“Well, they made it, the two knuckleheads, despite all their own efforts to the contrary,” Seamus said.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to even think about what could have happened to them once I had gotten to the bottom of the saga of Marvin and Brian and the drug dealer. Sometimes, if you’re wise and like to sleep at night, as a parent you say, “All’s well that ends well,” and leave it at that.
Which is exactly what I did say as I handed Seamus and Mary Catherine brimming plastic cups.
After I clicked cups with two of my twelve favorite people in the world, I took a long, much-deserved sip out in the cold air as Fordham booted the ball high and long for the kickoff.
Marvin, of course, being the biggest and yet somehow fastest kid on the field, made the first tackle, sending a Xavier kid into a sideline tuba player.
I patted Marvin’s uncle, in front of us, on the back.
“Tuba players, be warned,” I said, smiling. “We expect nothing less than the Bronx’s version of Bo Jackson.”
Mr. Peters, who was almost as big as his nephew, gave out a bellowing laugh. The sweet old man had finally made it up from North Carolina to stay with Big Marv, who had moved out of the Bennett abode amid many teary good-byes and hugs two days before. We were all going to miss the big galoot.
“And remember, Mr. Peters, he’s to play basketball at Manhattan College,” Seamus said, patting the man’s huge shoulder. “Not Manhattanville. Just plain old normal, Catholic, meat-and-potatoes Manhattan. In Riverdale. Don’t forget, now.”
Chapter 99
I was heading down the bleachers for the next round when I got the text from my good buddy Paul Ernenwein.
How’s it hangin, Miss Oakley? it said.
Rootin tootin, I texted back, laughing at our little inside joke.
There had been a lot of hoopla about the shot that had dropped the assassin. Especially the fact that he had been shot through the hand holding his rifle before he’d been killed. World-famous snipers had weighed in with glowing reviews of the shot’s professionalism, which suggested years and years of training. The Post even did a detailed mock-up of it. Where the chopper was. Where I was. Where Matthew Leroux was. A dotted line showing the trajectory of the bullet up 67th Street.
I had to struggle to stifle my laughter every time I looked at the 100 percent wrong mock-up or read one of these lauding reviews.
Because the whole thing, the famous world-class shot, was actually a complete accident.
Before I was able to adjust my aim, the big awkward CheyTac rifle had slipped from where I’d placed it between the crenellations. Grabbing at it to keep it from falling, I’d hit the damn thing’s hair trigger.
Call it dumb blind luck. The hand of God. But I had nothing to do with shooting the Brit through his hand holding the rifle.
Since I knew hoopla to be far more trouble than it’s worth, I had actually insisted that Leroux had done it. After the shot, Matthew Joseph Leroux died right there on the roof as we were trying to get him back into the chopper. Crediting him was the least I could do for his poor family after all the sacrifices he had made for us.
The Brit’s real name, it turned out, was Andy Heathton. The FBI had sent a photo of the body to British intelligence, who had finally been able to ID the shooter. The thirty-nine-year-old professional killer had been born and raised in Leeds, England, and had been taught how to shoot by the British Royal Marines at age twenty-one. Apparently, he had spent the next several years of
his life as a mercenary, killing folks all over the world.
His wife, Holly Heathton, thirty-three, who was thought to be responsible for the remote-controlled dump truck that had rammed the motorcade, was caught by customs out at JFK, trying to leave the country the night of the attempted assassination.
You hear? Paul texted me a second later.
About what? I texted back.
“About the Times article,” Paul said from behind me.
I turned and stared at the redheaded fed.
“No,” I said. “But something tells me I’m about to find out about it.”
“C’mon,” Paul said, patting me on the shoulder as he pocketed his phone. “Let’s walk and talk.”
Chapter 100
“We arrested Secret Service SAC Margaret Foley late last night,” Paul said as we walked down a breezy drive past Fordham’s beautiful old stone buildings.