Burn (Michael Bennett 7)

“It’s called a burial at sea. This is the remains of a human being. That means something to me because, see, I’m a human being, too. It’s called human fellowship. You and the people in that dining room there might want to look into it.”

“But you can’t do this,” he said.

“No?” I said, flinging another plate into the drink. “Now go get the captain to turn this boat around for shore, would you? I’m sorry, but tonight’s culinary adventure has come to a close.”

CHAPTER 81

IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when I got home. I was tapped out, all right, officially out of patience and in absolutely no mood for any more nonsense from anyone after the night’s fiasco.

The night wasn’t a complete waste, thanks to Brooklyn. Though I continued to fume as the boat made its way back to the dock, my partner wisely managed to keep her head. Ingratiating herself with a few of the diners, she managed to get more insight into the cannibal subculture and, better yet, score a few names of some even sketchier culinary adventurers that we might want to look into.

Though we were still in the dark on Naomi’s murder, I was quite proud of Brooklyn and the rest of the gang. If nothing else, at least my Harlem crew was really coming along as investigators and as a team.

A funny thing happened as I walked through my front door. I heard singing coming from the kitchen. Though the rest of the apartment was dark, in the lit kitchen doorway I could see Seamus at the sink, singing to himself as he washed dishes.

It was the old Irish tune “The Fields of Athenry,” about a poor Irishman who gets sent to a penal colony for stealing food for his family. Seamus had a good singing voice, and it was nice to stand there in the darkened hallway for a few peaceful moments and listen to him sing the sad and yet somehow hopeful old ballad.

I waited until he was finished before I walked in. He gave me a pat on the back and a gentle smile as I grabbed a towel and started drying beside him.

How he could grin or sing after picking up the slack of babysitting and dinner and homework without Mary Catherine was beyond me. Seamus was certainly a wise guy and a prankster, but he was also one of the most selfless and truly faithful people I’d ever known. Plus he loved my kids as much as I did, if that was possible.

In his calming presence, I felt embarrassed by my night’s out-of-control emotional outbursts, especially my rough treatment of the heart-attack-candidate suspect, Dale Roanoke. Wrath was a sin I’d been really wrestling with since coming home from California.

“Anita’s not still here, is she, Seamus?” I said.

Anita was Anita Ciardi, the longtime live-in housekeeper at Holy Name’s rectory, where Seamus worked. The saintly seventy-year-old and seventy-pound little fireplug had insisted on coming over to help out once she’d heard that Mary Catherine had to go back to Ireland. The Bennetts had more than one guardian angel floating around, apparently.

“Just sent her home after she got the laundry done,” he said. “When I came into the kitchen, she was taking out the flour to bake the kids some of her famous Italian cookies, but I told her I’d excommunicate her on the spot if she didn’t leave. How about you, Detective? You’re looking pretty tired. Any collars tonight?”

“Not a one,” I said, thinking of my many still-open cases.

“Well, you made it home in one piece, right?” he said, staring at me with his serene blue eyes as he handed me the dripping spaghetti pot. “You can chalk that in the win column, at least.”

“Hey, how about you? You had the doctor today,” I said. “The real doctor, not that Dowdy character.”

“Passed all the tests with flying colors,” Seamus said. “Like I told that doctor, I’m fit and fine as Rory McIlroy. And to prove my point…”

Still wearing his rubber dish gloves, Seamus dropped down and did twenty push-ups, which nearly gave me a stroke of my own.

“See,” he said, standing. “My own da lived till he was ninety-five. Three heart attacks and cancer didn’t slow him down. Not a step. Well, until he took his last one, I suppose.”

“That’s enough, Father. Good night now,” I said. “It’s late, so call me when you get back to the rectory.”

“Call you?” Seamus said as he snapped off his gloves and went for the door. “How about I just text you instead, you dinosaur?”

When my comical priest grandfather had left, I grabbed a beer and took it into the bedroom. I kicked off my shoes and hopped up on the bed and checked my e-mail on my phone. There was a message from my lawyer, Gunny Chung.

Mike,

Just a quick note. First, I just wanted you to know I have my best people working on this. We are scouring the records for Mr. Bieth, including a thorough background check and examination of all social media sites to get to the bottom of exactly who he is, where he came from, what he wants, and what his motivations are. With that said, I have some bad news. We have a court date with Mr. Bieth and a judge scheduled on the 14th that you and, unfortunately, Chrissy, must attend. I will e-mail you the particulars as we get closer to the date.

All the best,

Gunny

I looked out at the lights of Manhattan and thought of my dear departed wife, Maeve.

“I’m blowing it, right? You agree with me?” I asked her.