Worst Case (Michael Bennett 3)

“I am. Mike Bennett. Major Case Squad,” I said.

“Every development in this case is to be sent immediately to my office. And I mean every one. The Dunnings will be shown every imaginable courtesy in their time of need, first and foremost being their privacy.”

Staring into her ice-pick blue eyes, I suddenly remembered the nickname the City Hall press corps had given Hottinger. Still resembling the ballerina in the San Francisco ballet that she’d once been, the take-no-prisoners politico was called the “Barbed-Wire Swan.”

“This woman is a personal friend of mine, Detective,” Hottinger continued. “So I hope we’re clear on how this thing is to be run. I’ll be holding you personally responsible for any fuckups. Why are we running this, by the way? Are we even capable? I thought kidnappings were a federal offense. Has the FBI been informed?”

“Yes, they have, actually,” Emily Parker said, glaring at her. “I’m Special Agent Parker. And you are?”

Georgina whirled around, looking like she wanted to give Emily a roundhouse pirouette to the jaw.

“Me?” Hottinger said. “Oh, no one, really. I just happen to be the one who’s in charge of the capital of the world until the mayor comes back on Tuesday. You have any other stupid questions, Agent?”

“Just one,” Emily said, nonplussed. “Did it occur to you when you pulled up with your lights flashing that the person responsible for abducting Jacob could now be watching this building? They demanded that no police be contacted. Now it looks like you’ve blown that. I believe you were saying something about fuckups?”

I got between the two ladies before the fur started flying. And they say men can’t get along. I decided I was starting to like Parker a little.

“I’ll be in contact with your office, Deputy Mayor. As soon as I hear anything, so will you,” I said, guiding her out into the hall. “We’re still waiting for the perpetrator to call back, so if you’ll let us get back to work.”

Parker was blowing out a flushed breath as the apartment’s front door slammed behind Hottinger.

“This political personal-service crap pisses me off to no end, Mike,” Parker said. “First the attorney general, now the mayor’s office is involved? I actually got here on Dunning’s jet, did I tell you that? Do you think for a minute that there’d be this much effort if some poor nobody kid was abducted?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But think about it. If your kid were in danger, wouldn’t you pull every string you had?” In the kitchen, Mrs. Dunning slammed a muff

in tin hard enough to shake the glass in the French doors.

“You’re right. I would,” Parker said with a nod. “Can we at least both agree that the deputy mayor is one rabid bitch?”

“Now, on that one,” I said with a laugh, “I’m with you one hundred percent.”

Chapter 9

AT 3:55, DONALD Dunning sat down at the Chippendale desk in the study. On it were chess sets chiseled in marble, leather-bound books, antique tin soldiers, a seashell inlaid with gold. But his eyes, along with everyone else’s, were locked squarely on the phone.

It rang at the stroke of four. It was a different number from the first call, a 718 area code this time.

Dunning wiped his sweating hands on his slacks before he lifted the receiver.

“This is Donald Dunning. Please tell me what I have to do to get my son back. I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

“You mean except for calling the police when I told you not to?” the calm voice from the first call said. “Put them on the line. I know they’re there. Try to fool me again, and I’ll FedEx you a piece of Jacob in a biohazard bag.”

Dunning’s face went a shade of white I’d never seen before. His lips moved silently. I nodded to him that it was okay as I took the phone from his shaking hand.

“This is Mike Bennett. I’m a detective with the NYPD,” I said. “How’s Jacob? Is he okay?”

“We’ll discuss Jacob in due time, Mike,” the kidnapper said. “Did you hear that officious blowhard? His son’s life lies naked in my bare hands, and he thinks he can still give orders?”

“I think Mr. Dunning is just upset because he misses his son,” I said as I took out my notepad. “You’re obviously holding all the cards. All we want to know is how we can get Jacob back.”

“Funny you say that,” the kidnapper said. “About holding all the cards. I wish I really were, instead of absolute assholes like Dunning. Then this kind of thing wouldn’t be necessary.”

Former employee? I wrote on the pad. Disgruntled? Personal vendetta?

There was a pause, and then a strange sound started. At first I thought that I heard laughing, but after a second I realized the kidnapper was sobbing uncontrollably.

I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t tears.