Step on a Crack (Michael Bennett 1)

I CHECKED IN with Paul Martelli on my cell as I pulled out from the hospital.

“Still nothing,” he told me. “Take your time. The hijackers are sitting tight. I’ve got your cell number.”

“Ned Mason still there?” I asked.

“He’s around here somewhere. We have you covered, Mike.”

I followed Martelli’s advice. I made a U-turn and then a left onto 66th Street, heading west to give a quick check on my kids.

It had started snowing lightly when I was in the hospital with Maeve, and the dusting on the brownstone walls and tunnels of the Central Park traverse I passed through looked like soft shakes of confectioners’ sugar on gingerbread.

This damn city, I thought, shaking my head, was determined to break my heart into a million pieces with its incessant Currier & Ives holiday season quaintness.

Where was a good mugging-in-progress when you needed one?

When I flicked on the FM radio under the police one, the song “Silver Bells” was playing. I was dangerously close to emptying my Glock into the dashboard when the soft, dulcet “Ring-a-ling, hear them ring” stanza began.

“Highway to Hell” by AC/DC was just starting when I violently flicked to the nearest rock station. That was more like it. My new theme song! I cranked the volume as high as it would go for the rest of the ride home.

I could hear my kids through my closed apartment door when I stepped off the elevator into the vestibule. Never a good sign, I thought as I turned the knob.

In the foyer, Juliana was sitting on the floor with her back to me, giggling into the phone. I patted her on the head lovingly before I disconnected the cord from the hall jack.

“Bed,” I said.

My second stop was the girls’ room, where a Mercedes Freer song was blasting. With her back to me, Jane was leading Chrissy and Shawna in an inspired dance routine. Though I could have scooped up the lot of them in a bear hug they were so cute, I vaguely remembered Maeve’s dictum on the inappropriateness of Mercedes Freer.

Three crystal-shattering shrieks sounded when I flicked off the radio, followed by an explosion of giggles and blushing when the girls realized I had been watching them dance.

“Well, well. I didn’t know Mercedes Freer was

having a concert here at our house. I’m sure the Underhills next door are quite pleased. I take it you all forgot to get your chores done as well?”

Jane looked cross for a moment, as if she was about to counter with some excuse, but then dropped her head.

“Sorry, Dad,” she said.

“Now that was the right answer, Jane,” I said. “No wonder you get such good grades. Come along. Looks like I have a few more arrests to make.”

Next stop was the living room, where Ricky, Eddie, and Trent were beached out in front of the blaring TV. They were watching the nonstop news coverage of the church takeover on CNN. The network already had its slogan in place—“Cathedral Countdown.” Again, I distinctly remembered that the channels allowed were restricted to ESPN, Food Network, occasionally TLC and Cartoon Network, and public television.

The three of them almost hit the ceiling when I hopped over the sectional and landed in their midst.

“Gathering research for a current events project, are we?” I said.

“We saw you!” Trent screamed after taking his hands away from his face. “On the TV! It’s on every station.”

“You’re still busted,” I yelled back at him.

Brian, my eldest son, was so into his MLB game on his computer in his room, he didn’t hear me enter. The ninja holds nothing on the father scorned. I flicked off the tower of his Dell as Barry Bonds was in mid–grand slam swing.

“Hey!” he said angrily as he looked up. “Dad? Dad!” he said.

“Brian?” I said back. “Brian!”

“I was … uh,” he tried.

“About to throw yourself on the mercy of the court?” I said.