Worst Case (Michael Bennett 3)

THAT DISMAL NEWS was still ringing loudly in our ears as the St. Edward’s students’ fathers showed up in a squad car.

Tall and fair with graying executive hair, Howard Parrish looked like a CEO out of central casting. I recognized his face from the tabloids due to a very messy divorce he’d gone through the year before. Edwin Mason, short, dark, and wearing glasses, had more of a professorial air in his jeans and sports coat.

“What the hell is this about, my boy? Tell me this instant!” Parrish said by way of greeting as he stepped onto the NYPD’s Critical Incident bus.

“Howard’s right. Could someone please give us the straight story?” Edwin Mason said with a pleading calm.

“Your boys are being held hostage in the Stock Exchange by a man named Francis Mooney,” I said bluntly. “He’s the man who’s responsible for abducting and killing several wealthy young adults in the past four days.”

Parrish’s face went hypertension-tomato-red.

“That damned school sent home a bulletin just yesterday about beefed-up security. How could this be allowed to happen? And why my boy? There’s hundreds of kids at that school. Why mine?”

“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Mason said, looking steadily into my eyes. “You’re leaving something out.”

“There is more to it,” I said. “Mooney contacted us a few minutes ago. He said he’s willing to do an exchange. Your boys for you.”

“For us?” Parrish said, bamboozled. “You mean he wants to hold us hostage instead? Why?”

“In addition to being obviously unstable, Mooney has a radical-left history that goes back to the sixties,” Emily said. “Bottom line, he’s extremely dissatisfied with wealthy people. There’s a whole quasi-political motive wrapped up in his actions. At least, that’s what he seems to believe.”

“Goddamn liberals!” Parrish said, his voice cracking. “The goddamn liberals are actually going to kill my son!”

Mason took off his glasses and put them back on again.

“Does why really matter, Howard?” he said wearily. “Our boys are in real trouble.”

“We’re doing all we can to resolve this,” I cut in. “It’s entirely up to you how you want to play things. We can’t force you to exchange yourselves. We can’t even advise it. There’s no way to guarantee your safety. But if you volunteer, we won’t get in your way. In fact, during the exchange, we might be able to create an opportunity to resolve things.”

“Volunteering isn’t a choice,” Mason said after a second. “My wife died six years ago. My son is the only thing I treasure in this world. Send me in.”

Chewing on a pinkie nail, Parrish stared at the bus floor between his wingtips, deliberating for a few moments.

“Yes, okay,” he finally said. “Me, too. Send me in, too, of course.”

Chapter 91

MY HEART WENT out to the two CEOs as we exchanged their coats for bulletproof vests. Many parents believe that they would gladly give up their lives for their children’s, but these men were actually being given the choice. The simple, staggering courage they were showing blew me and every other cop in the room away.

“I don’t want to die, Edwin,” Parrish said as his eyes welled with tears. He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to anyone there. “But hey, I’ve led a good life. Been really, really fortunate. I always tried to do my best. And if I do go, at least my money will go to my boy and a good cause: the AIDS Research Alliance.”

“Well said, Howard,” Edwin Mason agreed, squeezing Parrish’s shoulder. “That’s the right way to look at things. My dough is destined for Amfar. Millions of people will benefit from what we achieved.”

Wait a second, I thought. Charities again? Something suddenly occurred to me.

“Who does your legal work, Mr. Mason? Who did your will?” I said.

“Ericsson, Weymouth and Roth,” Mason said.

I don’t know whose eyes went wider at the mention of Mooney’s firm, Emily’s or mine.

“That’s funny. Small world. Mine, too,” said Parrish.

Emily and I faded into the corner of the bus.

“Charities? Wills?” she said. “This is definitely connected. Mooney was the head of Trusts and Estates, wasn’t he?”

“Wait a second. Damn it!” I said. “There was something Mooney said in our last conversation. Something about the Ash Wednesday Gospel.”