I, Michael Bennett (Michael Bennett 5)

That’s when I guess you could say I lost it. It was the smirk that did it. There aren’t too many things I truly hate, but the Mafia is one of them. People acted like the Mob was cool—The Sopranos, The Godfather. They only kill their own, everyone said. But that’s the problem. The secrecy of it, the conspiracy of it. As they were at this work site, normally decent people are induced through intimidation to “not see nothin’,” allowing evil animals like Perrine and Rocco here to just go to town.

“Okay, Rocco. You win. I guess I’m done here, then. Thanks for your help,” I said, turning.

“Actually, there is one more thing, Rocco,” I said, taking the collapsible baton off my belt and flicking it out by my leg as I turned around.

The next thing I knew, the metal baton and Rocco’s crotch had collided violently. I must have tapped something important, because he immediately went down on one knee like he was about to propose, tears springing onto his suddenly beet-red cheeks. I quickly slipped the baton into my pocket and put a hand to his gym-chiseled shoulder.

“Jeez, Rocco. You all right? You don’t look so good. Can I get you something? A glass of water?” I said.

“You son of a bitch,” he finally got out in a gasping voice, which was much higher than it was before. “You prick. Why did you do that?”

“I’m not sure, Rocco. Everything happened so fast, I didn’t see anything,” I said into his ear. “Weird, isn’t it? That I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-happened shit really seems to be catching around here.”

CHAPTER 88

OVER THE NEXT couple of frantic hours, I tried to position myself front and center on the Perrine escape investigation, but my, oh, my, how the attempt failed.

Almost immediately, a young FBI special agent in charge by the name of Bill Bedford had taken charge of the scene. I’d heard about Bedford. Tara had told me that Bedford was an up-and-comer in the Bureau, a former running back at Duke University who never hesitated to plant a cleat or two between the shoulder blades of his blockers on the way to his touchdown dance.

After I introduced myself, Bedford took me into an empty courtroom on the Foley Square courthouse’s ground floor for a few questions. It was more like a grilling than an interview. The fair-haired agent’s demeanor was reserved, but a few times, I caught something in his eyes. Something angry, the shining surface on a well of hostility.

After I was quite professionally interviewed about everything that had happened, I was told he’d be in touch.

“But wait, Bill,” I said as he started thumbing his BlackBerry at the speed of light. “I can help you on this. I know Perrine. I’ve been on this from day one.”

“I’ll call you,” Bedford said without looking up.

Yeah, right. I’d heard that before. I was being completely boxed out, I knew. It was obvious the feds didn’t want me anywhere near the investigation. Even when I tried to get some assistance from the higher-ups in the police department to bring me on board, I was told in no uncertain terms that the brass didn’t want me on the case, either.

For once, I could hardly blame anyone. Because I’d had Perrine. Had him and then lost him in the worst, most publicly embarrassing way imaginable. My boss, Miriam Schwartz, even let me in on a few nasty rumors she heard—a few whispers that maybe I was actually in on the escape, since I had spoken to Perrine in court and interviewed him alone in prison.

In my defense, I thought about bringing up Perrine’s quarter-billion-dollar bribe, which I’d rejected, but then I came to my senses and kept my lip thoroughly buttoned. It was obvious the brass was already sizing me up for a scapegoat suit. Why pour more fuel on my own bonfire?

There was no way around it. I was toxic now, a bad-luck charm. Standing around in Foley Square with no one to talk to, I felt like a little kid at the moment he realizes he hasn’t been picked for either side in a game of sandlot baseball.

And the tacit message coming in from my law enforcement colleagues was just as clear.

You suck, kid.

Go home.

CHAPTER 89

SO THAT’S EXACTLY what I did. I hightailed it out of Manhattan on the Beacon-bound 6:12, went back up to Orange Lake, and stayed away for the next two weeks.

I thought I’d be stressed out with Perrine in the wind and all the bad stuff hovering over me, but I surprised myself by having a really fun time hanging out with the kids. These were the last weeks of summer vacay, and we didn’t waste a second of them. We did something fun every day—go-kart racing, miniature golf. To the girls’ delight, one morning we got up at dawn and drove to a farm over in rural Sullivan County and rode horses.

The best time of all was driving up to Massachusetts for a day to check out a massive state fair called the Big E, at which all the New England states were represented. My city kids’ heads were spinning at all the Ferris wheels and tractors and petting zoos. After we gorged ourselves on massive stuffed baked potatoes on the midway, we even attended a blue-ribbon cattle show just for the hell of it. I stood at a rail, shaking my head, as bright-faced young country boys wearing bow ties came into the tent, walking cattle on a leash as though they were in a dog show.

“Now there’s something you don’t see on West End Avenue,” Seamus said, standing beside me. “Why are we here again?”

“Well, Gramps,” I said. “My career as a city cop seems to be coming to a close. I might have to look for another line of work, so why not farming?”

It goes without saying that being so close to my guys wasn’t just about fun and games. I knew my friend the Sun King wasn’t done with me. Even though he was free now, I’d seriously inconvenienced his arrogant ass. Not only had I caught His Highness, I’d actually broken his nose for him and laughed in his face. I knew there probably weren’t too many people in this world who had screwed with him as much as I had.

Not living people, anyway.

So throughout all the summer fun, I had my guns attached to me at all times. I’d even illegally sawed off the barrels of the lake house shotgun so I could keep it handy under the seat of the bus. I kept it there with the mirror I used every morning to see if there was a bomb attached to the underside of the bus’s chassis. Paranoid, I know, but sometimes it’s the little things in life that count most. This kind of crap never happened to the Partridge family, I bet.