A dozen tables were covered in linen and set with formal place settings and unlit candles. For some reason, all the china and crystal and silver set out made the room look unbelievably creepy. There was even a grand piano on a stage in the corner. It looked like we’d walked into a restaurant.
“Talk about not knowing what we’re going to find,” Emily said, shaking her head.
We passed into an even larger wood-paneled living room. There was an incredible amount of art on the massive mahogany walls. A mix of museum-quality sketches, photography, what looked like a Renoir. Modern stuff.
“There’s more paintings than wall space,” I said.
We were stepping toward the stairs at the opposite end of the room when we heard shouting from above. There was an enormous chandelier-rattling thump followed by a blood-curdling scream.
“What is this? Why are you in my house? What the hell are you doing?” I heard as I arrived on the next floor at the commando-filled doorway.
Then I looked inside.
“No,” I said, staring in wide-eyed wonder.
Emily bumped into me to look in as well.
“What the hell?” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re hurting my back. I have a bad back,” said the man on the floor—the tremendously fat, naked man lying facedown on the floor.
Chapter 69
I GAGGED AS A WAFT of the stifling room’s horrendous body odor slapped into me. I started coughing. I was surprised I didn’t throw up.
Whoever the morbidly obese man was, he certainly wasn’t the suspect from the witness statements or sketch or the surveillance video.
We’d screwed up, I thought as I lowered my gun.
“God, somebody get a sheet, huh?” Emily said, holstering her service weapon as she averted her eyes.
“And a case of Lysol,” Wong said, covering his nose and mouth as he finished cuffing him.
Reluctantly, I went into the room and tore a filthy sheet off the bed and covered the guy’s backside with it. It barely fit. He was easily six hundred pounds. Maybe even seven. The ESU guy actually had to use two pairs of handcuffs to secure the fat bastard’s wrists.
I knelt down beside him.
“Lawrence Berger?” I said.
“Yes,” he said, lolling his large head in my direction. “Oh! Wow! Michael Bennett. I didn’t know you were here. My God. This is so surreal.”
Emily and I exchanged baffled looks.
“I know you?” I said.
“You gave a lecture on homicide investigation to the general assembly at John Jay back in ’ninety-three, was it?” Berger said, looking into my eyes. “Your wife was there with you. A tall, pretty Irish lady. Tell me, how is your wild Irish rose these days? Oh dear, what am I saying? The article about you in New York Magazine said she died. Well,
she’s in a better place. My deepest condolences.”
Before I could punch the man in his mouth, Hobart hauled back hard on his handcuffs.
“Ahhh! My wrists!” Berger screamed, tears in his eyes. “Ow! Stop it! That hurts! What are you trying to do? Break my arm? Didn’t I tell you I had a bad back?”
“I look like your chiropractor, fatty?” Hobart said in the man’s ear. “Watch your mouth before I fill it with my combat boot.”
Berger nodded as he turned slowly toward Emily.
“Don’t tell me you’re Agent Parker. You guys have teamed up again? I feel honored. Nice core. Pilates?”