“In two weeks or head back to the ombudsman office.”
“For real?” I said.
She nodded.
“That’s the deal I cut for you. It’s not the best, Mike, but even a rabbi like me can only do so much. What did you do to Starkie, anyway? That guy really freaking hates you.”
“Long story,” I said.
“And how ironic. Here we are without any time,” Miriam said. “So what’s it going to be, Mike? Are you going to catch these guys for me or what?”
I flipped through the file some more. Then I put it down and stood and stared out the window at Chinatown for a moment, the swirl of traffic, the bright Chinese signs beside the gray tenement fire escapes.
“After all you’ve done for me, Miriam?” I finally said, grinning at her. “It’s the least I could do. After all, diamonds are a girl’s BFF, right?”
CHAPTER
50
YOUNG DOYLE WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY
demure and silent and looking none too happy as I drove him back uptown toward Harlem later that afternoon.
“Come on, Doyle, just say it,” I said as I weaved around a cackling, shirtless homeless guy doing jumping jacks in the middle of the intersection of Spring Street and the Bowery.
“Say what?” he said.
“How pissed you are that I’m abandoning the ombudsman squad ship.”
“Well,” Doyle mumbled from where he was scrunched up against the door, “you said it, not me.”
“Come on, Doyle, you heard what Miriam said. A new senior supervising detective will be reporting for ombudsman duty first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, a new one? Great. The fifth one this month. That’s just dandy,” Doyle said. “Pardon me for not partaking in your hopeful optimism there, Mike. You were the only one to ever even attempt to lift a finger to get the unit to do something useful. And here I was getting psyched because we were actually doing some investigating. What an idiot.”
I did feel pretty bad for the kid. He was a good, talented, hardworking cop. I remembered what it was like trying to make the leap from patrol, how difficult it was to find a challenging investigative gig.
“Come on,” I tried. “Never say never. They could send somebody good.”
“Yeah, right,” Doyle said. “Believe me, tomorrow morning some ass-covering lifer is going to get in there and go into that office, close the blinds, and bust out a pillow. It’s going to be nothing other than Harlem situation back to normal, straight back to all screwed up.”
My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, and I was going to let it go until I realized with a cold jolt that I did recognize it.
It was the number of Holly Jacobs, the lovely Harlem woman who was being stalked by her psychopathic boyfriend.
I fumbled Accept and stuck the phone up to my ear.
“Holly? I’m here. It’s Mike Bennett. Are you there? What’s up?” I said.
There was silence on the line. I checked to see that the connection was still good and was putting the phone back to my ear when she spoke, her tense, terrified voice barely higher than a whisper.
“He’s here,” she said. “In the hall right outside my apartment’s front door. Help me, please. God help me. I don’t want to die.”
I gunned it north up to Holly’s apartment. I slalomed through the logjam of Midtown midday traffic with the siren blazing while Doyle worked the phone, calling the other members of the ombudsman unit and the local precinct.
We got to 116th and Morningside Park in what had to be a record-breaking twenty minutes. Two precinct cars and an unmarked were already double-parked out in front of Holly’s building.
Please, God, let this lady be OK
, I thought as I screeched up beside them and hurried in with Doyle.
“Hey! What is this? What the hell is this?” some officious silver-haired Hispanic guy in the middle of the lobby, holding a little yelping black dog, wanted to know. “I’m the super. Who the hell are you people?”
I didn’t have time to explain, so I just juked around him and took the stairs two at a time. When I reached the top landing and heard the radio chatter and saw a bunch of uniformed cops and Arturo Lopez and Brooklyn Kale standing in the hall out in front of Holly’s apartment, my heart sank. I thought,
That’s it. I’m too late. She’s dead
.
But I was wrong.
Thank goodness.
Holly came out of her apartment a second later with a bulging garment bag and a set of keys. They jangled in her shaking hand as she attempted to lock her apartment door.
“Holly,” I said gently, taking her keys and locking the door for her. “Thank God you’re OK. What happened?”
“I’d just come home and was putting on some pasta when I heard something at the front door, like some rattling and clicks at the lock.”
