Worst Case (Michael Bennett 3)

“This report is excellent,” Parker said, turning the pages with an impressed nod. “Physical characteristics, behavior personality, and family dynamics. This NYPD thing doesn’t work out, we could use you down in Quantico. Tell me about the contact with the kidnapper.”

I went to the desk and pressed Play on the answering machine. Special Agent Parker squinted with surprise as the strange question-and-answer recording echoed through the room.

I clicked it off when it was over.

“Parents confirmed the person being questioned is Jacob,” I said. “Have you ever heard anything like that before?”

Parker shook her head.

“Not even close,” she said. “Sounded like an odd game show or something. Have you?”

I let out a frustrated breath.

“Sort of,” I said. “About a year ago, there was this guy who called himself the Teacher. Like this guy, he would blather on about our unjust society. Right before he blew holes in people.”

“Of course. The spree killer. The plane that crashed in New York Harbor, right? I read about that,” Parker said.

I nodded.

“Wait! The cop in the plane! Bennett, my God, that was you?”

I nodded again as she took that in.

“So, you think this is some sort of copycat?” Parker said.

I took a breath, remembering how hard I’d knocked on death’s door.

“For this family’s sake,” I said, shaking the last drop of coffee from my cup, “I hope not.”

Chapter 8

EVERY TWO MINUTES or so, Armando came in to refill our china cups from a polished silver coffee urn. I’d told him twice that he didn’t need to go to all the trouble, but he’d turned a deaf ear to us. He seemed as concerned about Jacob as his parents were.

The whirring sound of a mixer started in the kitchen. From the study, I saw Jacob’s mother, tears pouring down her cheeks, her hair mussed, her evening gown covered in flour, open the fridge and go back to the island, carrying eggs.

Armando made the sign of the cross.

“Poor Mrs. D, always she bake when she is upset,” he said in a whisper.

I’d shown Jacob’s room to Agent Parker and had just started going over potential media strategies when Detective Schultz called me over to the study’s window. Outside the Dakota’s main entrance, a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows had its blue police light flashing on its dashboard.

I immediately called down to the ESU guys doing surveillance on the street.

“What the hell is going on down there?” I said. “Kill those lights. Who is that jackass? This is supposed to be an undercover operation.”

“Someone from the mayor’s office,” an ESU sergeant stationed in the lobby said. “She’s on her way up.”

A minute later, a sharp-featured fifty-something woman with a salon-perfected blond bob came through the apartment’s front door.

“April! I came straight here when I heard the news,” she said.

Mrs. Dunning seemed taken aback as she was engulfed in the tall woman’s viselike embrace. So did Mr. Dunning when he was given the same treatment.

“Christ, this is all we need,” I mumbled.

It was the first deputy mayor, Georgina Hottinger. Before being promoted to the mayor’s second in line, she’d been in charge of the New York Improvement Fund, which roped wealthy individuals into paying for city events. Which would have been useful had this been a charity function instead of a kidnapping investigation.

“Who’s in charge here?” she commanded as she burst into the study. I guess she was through with the air- and ass-kissing.