? Workers’ comp paperwork?”
Hollis shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, pausing to run a tissue across his face. “I’ve been examined by two different department doctors. They want me to go out on disability.” His voice had trailed off, like that of a beaten man.
It was the first I’d heard of this career-ending medical directive. I stood in silence, shocked.
“What are the doctors’ main concerns?” I finally asked.
Hollis said, “It has to do with liability. The injuries I sustained from the impact of the bus were too pervasive, and too damaging to withstand the physical stress of detective work.”
He blew his nose, then looked me in the eye. “I’m going to physical therapy starting next week. I’ll see how that goes.” He tried to sit up straighter. “There’s a chance I could come back. They say they’ll have to monitor me closely, especially my legs and hips. My mom is all about me leaving the NYPD and trying another line of work.”
This young man was truly torn. The pressure from his mom wasn’t making it any easier on him. But maybe there was some truth to what she was saying. Maybe, without even realizing it, I’d put pressure on him. By believing in him, I’d emboldened him to do too much too soon. On the other hand, it was because of his courageous actions that Kelly Konick was still alive and a dangerous killer was off the streets.
I studied the bruises around his face. Finally, I said, “What do you want to do?”
“I want to be a cop.” His voice had some power in it now.
“Why?”
“I want to make a difference. To help people.”
I nodded. “Those are the right reasons to be a cop. Most people have never felt the desire to work in our profession, which makes that feeling, that drive, impossible to understand. Police work has been such an important part of my life, but I realized something as I got older.”
“What?”
“There are other important things in life. There are other ways to help people. You need to decide where to dedicate your talents.”
“What I want to do is come back to work. Do you think I’d be able to come back to our squad?” He sounded like a kid asking permission to go out on a Saturday night.
I smiled. “I guarantee you’d be welcomed back as a star.”
For the first time since I’d arrived, he looked hopeful.
This man had earned the right to be called my partner.
Chapter 99
Mary Catherine had the best idea for working it all out, just as she always did.
My late wife, Maeve, had been the one to introduce us, in a way. Maeve had been the one who’d hired Mary Catherine, sight unseen, from Ireland. Mary Catherine had shown up on my doorstep just when I needed her. I knew this was no coincidence. Maeve had planned out a happy life for me even while she was dying of cancer. Maeve had done it all. That was the way she was. Unselfish.
And so was Mary Catherine. She could read the strain on my face, about Hollis, about Ott, about everything except my family.
“You need a good bike ride,” she said, ordering me to change. Shawna and Chrissy spoke up, then Eddie, Trent, and Jane. Five of ten kids wanted to come with us.
Mary Catherine said, “Anyone who can keep up is welcome to come along.”
I knew that was the kind of challenge she and I would both regret.
We started out slowly—after I first had to pump up a couple of tires in the basement, and everyone had to find and put on their approved bike helmets—carefully working our way toward the bike paths in Riverside Park.
Once we got in the park, Shawna turned and grinned. She said, “Mary Catherine, you can come with us.” She paused for best possible dramatic effect, then added, “If you can keep up.”
That’s how I remember the massive bike race starting. I pedaled until I thought my legs would drop off. My lungs burned and my vision might have blurred a little bit. And I still could not catch my fiancée. No one could. She had the form and grace of a professional cyclist.
I could say the race lasted for days and people died from exhaustion. But that wouldn’t do it justice. The way Mary Catherine rode down those young people and then raced ahead of all of us, she was putting on a show.
She had a competitive streak and had somehow effectively hidden it from us until now. Or maybe we had just refused to see it. The kids would never look at her quite the same way again. Neither would I.
By the time I caught up to her near a water fountain that we used as a meeting point, she was sitting on a park bench with her helmet off like she’d been waiting for us for hours. All I could do was laugh—once I could breathe again, that is.
The kids stared at Mary Catherine like she had jumped off the pages of a Marvel comic book.
I sat down next to her as the kids got water and greeted a couple of their friends who had been playing in the park.
I said, “I like to see you smile after slapping down the kids and me.”
“That was fun,” she agreed. “But it’s not why I’m smiling so much.”
“Oh, yeah? Why are you smiling so much, then?”
“Our wedding is only a few days away. This Saturday, you’ll be my husband.”
I reached over and took her beautiful face in my hands and kissed her. She kissed me back. It almost made me forget we were in public. That is, until the kids crowded around us.
Trent said, “Why don’t you guys get a room?”
Jane said, “Did I act that way around Allan?”
Trent and Eddie nodded at the same time.
All Jane could say was “Ouch. I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”
Then we all folded into a laughing, hugging ball of crazy New Yorkers.