“There’s some scrapes near the keyhole,” Arturo said, nodding. “Someone was definitely messing with it.”
“Then I saw the knob turn,” Holly said, “and I knew it was Roger. That’s when I ran into the bedroom and called you. I can’t take this anymore. I’m going to my sister’s in Maryland for a few days—maybe longer, who knows? My nerves are shot.”
“You see anyone?” I said to Arturo and Brooklyn.
“We just missed him,” Brooklyn said. “We were the first ones here, and when we were coming up the stairs, we heard running footsteps and then the alarm on the roof door went off. I went up there and looked around, but all the roofs on this entire block are connected, with plenty of fire escapes to get down to the street.”
“See, he’s still out there,” Holly said. “I need to get out of here before this man kills me.”
“We’re going to find him, Holly, OK?” I said. “We’re getting closer. We just missed him this time.”
“And he just missed me, too. I need to get to the train station. Please, someone help me catch my train.”
CHAPTER
51
BACK DOWNSTAIRS ON THE
sidewalk, we watched Holly drive off in a cruiser with a couple of uniforms for Penn Station. I was glad to see her go. She was smart to get out of town for a while. This nut, Roger, who was stalking her wasn’t just slippery, I thought, scanning the benches and trees of Morningside Park across the street. He truly seemed quite determined to do her some harm.
“So, Mike, you want to tell them the big news or shall I?” Doyle said glumly.
“What news?” said Arturo.
“Well, it seems like the powers that be are transferring me to a different squad,” I said sheepishly.
“What?” said Arturo in dismay. “But you just got here! And we’re actually starting to make this team work for once, really starting to help the people in this community.”
“Where are you going?” Brooklyn said.
“Back down to One Police Plaza. My old squad. Major Crimes,” I said.
“They want him on that diamond heist that happened out in Brooklyn,” Doyle said.
“Oh, I see,” Brooklyn said. “The real powers that be in the city, i.e., the rich and fabulous, need the department’s top DT to watch their family jewels. Meanwhile, the Hollys of the world are off fending for themselves, running for their lives.”
As with Doyle, I couldn’t blame Arturo and Brooklyn for being pissed. In the brief time I’d spent with these misfit young cops, we’d already developed some pretty special chemistry, become a pretty effective, tight-knit team.
“And what about Chast’s murder?” Arturo said. “You said we’re the ones who need to find her killer, that she was one of ours. You think some new guy coming in is going to let us continue her investigation?”
“Well, being back to Major Crimes is actually good news on that front,” I argued. “I’ll be able to facilitate any new information or leads between you guys and the Major Crimes Division detectives who caught the case.”
They didn’t seem like they were buying it. They stood there staring at me, sour and upset. I stared back, not knowing what to say. Though I wanted my desk back at Major Crimes more than anything, in the end my Catholic guilt got the best of me. What else was new?
“Fine, you win. OK. Let me make a phone call,” I said as I headed for my cruiser.
“To who?” Brooklyn said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just keep your eyes peeled for Roger Dodger, you pains-in-my-butt.”
Miriam answered the phone as I sat down behind the wheel.
“Hey, Miriam. It’s Mike. Quick question. Is there any way you can delay the new ombudsman unit supervisor, say, a week?”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I still have a couple of cases outstanding up here that I’d like to get a crack at closing before I leave.”
“Does this mean you want off the diamond heist?”
“Hell, no,” I said. “I’ll do both.”
“Both?” she said. “Aren’t you biting off a heck of a lot here? I don’t have to tell you how hot this diamond case is. You’re going to be busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger.”
I’ll be busy, all right
, I thought. I didn’t even mention the personal stuff going on with my daughter Chrissy.
“I got this, Miriam. Trust me. I won’t let you down, I promise,” I said.
“Well, if that’s what you want, Mike,” Miriam finally said. “It’s your blood pressure.”
CHAPTER
52
THE REST OF THE
afternoon we spent scouring southwest Harlem for Roger. We hit several parks, showed his picture around to a few soup kitchens and food banks. But we came up empty again. It was quickly becoming a bad theme.
