Worst Case (Michael Bennett 3)

EMILY LOOKED EVEN more confused as my doorman, Kevin, opened the lobby door.

“How much do they pay New York City cops?” she said as we headed for the elevator.

“Very funny,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’m not on the take. It’s a long story, but basically I won real-estate lotto.”

You could hear the ruckus as soon as the elevator opened in my foyer.

“Is someone having a party?” Emily said.

I laughed as I opened the door.

“Oh, the party never ends around here,” I said.

Everyone was in the living room. Seamus. The teens, the tweens, and the little ones, who were getting bigger and more expensive by the hour. Wall-to-wall people, laughing, fighting, gaming, watching TV. The mosh pit that was my home life.

“Dad!” several of my kids cried when I was eventually noticed.

When I turned back to Emily, I could see that she was beyond confused and now deep in utterly bamboozled territory. I smiled, remaining silent. Teasing her was becoming quite pleasant.

“They’re not all yours,” she said.

“Except for the priest,” I said, making an expansive gesture with my hands. “He’s just a loafer.”

“Very funny,” Seamus said. “We won. So there.”

“No!” I yelled, stricken. “No, it’s not possible. How? You threatened to excommunicate the other team?”

“No, I tried something you wouldn’t know about. Sound coaching techniques. Take that, ya wiseass,” Seamus said. “Now how about introducing me to your lovely friend here.”

“Emily, meet Father Seamus Bennett, our local pastor, and though I don’t like to admit it too often, my grandfather. We’re working together on a case, Monsignor. Emily’s an FBI agent.”

“FBI,” Seamus said, impressed, as he shook her hand. “A G-lady in the flesh. Is it true they let you torture suspects now?”

“Just annoying old men,” I answered for her.

The kids, finally noticing that there was a stranger in their midst, quieted down and sat staring. Trent, one of our family’s many comedians, stepped over like a four-foot-tall butler.

“Hello,” he said, offering his hand to Emily. “Welcome to the Bennett home. May I take your coat?”

Emily stared at me as she shook his hand. “Um . . .,” she said.

“How do you do?” said Ricky, getting in on the act. “It’s sooo nice of you to come for dinner, ma’am.”

“All right, you goofballs. Enough,” I said.

Just then, Juliana, my oldest girl, stopped as she came in from the kitchen. She pulled out her ever-present iPod earbuds before turning back for the kitchen.

“Mary Catherine, Dad brought a guest home. Should I set out another plate?”

Mary Catherine appeared a minute later.

“Of course,” she said.

“Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to impose, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Did you hear what she said?” cried Chrissy. “Hey, everyone. Did you hear that? She called Mary Catherine Mrs. Bennett!”

“I’m sorry?” Emily said, looking at me, raw pleading in her face.