Manhunt (Michael Bennett 10.50)
Later, as I was helping the kids clean off the table, my phone rang. I was prepared to let it go directly to voice mail, but I noticed it was from my lieutenant, Harry Grissom.
I tried to hide the weariness in my voice when I said, “Hey, Harry, how has your day been?” That got the rare laugh from my boss.
“You did a good job out there today.”
“You mean except for the part where I let a suspect beat my ass and get away.”
“From what I hear, you got a good look at him, you marked him with the cut on his face, and got a few licks of your own in. They all can’t be home runs.”
“Did you call just to try and cheer me up?”
“You’re assigned to work with a joint terrorism task force at the FBI building starting tomorrow.”
“Do they know that?”
“Frankly, I don’t give a shit if the FBI wants to work with us. But we’ve gotta give it a chance. By pooling our resources, we have a better chance of catching this jerk-off and unrolling the cell he’s connected with. And we gotta do it before they try something else.”
Chapter 8
I was ready to go at six the next morning, but I had been told to arrive at the FBI building at eight o’clock sharp, so I enjoyed having a little extra time with the kids and Mary Catherine. But at eight, that’s where I was: standing in front of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building on the corner of Broadway and Worth Street in lower Manhattan.
The building was the standard, drab government off-white color with an efficient, if not attractive, design. There were low decorative posts all around the property to discourage car bombs.
I had friends here. Agents I’d worked with and analysts who had helped me solve some of my biggest cases. But the Bureau’s attitude and ability to work with others was still questionable. Old habits die hard.
A tall, good-looking guy in his mid-thirties took his time
coming down to collect me from the front desk. He stuck out a big hand and said, “Dan Santos. You must be Mike Bennett.”
We walked slowly to a conference room behind the main FBI door. I was impressed that the entire office seemed to have shown up ready to work.
As we walked, Santos said, “I thought about joining the NYPD after I graduated from Hofstra.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I wanted to make a real difference in the world.”
I said, “I hear you. Guess I don’t mind just collecting a fat city paycheck without doing anything.” I could tell this was going to be a long special assignment.
The conference room was the new headquarters for the investigation into yesterday’s bombing. I recognized a few of the agents and a couple of the NYPD Intel people who were also working the case.
Santos walked me over to a woman sitting at a table in the corner. I could tell she was making a complete assessment of me with her pale-blue eyes. Apparently, I didn’t impress or disturb her, because she didn’t say a word and looked back at a report she was reading.
Santos said, “NYPD Detective Michael Bennett, meet our liaison from the Russian Embassy, Darya Kuznetsova.”
The woman extended her hand and said with almost no accent, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Her blond hair muted her hard-edged look. She was athletic, with broad shoulders, and attractive in every sense of the word. But something about her told me I’d never want to tangle with her.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat at the long table next to her. I tried to make small talk, without much success. Finally, I came right to the point and said, “What’s your job with the Russian Embassy?”
She turned that pretty face to me and said, “For now, I am the Russian liaison to this investigation.”
“I realize that. What is your title at the embassy?”
“I am just an assistant to the ambassador. They thought it would be a good idea for me to work with you because of Russia’s own issues with terrorists, and I might see or hear something that American police officers might overlook due to differing cultures.”
I said, “Am I missing something? Why would Russian culture be important in this investigation?”