Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)

Apt’s fingers hovered above the keyboard for a moment and then he typed it:

Breezy Point, Queens.

Chapter 99

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER MIDNIGHT when Carl Apt drove out from underneath the second-to-last stop of the A subway line in Rockaway, Queens.

A sign said the name of the stop was Beach 105th Street, but there was no beach in sight. There was just a razor-wire fence outside some sort of industrial plant. Some ant colony high-rises, an ill-kept ball field.

It got nicer the farther he drove south. Swept sidewalks. Neat lawns. Fireflies glowing beneath leafy shade trees. After a while, it flattened out the way it does near the water, sky suddenly everywhere.

The narrow side streets he started to pass had little guard booth arms blocking car traffic and then that was it. The road just stopped. In front of him beyond a spray-painted guardrail lay the dunes, the silvery bulge and fall of waves, the open sea.

He made a U-turn, checking the GPS. When he was close, he spotted a closed IGA supermarket and pulled into its empty lot. Around the back of it near its loading dock, he tucked the Merc beside the beat-to-shit rusted trailer of an 18-wheeler.

He put the top up on the convertible before he opened the bag and got changed. Once dressed, he took an electric razor from the bottom of the bag and plugged it into the cigarette lighter with an adapter he’d bought at a Radio Shack.

Done, he clicked the razor off and checked himself in the rearview. He had a Mohawk now. He quickly slid on his aviator sunglasses and his vintage army jacket.

He was dressed as Travis Bickle, the anti-hero from Martin Scorsese’s seventies classic movie Taxi Driver. Played by Robert DeNiro, Bickle, like Apt, was a soldier turned idealistic assassin.

It was elaborate fantasyland stuff, but that was just the kind of whimsy Lawrence really enjoyed.

For Detective Michael Bennett’s death, Lawrence had chosen his most beloved New York killer of all.

The fiber-optic camera was now in the lining of his jacket. As usual, he was filming everything. The entire digital tape, including this last scene, the grand finale, would be going into a FedEx box as soon as he was done. David Berger, Lawrence’s famous, saintly, genius musician brother out in California, would receive it the day after tomorrow.

Apt got out of the car. Sticking to the shadows, he hurried down Rockaway Point Boulevard until he got to Spring Street, Bennett’s block. He started counting addresses after he made the left. The tiny, quirky, not-very-stable-looking houses were almost on top of one another, but he could actually hear the nearby surf.

He found himself liking the vibe of the place. As with all good beachside spots, there was something old about it, timeless. It seemed like a way station, an outpost at the end of things.

When he came to Bennett’s place, he crossed the street and crouched in the shadow between two houses opposite and sat staring.

All the lights were off. Was Bennett asleep, dreaming sweet dreams after a long day of failing to catch him? It was looking like it.

He waited for almost half an hour. When he crossed the dark street, he saw that from its neatly painted porch rail an American flag was flying. Apt shook his head. Mike, Mike, he thought. Don’t you know you’re supposed to bring Old Glory in at night?

The cluttered back deck was baffling, like a Toys “R” Us fire sale. Blow-up air mattresses, water guns, a rusty bicycle. Careful not to knock anything over, he crept up the steps and peeked in the back-door window. A Reagan-era fridge, a massive table with breakfast bowls, spoons, and folded napkins all set out for the morning. He counted at least a dozen settings. What was up?

He was bent, scrub-picking the door lock, when he heard something behind him. The air mattress by the stairs had moved. Had the wind knocked it over? But there was no wind.

Then something cold and hard slammed down on top of his head, and he felt his legs give out and the deck rushing toward his face.

Chapter 100

HIS SKULL ON FIRE and his vision blurring, Apt pulled himself up onto his knees.

He wiped his eyes. There was a kid in front of him on the top step of the deck. He had an aluminum baseball bat on his shoulder. He was Hispanic, maybe ten or eleven, wearing Yankees pajamas.

“Who are you?” the kid said, brandishing the bat. “I saw you come past my window. You’re a Flaherty, aren’t you? Why the hell can’t you people leave us alone?”

Apt put up his hands as the kid feinted with the bat. He couldn’t believe it. He’d come this far and some ten- or eleven-year-old punk had taken him out? With a bat? What kind of crazy father was Bennett, anyway?

“Wait. I’m not Flaherty,” Apt said.

“Bull. You look crazy. What’s that? A Mohawk or something?”

Apt stood up, holding his aching head, smiling. “I think there’s been a mix-up. Are you Mike’s kid? I work with your dad. I’m a cop, too.”