When I finally opened my apartment door, I would have loved to tuck in the little guys, but it was almost ten o’clock, and they were all fast asleep. I stood for a moment in the hallway outside the darkened girls’ room anyway, staring at Chrissy sleeping in her bottom bunk, which was plastered with stickers of rainbows and hearts and bunnies. Chrissy and her bunnies. There was a poster on the wall above her with a baby bunny on its back sticking out of a teacup.
I hadn’t heard anything further from the guy claiming to be her father or from his fussy lawyer. I wondered if that was a good thing. Maybe I’d catch a much-needed break and they would just go away. Fat chance, but who knew? I was about due for a miracle after the last couple of crazy hectic days.
As I softly closed the girls’ door, I could see Mary Catherine down the hall, filling the dishwasher, then bending to the Herculean task of charging our family’s impressive array of electronic devices and phones. The Energizer Bunny had nothing on MC, the way she was always busy keeping everything together—the apartment, the kids, not to mention yours truly.
I remembered it then. A promise that I needed to keep. As Mary Catherine opened a cabinet and started lining up lunch bags on the counter, I stood in the hall and took out my wallet and my cell phone.
“La Grenouille,” said a butter-smooth French-laced voice in my ear a moment later.
I’m about as far from a gourmet as most cops get, but even I knew that La Grenouille was one of the last great classic French restaurants in NYC. Kissinger ate there. The megafinancier Henry Kravis. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have dreamt of attempting to get a reservation on short notice.
But being an NYPD detective is a weird job that sometimes comes in pretty handy.
“Hello, may I please speak to Claude Pétain?” I said, reading the name off the tattered business card I’d pulled from the back of my wallet.
“Speaking. May I help you?”
“I don’t know if you remember me, Claude, but I’m Detective Mike Bennett. I worked a case at your restaurant about a year ago when one of your elderly waiters passed away.”
“Oh, yes. Old Paul Tristan. I remember,” he said. “When we suggested that he might think about retiring, the old Basque said that the restaurant was his life and that we would have to carry him out. And wouldn’t you know, he got his wish in the middle of lunch service.
“I do remember you, Detective, as well as your extreme discretion at removing the body so as not to alarm our patrons. It was well appreciated. It still is. What can I do for you? Is there some kind of problem?”
“No, not exactly. I’m in a bind with a lady friend to whom I promised a very special night out, and I was wondering if I might appeal to you for some assistance. There wouldn’t be any way for me to score a reservation there, say, this Friday? I know it’s very short notice.”
“I see,” Claude said neutrally. “Let me check. One moment, please.”
I sweated it out as I waited a full minute, then two. La Grenouille on short notice? It was a stupid idea. Who did I think I was? Donald Trump?
Finally, Claude got back on the line.
“How does nine-thirty work, Detective?”
Magnifique
, I thought as I looked down the hall, imagining Mary Catherine in a little black dress.
“That would be terrific, Claude,” I said quickly. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
CHAPTER
53
THE BRAKES ON THE
massive, dusty twenty-six-ton Mack dump truck whined like a starving mutt as it swung off West Street onto Battery Place.
It was fifteen minutes past noon and down here at the southern tip of Manhattan, office workers in search of lunch were spilling out of the megalithic glass-and-limestone financial buildings onto the narrow, slotlike streets like a body bleeding out.
Looking out at the crowds through his dark shades, the dump truck driver thought how nice it would be to park and while away the lunch hour trying to pick up one of the tight-skirted money honeys clopping past at the light. Even dressed like Bob the Builder, with a quick flash of his dimples and his born pickup artist’s silver tongue, he knew it wouldn’t take an hour before he would have some stupid, starry-eyed young working gal giving up her name, her phone number, her heart.
A horn blast behind him redirected his attention to the now-green light. He shifted his mean machine into first and let off the clutch and made another rumbling left onto Greenwich Street.
Rolling off Greenwich at Trinity Place along the left-hand side of the congested street, he began to see construction vehicles, flatbeds packed with rebar and big dump trucks like the one he was driving. The construction vehicles were for the One World Trade Center site, the so-called Freedom Tower, which was being built to replace the Twin Towers knocked down on 9/11.