“Oh, no. That’s just some Australians reliving the eighties.”
“Any room for an American?” I said. “I could be there in six hours. I do a killer Depeche Mode.”
Mary Catherine laughed.
“Wow, how I wish I were there with you, Michael. I can’t tell you how much I miss those kids, too. All of them.”
“All of them?”
“Oh, Michael, you’ll never know. Every little stinker in the bunch. It’s killing me not being there. What did that oil-spill CEO guy say? ‘I want my life back.’”
“I want our life back,” I said.
There was a pause.
“I have to go,” said Mary Catherine.
“So do I,” I said.
There was a pause.
“Why haven’t you hung up yet?” I said.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
We laughed. There was another pause.
Then it happened.
“I love you,” I said.
I heard a gasp and then a loud earful of dial tone a second later.
What the hell are you doing? I thought, smiling at my reflection in the TV screen.
I’m reliving the eighties, all right, I thought as I realized that I had butterflies in my stomach. I felt like I was about sixteen. I liked it.
“Detective Bennett, what have you finally gone and done?” I mumbled as I stood.
Chapter 40
My cell phone rang a little after three o’clock that morning. Like most calls that come at ungodly hours, it was not good. It was from Neil Fabretti, the chief of detectives himself.
“Mike, sorry to bother you. I just got off the phone with the new mayor’s people. The gist of it is they’re beyond pissed at the pace of the investigation and want whoever’s on it off it and someone new put on pronto.”
Tho
ugh I was a little stunned to actually hear it, part of me had been waiting for this call. I’d been on high-profile cases before, and I knew that now with several people dead, including the mayor, tens of thousands of people displaced, and millions more on edge, the pressure to do something, even unfairly sacrificing a convenient scapegoat like me, was immense.
Good investigations were about being patient and meticulous, but that wasn’t exactly a popular sentiment, I knew from reading yesterday’s New York Post headline, WHAT THE #$%@ IS BEING DONE?
When you lost the usually NYPD-friendly Post, you knew you were in deep trouble.
“Is that right?” I finally said.
“Yeah, well, I told them to pound sand,” Fabretti continued, surprising me. “I said that we couldn’t just go shuffling investigators around because of the pressure of the twenty-four/seven news cycle. I told them you were the best we had and that I was behind you one hundred percent, yada, yada, yada.
“But there’s a big meeting scheduled for one o’clock this afternoon at the commissioner’s office, and you need to be there for the investigation’s update with bells on, if you know what I’m saying. Nothing personal, but the reality is, if you want to keep being the lead on this, Mike, you got about ten hours to make something drop.”