Burn (Michael Bennett 7)

“I’m Bennett. Mike Bennett,” I finally spat out. “What is this? Who are you people? What’s going on here?”

The two guys looked at each other; the younger blond guy blushed a little and looked down, seemingly embarrassed. Besides the actor resemblance, there was something about the guy that seemed vaguely familiar. Then the older gentleman cleared his throat as he stood and offered his hand.

“Mr. Bennett, how do you do? My name is Peter Pendleton,” he said with a cultured southern accent as I halfheartedly shook his hand.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Pendleton said, smiling affably. He laid a pudgy manicured hand on the blond guy’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce my client, Robert Bieth.”

“Your client?” I said, dazed.

“Yes, Mr. Bennett. I’m Mr. Bieth’s lawyer,” the southern gentleman said, maintaining his friendly grin. “I know this must be a bit of a surprise, but we came here today to talk to you about your daughter. About Chrissy.”

“What!” I said, on the verge of passing out. “Chrissy? Why? Who are you?”

The lawyer opened his mouth. But before he could get out another word, the young blond guy suddenly stood up. There was emotion in his face now, I noticed. Instead of embarrassment, it seemed like a kind of sadness.

“Chrissy’s my daughter, Mr. Bennett,” he said. “I’m her father. Her real father. I came here to see my daughter.”

CHAPTER 36

HAVING BEEN A COP in some very crazy situations before, I’m not usually the type to get that fazed by surprises. But, boy, was this one mother of an exception. I suddenly felt dizzy, like all the blood in my body was draining out of my head.

“Chrissy’s father?” I said as I placed both of my hands on the cool granite of the kitchen island to keep myself upright. I stared down at the pattern in the rock, which suddenly seemed like it was moving.

“Yes, I’m her father,” Bieth said, his pale-blue eyes wet now. “You think you’re shocked? I just found out myself.”

“That’s enough, Robert,” the lawyer, Pendleton, said quickly. “It’s true, Mr. Bennett. Mr. Bieth just found out that he is Chrissy’s birth father, and he has every right to see her. You can understand that, right? I believe we saw her when we came in. Could you bring her in here, please?”

I finally looked up at the pushy lawyer and his client. Then I gathered myself together and held up a hand.

“Wait,” I said. “Wait one second. You come in here with all these claims and suddenly you want to see my daughter? I don’t think so. I don’t know you folks from a hole in the wall. That’s not going to happen. And who the hell do you people think you are, showing up on my doorstep without even the courtesy of a phone call?

“You know what? Never mind. I’m going to ask you to leave. The both of you. Now.”

The lawyer sighed. Bieth stood there red-faced with his mouth open, looking stunned now and quite confused. Like being told off and thrown out was a brand-new life experience for him.

“Let’s go, Robert,” the lawyer mumbled as he lifted the posh leather briefcase between his feet.

“He’s right, Robert. Listen to your lawyer. He seems really smart,” I said, crossing the kitchen and throwing open the apartment’s back door.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” the slick lawyer drawled as he ushered his client out the door.

Bullshit, I thought, staring at the back of the probably thousand-dollar-an-hour mouthpiece’s curly gray head. I looked at his fancy briefcase, wondering what was in it. Why did I have the funny feeling that Pendleton had quite the knack for intrusion, for showing up and barging in on people with his honey drawl and his pricy briefcase and Savile Row suit to bowl them over and get them signing on the dotted line before they knew what was going on?

Out on the back landing, Pendleton rang for the freight elevator, then turned and smiled amiably again. Bieth, behind him, already had a phone out, his angry red face aimed down at the screen. He seemed overly sensitive even for today’s often childish young adults. In fact, he looked like an upset overgrown baby with an electronic pacifier.

Still, I glanced at the side of Bieth’s face again, at the shape of his eyes and chin, his complexion. And began panicking inside some more. Because he did look like Chrissy.

Where is this crazy thing going? I wondered.

The lawyer sighed again. Even the man’s sighs seemed pleasant and civilized. I wondered if he billed extra for them.

“I just thought we’d come by on the outside chance that you might be able to talk reasonably about the situation,” Pendleton said as the freight elevator finally arrived. “But doing it the hard way, believe me, is fine, too, Mr. Bennett. You have yourself a good day, now.”

My reply to the civilized gent’s measured statement unfortunately wasn’t as pleasant.

I slammed the back door in his face hard enough to knock the kids’ pictures off the fridge.

CHAPTER 37