Worst Case (Michael Bennett 3)

Hastings and his lawyer disappeared into the stateroom for a quick powwow. Carbone emerged five minutes later alone.

“Mr. Hastings will be paying the money and delivering it himself. That’s nonnegotiable. He’ll wear a wire so he can be kept track of, but that’s it. Otherwise, follow the kidnapper’s instructions. No air surveillance. Hear me, Bennett?”

I knew at some point in this case I’d be required to apply the skills I’d learned as a hostage negotiator. I just never thought I’d have to use them in dealing with the victim’s father.

We reluctantly had to agree. It really was up to Hastings how he wanted to play things, especially with the ransom. But that didn’t mean we would shirk our responsibility and not use everything within our power to get his son back alive.

Emily and I quickly made calls to our respective agencies to relate how badly things were stacking up. My boss, Carol Fleming, told me she’d heard of Hastings’s mouthpiece, Carbone. The lawyer was known to represent mob types.

Could that fit into this? I didn’t know. But we didn’t really have the time to check it out. We had a deadline in less than two hours, and we needed our people in place yesterday.

Standing by the bar, Mr. Hastings was drinking coffee now as our techs wired him up. His corporate people were busy packing the money. I understood the instructions for it to be in a rolling suitcase, because even in hundred-dollar bills, the ransom would weigh almost ninety pounds.

“This guy can hardly tie his shoes. How’s he going to save his son?” Emily said.

“He’s not,” I said. “We are.”

Chapter 47

DETECTIVES RAMIREZ AND Schultz had to stay and rough it back at the yacht as Emily and I raced up the West Side Highway and then crosstown along 155th Street. Traffic wasn’t so bad, but then again, we didn’t bother stopping for any of the red lights.

Housing Police sergeant Jack Bloom from Police Service Area 4 met us at the rear of the Polo Grounds Housing Project’s most southern building.

“We patrol up here with guns drawn,” the Housing cop advised as we arrived on the roof. “There’s sexual assaults, beatings. We beg Housing to keep the roof doors locked, but they keep saying they can’t because of fire codes. Even when you’re patrolling the courtyards below, you need one eye up in case some kid wants to send you a little airmail.”

There was an incredible view of Yankee Stadium across the Harlem River. Bloom told us that the projects were built where the historic Polo Grounds baseball stadium had been located.

“Get out of here,” Emily said. “You mean the Giants-win-the-pennant, shot-heard-round-the-world Polo Grounds?”

Bloom nodded grimly.

“The only shots heard round here anymore are from the drug disputes in the stairwells.”

“Well, it’s definitely another hellhole like the other two locations,” I said to Emily. “So maybe it is our guy, after all.”

Twenty minutes later, we were radioed that Gordon Hastings was present and accounted for, waiting with the money in a town car half a block west on 155th. I checked my watch. It was four thirty. Fifteen minutes to contact.

Everything that could be set up was ready to go. Though not actually in the air, Aviation was waiting in Highbridge Park a little farther uptown. A Harbor Unit boat was on standby as well a little ways south down the Harlem River, in case anything was thrown into the water.

Two ESU surveillance teams and a contingent of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team were getting in place inside several apartments surrounding the development’s south playground. Over the radio, I could hear them aligning frequencies with one another.

If our guy was dumb enough to show up, we would bag him. I truly hoped he was.

I let out a tight, tense breath as I stared down at the project yards. For the first time, we had something the kidnapper wanted. We had to bet our only chip very carefully now.

Five minutes later, Emily called me over to the roof wall.

“Mike, check it out.”

Down on the plaza beside the playground, some young black men in traditional African garb were setting up instruments. A moment later, a rhythmic drumming filled the courtyard.

“Nice beat,” I said. “You want to African dance?”

“No, idiot,” Emily said. “That’s us. They’re from the New York office’s Special Surveillance group.”

“No way,” I said, laughing.

Emily nodded.