Blindside (Michael Bennett 12)

I EASED INTO the seat and made a quick assessment of the giant passenger compartment of the limo. There was even a wet bar. Too bad I was on duty.

The driver lowered the glass partition, turned his head, and said, “Hello, Detective. It was lucky you two were in the same area. As soon as Natalie said she was nearby, the mayor said I could get you both at the same time.”

The young woman’s Yankees baseball cap and big sunglasses made her look like a celebrity trying to keep a low profile. A little of her hair had popped out from under the ball cap. She looked relaxed but didn’t say anythi

ng.

I said, “Hey, Natalie. You doing okay?”

She nodded and said quietly, “Not thrilled about seeing my dad.”

I noticed the driver was eavesdropping. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You just have to give him a chance.”

“Like the chance to greet me at the airport?”

“That was disappointing.”

She grunted but kept quiet after that.

The driver was still listening, I knew.

I asked him, “Do you work in the mayor’s office?”

The tubby man with slicked-back, light-brown hair had a slight accent. He said, “No, sir, I help the mayor in his unofficial life. In other words, he contracted me. I guess Hizzoner wants this meeting to be low profile.”

“It seems like he feels that way about most meetings.”

I sat back and enjoyed the ride. At this time of the day, with traffic, it was going to take a while to get to City Hall. Then the driver cut east through Manhattan. It’s not the way I would’ve gone, but he was a professional and no one had asked my opinion.

Ten minutes later, the driver made another turn and I realized he was headed for the Queensboro Bridge.

I leaned up and said, “Where are we going?”

The driver focused on traffic in front of us for a moment, beeping at a tourist from Delaware who was clearly unsure where he wanted to go. Then the driver called over his shoulder, “The mayor told me to bring you to an address in Queens. I didn’t ask any questions. Let me call and see if I can get any answers you might need.”

He pulled out his cell phone and started to speak. His conversation lasted until we were over the bridge.

We were on the upper level when the driver turned off to loop around back under the bridge onto Vernon Boulevard. We passed Queensbridge Park on our left. He was pulling past the sprawling Ravenswood power plant when he called over his shoulder, “I guess the mayor drove over here as well. He’s anxious to see his daughter. He says we can meet him by Rainey Park just up here.”

I looked across the seat and said, “You doing okay?”

She nodded, the ball cap pulled low over her face.

The limo was so big that any change in speed felt like a boat moving in water. We slowed and turned down a narrow street that ran along the north of Rainey Park, some blocks past the power plant and right along the backside of a big-box store. Cars were parked next to the building at first, probably those of the employees, but the driver continued to the nearly empty far end of the road, closer to the river, and stopped. I reached into my pocket for my phone.

As we came to a stop, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and said, “Please, sir, no calls.”

“What? I’m sorry, I need to check in with my office.”

“I don’t think so.”

When I looked up from my phone to see what would make the driver say something so crazy, I froze. He had turned around and held a small semiautomatic pistol in his left hand, pointed at my head.

Without the man saying a word, I knew to hand over my own pistol. I reached to my right hip and slowly unholstered my Glock. I handed it over the seat to the driver.

The driver said, “Phone, too.”

I sighed as I tossed my phone over the seat as well.