Chapter 100
On our way home, I said a silent prayer, thanking God for the wonderful life I had. And for my bright, healthy kids and my smart, beautiful fiancée. I was in a particularly grateful mood.
Then came Fiona and her seventh-grade math homework. It never got any easier, no matter how many times I helped each of the kids in succession.
Fiona hadn’t put out a general call for assistance. Only her dad’s help would do, and I couldn’t ignore it. But holy cow. I’d been pretty good at math in school. The same school that Fiona went to now. How could I look at this page and not understand a single instruction?
After about fifteen minutes of reading the problems and searching through her book for an example I understood, I had to look at Fiona and say, “We need more help. Ask Eddie.”
From my seat at the dini
ng room table, I called to Mary Catherine in the kitchen. Her reply was short and to the point. “I can’t spare Eddie. You’re the one with a college degree.”
I said, “A degree in philosophy doesn’t prepare you for seventh-grade math.”
“Does it prepare you for anything?”
“‘I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing,’” I quoted. “Socrates.”
Mary Catherine said, “You were already proving your point. You didn’t have to back it up with a quote.”
Brian casually strolled over to the dining room table. He looked at the book and checked some information on an earlier page. Then he explained to Fiona how to do the problems. Correctly. Amazing.
When Brian was finished, Fiona looked at me and said, “Thanks, Dad.”
“What’d I do?”
Fiona smiled. “You adopted a smart kid like Brian.”
I let out a laugh. “I guess that was a good move.”
Brian’s smile compounded my good mood. If things are going well with the kids, nothing else really matters.
Mary Catherine called out a good-bye. She was taking the girls for a dress fitting that would last a few hours. The younger boys were all in their rooms, working on some school project. That left just Brian and me.
He was in the living room, reading a Men’s Health magazine. I flopped down on the other end of the couch where he was sitting.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
He grunted. It wasn’t hostile or disrespectful. Just efficient. Then he said, “How’s it going with you?”
“Honestly,” I told him, “I don’t really know. I’m just glad to be home.”
I decided I needed an answer to the question that had been bothering Mary Catherine and me for so long. I turned to my oldest son and said, “Where do you go all day?”
Brian closed the magazine and gave me a weak smile.
I said, “You can tell me, off the record if you want.” After an uncomfortable silence, I added, “I know about the bank withdrawals. I’m not trying to be nosy. I want the best for you. I’m here to help. Any way I can.” I hoped my voice wasn’t betraying the fear and desperation I was feeling. I really couldn’t imagine what Brian might say right now. And suddenly it occurred to me that it could be worse than anything I could dream of.
Brian sighed. He started slowly. “It was going to be a wedding gift.”
“Brian, we don’t need—”
He held up his hand. “No, Dad, it’s not like that.”
Now he had my full attention.
Brian said, “Remember when I said I was looking into air-conditioning repair?”
I didn’t. I probably heard him tell me and then put it down to one of those ideas kids talk about but never act on.
Brian said, “I didn’t make much of a plan at first, but then I signed up to finish my certification. I’ll be done in about three weeks. I’ve already got a job with a company that services office buildings in Manhattan.”
I had a lot of questions, but this was my son’s story to tell. I let him talk.
Brian said, “I heard people saying how trade school was better than college, so I looked at a few different trades, and air-conditioning repair seems to make the most sense. And I like it.”
If Brian expected me to give him a speech, he was wrong. All I did was turn and hug this young man who’d made me so proud.
As I sat there holding my son, I felt my eyes start to water. Then Brian started to cry. I finally felt like I had my son home again.
Chapter 101
The next day, I found myself standing in a crowd outside One Police Plaza. Harry Grissom had called me to tell me about the news conference. He said I didn’t have to be there. He also said if I did come, it would last only an hour at most. Though I didn’t see how that was likely once I heard the mayor start with “Once again our city is safe.”
I tuned him out, sorry I’d wasted my morning coming down here. Then I turned to my right and saw John Macy standing near me, sharply dressed in a dark suit with a red tie.
He faced me and said, “Detective, nice to see you. Too bad you couldn’t keep hold of your prisoner.”
“Too bad you couldn’t keep hold of confidential information,” I countered. “Your buddy Funcher dropped a hint that you have a tendency to overshare during happy hour. I asked around, and sure enough, the late Jeffrey Cedar was on the outer edge of your circle. You were the one who let slip to a copycat serial killer the detail about Ott’s signature of stabbing his victims in the eye. The detail we were withholding from the press. But you didn’t tell Cedar which eye. Ott is right-handed. And Cedar was left-handed. Which explains why Ott went for the left eye and Cedar for the right.”
