Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)

To linger on such things was fraught with danger, I knew. A massive land mine of buried feelings had built up since my wife had died, and thinking about Mary Catherine in this manner was like taking a jog right through the middle of it. I did it, anyway. Of course I did. Every cop is at least a little bit suicidal.

Hard as it was, eventually I had to get down to brass tacks. I rubbed my eyes for a few minutes, putting back on the armor, and guzzled some coffee. Then I flipped the murder folder open and re-entered the land of the dead.

I read over everything meticulously. What I was most interested in was the connection between Berger and Apt. What had drawn them to each other? Was it a cult thing, like Emily had suggested? Could just two people qualify as a cult?

Mary Catherine came out after a while and refilled my mug. She’d gotten changed as well, unfortunately.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, smiling. “I appreciate you keeping the savages at bay. Speaking of which, why is it so quiet?”

“The older guys went to a fireworks show, and Seamus took the peewees to miniature golf. They’ll bring back pizza.”

“We’re alone? Heck, what are we waiting for?” I said, starting to stand. “I’ll get the beers, and you take a seat.”

She put her hand on my chest.

“Not so fast, slacker. I got the kids out of here so you could have some peace and quiet. You need to work. You need to catch whoever it is you’re chasing, and take off the rest of this dwindling vacation for real. At this point, I want to catch him just so you can have a break. It feels like I’m at work just looking at you.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” I said.

Mary Catherine’s smile lit up the back porch.

“You know, that’s funny. I keep asking myself the same question,” she said.

I reluctantly went back to my wretched reading. As I pored over the case files, I was again struck with regret over not being able to keep Berger’s death out of the press. If Apt really was brainwashed, we could have used it to somehow lure him in.

But had we lost it after all? I suddenly wondered. What if we set up some sort of memorial service? Maybe something in Central Park, across the street from his building. A chance for all his friends and family, if he had any, to pay their respects.

I heard the phone in the kitchen a few minutes later. I didn’t want to know who it was. The commissioner, probably. Someone in a position of authority, without a doubt, ready to dole out more responsibility or more punishment. I wanted neither.

It turned out I was wrong. It was actually worse.

“It’s that woman from the FBI,” Mary Catherine called out coldly from the back door.

I sat up as if I’d just been busted doing something.

“Uh,” I said. I forgot I had given her the number of the beach house just in case my cell battery died.

“Take the call, Mike,” Mary Catherine said. “She’s practically drooling on the other end. ‘Is Michael there? Can I speak to him, please? Is this Mary Catherine?’ ”

“Hello?” I said, back in the kitchen.

“I hope I’m not bothering you, Mike.”

“Pity the thought,” I said. “What’s up, Emily?”

“You know how we’re having trouble placing Apt in the databases? Well, I think I found out why. I just got a call from an agent friend on the Joint Terrorism Task Force. A cousin of his might have some information on Apt. She wants to set up a meeting for Monday.”

“Why can’t this cousin tell us over the phone?”

“She works in Intelligence, Mike. As if this case needs some more intrigue. Apparently, the CIA has something to do with this now.”

Chapter 86

GERSHWIN PLAYED FROM A PIANO as Apt shook another peanut into his mouth. A $19 cocktail called a Whiskey Smash sat untouched on the black-granite bar in front of him.

The place was the Bemelman Bar in the luxury Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue, only a few blocks from Lawrence’s apartment. Carl knew it was risky to come here, but he didn’t care. The white-jacketed waiters, the art deco furniture, the dreamy lighting. Like the Tea Garden at the Plaza Hotel, and the 21 Club, it was one of his favorite places in the city.

He looked at himself in the bar mirror. Form-fitting Dior Homme black polo, Raf Simmons skinny black jeans, chunky gold Rolex Presidente. Confident, stylish, a sense of moneyed swagger. He fit right in, didn’t he? Which was quite odd when you considered where he’d come from.