Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Then why are you out here making calls?”

“I’m calling my girlfriend.”

“What’s her name?”

He hesitated.

Mary Catherine said, “You don’t know your girlfriend’s name?” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Then, in a very soft voice, she said, “Everyone knows, Patrick. How do you think I found you so easily? You’re going to end up like Brian. Just like him.”

He said, “Are you going to tell Detective Bennett on me?”

“I told you this was our little secret. This courtyard is almost like a confessional.”

He perked up. “Really?”

“Really.” Then she added, “But you’ve got to stop doing this. You don’t need to be something you’re not. It would kill your parents.”

“Maybe of embarrassment. They don’t care what I do otherwise.”

“You may think that, but it’s not true.”

He looked down at the ground again and said, “Besides, he’d never let me just quit. Brian couldn’t walk away. He’s shown us what would happen. People who cross him are tortured or killed. Just like the kid from P.S. 419. We’ve all heard about how his head was cut off. Even if it wasn’t on the news.”

Mary Catherine searched for an answer. “What if there was another way?”

“How?”

“Tell me his name. No one will know. I can get it to Mr. Bennett. He can work miracles.” She knew Michael’s reputation would play into Patrick’s decision.

And she was right.

Chapter 23

I was trying not to hit the gas too hard in my city-issued Impala. I was heading up to 116th Street, and the traffic along Broadway was just light enough to make me cocky. I was driving like a tourist—a little too fast and thinking about my destination instead of what was in front of me. To make matters worse, a light freezing rain had fallen across the city, making the roads slick.

I had gotten a tip from a former NYPD sergeant who now worked as a security guard on the Columbia campus. That was one of the perks of being on the force for a while: you knew a hundred former cops who had retired and were working private security jobs all over the city. Anyone who hadn’t moved to Florida was the head of security at some foundation or corporation. We were like an infestation of fleas. We just kept spreading out farther and farther.

In this case, it was working to my advantage. I had left the high school yearbook photograph of my suspected hit man, Diego, with the security people near the libraries Jimmy Hilcox had mentioned. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed the young man. That was based on the assumption that he actually studied at the libraries occasionally.

Then I got a call from Todd Schupper, a former financial-crimes supervisor who said he never wanted to look at another ledger book or calculator for the rest of his life. Columbia offered him a job strolling around the campus, and he jumped at it. They also allowed him to take one class per semester for free, and he figured by the time he was seventy he would’ve earned his degree in Asian history. A subject that had fascinated him since he was a kid.

I made my way to Columbia’s main library, known to most as Butler Library. It was actually on 114th just west of Amsterdam, and it was spectacular. The building looked like a Greek temple, with its massive columns in front. Inside, the soaring ceilings, heavy chandeliers, and tall windows had cost a fortune to build, especially in the Depression, when the building went up.

I met my buddy, who was standing near the information desk and chatting with a sharp-eyed reference librarian who looked like she had been there since the building opened.

Todd, heavier than I remembered him, greeted me in a low tone. “Mike, how are you?”

I shrugged. Everyone knew the story about Brian, and I didn’t want to go into it again. I just said, “Where’s the kid?”

Todd pointed toward the study area, furnished with ten broad wooden tables between shelves of reference books. I saw Diego, alone, at one of the far tables.

I watched him. I hoped that this was not our killer. He looked like a kid. He had neatly trimmed dark hair and the thin build of a distance runner. The way he stuck his tongue out while he concentrated reminded me of Brian.

Todd said, “You need backup?”

I shook my head. I was already committed to this, no matter what common sense told me about talking to a potential killer by myself.