As I turned away from him in disgust, I added, “How’re your balls feeling? The mayor is about to put them in a sling.” Harry Grissom had stepped up on the other side of me. Macy had a lot of questions to answer, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere until he did.
We listened as the mayor, the NYPD commissioner, and Robert Lincoln, assistant special agent in charge of the FBI in New York, all made comments about the arrest of Daniel Ott. There was no mention of him being a spy.
Harry Grissom leaned toward me and said, “Macy has been reassigned. He now reviews business licensing for anything that doesn’t relate to food or beverage.”
“Sounds like a slice of heaven.”
Harry chuckled. “I’ve still got friends who don’t put up with people screwing with the NYPD. But there is a catch.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. What sort of catch?”
Harry said, “There was no copycat killer. Receptionist Olivia Green was lying—not about Jeffrey Cedar but in her dealings with the IRS. In exchange for amnesty, she’ll say Cedar panicked after having a domestic dispute with his wife and died avoiding arrest. Daniel Ott takes the blame for all the murders. The mayor’s office prefers to calm public fears about two different killers loose in the city.”
“But none of it’s true.”
“Neither is Santa Claus, but people still believe,” Grissom said. “See you at the wedding.”
Chapter 102
My wedding day arrived. I sat in a small room just off the altar of Holy Name. Mary Catherine and I were putting the kids to good use today. Brian was my best man. Trent, Eddie, and Ricky were the groomsmen and ushers. Juliana was the maid of honor. Jane, Bridget, and Fiona were bridesmaids. Shawna and Chrissy were the flower girl and ring bearer respectively. My grandfather, Seamus, would be the one to marry us.
Following tradition, I had not seen or spoken to Mary Catherine today. She and the girls had spent the night in a hotel. It was as close to a bachelorette party as Mary Catherine wanted.
The boys and I had had a pretty good bachelor party too. We’d continued the video game marathon that had been interrupted in the line of duty, and we also managed to eat six pizzas, drink eight liters of soda, and destroy a pile of chicken wings.
At the moment, Brian sat with me, and the other boys rotated to my side as their ushering duties allowed. They all looked extremely sharp in their tuxedos.
Sister Sheilah popped her head into the little room where we waited. She was in full habit but looked different somehow. Then I realized she was wearing makeup. Not a ton, but enough to change her look dramatically.
Sister Sheilah said, “It’s showtime. Your boys have seated all the guests, and your grandfather told me to get you moving.”
Brian and I stood together. He took a moment to straighten my tie and brush a microscopic piece of lint off my shoulder.
Then Sister Sheilah stepped forward. As a child, I’d been her student, and she’d also taught all ten of my children. In her eyes, I’d never grown up. Sheilah looked at me, giggled, and pinched me on the cheek, repeating the words she’d been saying for months: “I can’t believe our little Michael Bennett is getting married.”
Today, it was finally true.
She kissed me on
the forehead, and I received her blessing.
Brian and I took our positions at the front of the church. It was all I could do not to cry at the sight of my sons escorting their sisters down the aisle to take their places near the altar.
Chrissy followed, holding our rings, and Shawna dropped rose petals on the way to join us at the front of the church. This was a family event. Only Maeve was absent. I felt her looking down on me and smiling at the happiness she’d brought me and the kids by sending Mary Catherine.
The crowd was a sea of familiar faces. Harry Grissom sat next to Terri Hernandez. All the priests and nuns from the church intermingled with dozens of friends.
A movement flashed in the back corner of the church, and I craned my neck to see. It was Brett Hollis, sitting in a wheelchair, raising his arm in something between a wave and a salute. I was honored by his presence, even more so that he was accompanied by detectives from our squad—not his mother.
It was tough to keep the stupid grin off my face. Everything was great.
Then it got better. Almost to the point of fantasy.
The organist played the opening chords to the “Bridal Chorus”—“Here Comes the Bride.” Mary Catherine, dressed all in white, took her cue, appearing to float along the rose petals Shawna had tossed onto the carpeted aisle.
The veil covered her face, but I could tell she was beaming with joy. She touched hands with several people in the pews as she continued her graceful glide toward me.
She was so gorgeous, I barely noticed my grandfather walking her down the aisle. He looked sharp too. Dressed in his best vestments, he stood tall and walked with a determined pace, planting each foot carefully.
I felt the lump in my throat grow as a few tears started to leak out of my eyes and my hands trembled.
Then Mary Catherine stopped, joining me at the altar, and taking hold of both of my hands. The effect was instantaneous, as calming as a shot of a tranquilizer.
The Russian - SETTING Page 23