Running with our new theory to find some connection between the victims, Emily and I split up and proceeded to try to interview as many of the victims’ families as we could. Every session had been grueling. All the family members I sat down with were still confused and angry, raw with loss and grief. Laura Habersham, the mother of the girl who’d been killed in the Queens lovers’ lane double murder, actually cursed me out before collapsing onto her knees in tears at her front door.
I didn’t blame her in the slightest. I just helped her up and asked my questions and went on to the next poor soul on my list.
By the time I was finished, I’d spent twelve hours driving hither and yon through NYC’s gridlocked outer boroughs and only managed to track down the families of four of the eight victims. Even so, it was a ton of data to crunch, a ton of potential connections. That was police work in a nutshell—too little or too much info.
Around ten p.m. that night, sweating, bone tired, and yet unbowed, I cornered 91st Street onto steamy West End Avenue. Stumbling over the opposite curb in the dark, I just managed to catch the sliding Chinese takeout and six Dos Equis I was balancing on top of the file box I was lugging. When my phone went off in my pocket, instead of stopping to answer it, I continued to soldier on toward the awning of my apartment house a block and a half away. Beat-ass tired cops in motion tend to stay in motion.
Since there was no way I could make it out to Breezy tonight alive, I’d have to make the best of it, crashing in my apartment alone.
My building’s front door was locked when I arrived. Which was sort of aggravating considering how much my pricey prewar building charged for twenty-four-hour doorman service. Instead of putting down the heavy box, I turned and knocked on the thick glass with the back of my thick skull.
I almost fell down when the door was flung open suddenly two long minutes later.
“Mr. Bennett. I’m so sorry,” Bert, the whiny evening-shift doorman, said hastily, tightening his loose tie. “Everyone else in the building is marked in, or I would have been standing right here at my post as usual. I thought you and the kids were away. We weren’t expecting you back until next week.”
I watched the short, old doorman yawn as he continued to make no attempt to help me.
“Yeah, well, you’re looking at what they call a working vacation, Bert,” I said as I walked around him.
Bert actually stopped me again halfway to the elevator to load me down even more with piled-up mail and packages.
“Don’t worry, Mr. B. Your secret is safe with me,” the old codger whispered, winking at my six-pack of suds. “I’ve been reading about your case in the Post. Who could blame you for hitting the sauce a little?”
I rolled my eyes as the door finally slid shut and the elevator began to take me upstairs.
Just what I didn’t need in my life, another elderly wiseguy. And I was looking forward to a Seamus-free night, too.
Chapter 58
I DROPPED THE FILE BOX of victim data with a thud in the stuffy air of my apartment foyer and stood for a strange moment, just listening. After the usually thunderous chaos in our rambling three-bedroom apartment, silence was an almost unique experience.
Sorting through the mail, I smiled at the return address of a cardboard tube that had arrived. I went into the big boys’ room and put up the action-shot Mariano Rivera Fathead that I’d gotten for my son Brian’s birthday. Brian was going to go nuts when he saw it.
“Just me and you tonight, Mo,” I said to the life-size wall cling as I left. “Welcome to old guy’s night in.”
I proceeded to turn on all the window air conditioners to high. Coming back through the living room, I lifted what looked like a plaid horseshoe off the floor. It was one of the girls’ Catholic school headbands, I realized. I twirled it in my hand before placing it on a coffee table littered with Jenga pieces and Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.
Taking a load off on my beat-up couch, I reflected on all the craziness of the past fifteen years of family life. It was a blur of big wheels and videos and kitchen tables covered in Cheerios, a lot of tears, more laughter. We’d converted the three bedrooms into five by using the high-end apartment’s formal dining room and half of the large, formal living room. Formal anything pretty much sailed out the window onto tony West End Avenue for Maeve and me once our incredible expanding family moved in.
The funny thing was, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
How I’d gotten my guys this far while putting away bad guys and keeping my job and a sliver of my sanity, I’d never know. Actually, I did know. Their names were Maeve, Mary Catherine, and, as much as I hated to admit it, Seamus.
Back inside my bedroom, I listened to the string of messages on the answering machine. The most recent one was by far the most intriguing.
“Yes, um, eh, he—, hello? Mary—Mary Catherine?” some fellow with a charming English stammer said. “It’s Jeremy Griffith. I, um, spoke at your class? I, um, do hope you don’t mind that I hunted down your number from the instructor. I don’t normally do things like this, but I—well, I’m here at this atrocious party, and I couldn’t stop thinking about those insightful links you made between German Baroque and Nordic Classicism. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I met someone who actually knew who Ivar Tengbom was, let alone would admit to being his number-one fan. Anyway, are you doing anything this week? I have another dinner with some MOMA people coming up on Friday and thought, eh, maybe you’d like to, uh, tag along. There, I’ve said it. If you can make it, wonderful. If you can’t, well, my and Ivar’s loss. Here’s my number.”
“Sorry, old chap,” I said, immediately deleting with extreme prejudice Mary Catherine’s Hugh Grant–like suitor. “Looks like you’re going stag.”
Was that wrong? I wondered, staring at myself in the mirror. I turned away. It most certainly was, and I most certainly didn’t care.
Chapter 59
I SHOWERED, tossed on some shorts, and brought a beer and my phone back into the living room.
“Hey, Mike,” Mary Catherine said when I called Breezy. “I was just about to call you. You’re not going to believe this. No Flaherty incidents, no stitches, no one even got sunburned. Even Socky the cat seems ready to twist by the pool tonight. How are you holding up? Are you on your way? I’ll save you some pizza.”
“Don’t bother, Mary,” I said, toweling off my wet hair. “I’m actually at the apartment. This case is looking like an all-nighter. Hey, I forgot to ask you. How was your art course this week?”