Blindside (Michael Bennett #12)(6)

When I dropped to my knees, Shawna gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home safe, Dad.”

Trent chimed in, “Me too.”

So much for my hope that I could ease everyone into what had happened to me. And now I understood Mr. Underhill’s gross show of emotion. I had known word would leak out. Obviously I’d spoken to Mary Catherine about it. I’d told her not to make a fuss. Have something serious happen to you, then try to tell an Irish woman not to make a fuss. It would be easier to keep the sun in the sky an extra two hours.

Before I could even navigate into the kitchen, Mary Catherine found me and gave me a huge kiss.

“I appreciate the attention, but I’m fine.”

Mary Catherine said, “And I thank God for it. But your name has already been on the news. The guy who has the cable access show, Reverend Caldwell, is already in the Bronx saying that you’re a murderer walking free.”

“I thought you’d learned by now that most people don’t have any clue about the facts when they’re spouting garbage like that.” I half expected Mary Catherine to ask me if it was a good shooting. The only thing I had heard the news got right was that there were two men and a police officer involved.

Shootings were ratings monsters, so every news team covered them from start to finish. They always had the same elements: sobbing family members telling the world that their dead relative had been sweet and would have never hurt a fly. And in New York, no shooting was ever complete without the commentary of the Reverend Franklin Caldwell. The “people’s voice.”

To distract myself, I wandered back to the corner of the living room where my teenager Eddie had his face in a computer monitor. I needed something normal like this. Foolishly I said, “Need a hand with anything, Eddie?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. Another common occurrence. He said, “Thanks, Dad. I think I’ve got this. I’m writing an algorithm to find documents where references to The Lord of the Rings are made. Google just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Do you have any ideas where I should search?”

All I could do at this point was lean down and kiss the teenager on the top of his head. In his case, I’d never be the smart dad. The best I could be was a loving dad.

Even though all ten of my kids are adopted, I’m still at a loss to understand where they each got their unique skills. Eddie is a standout, with his phenomenal computer knowledge.

A few minutes later, my grandfather, Seamus, arrived. He was wearing his usual clerical collar, which identified him as a Catholic priest. Even though he’d joined the priesthood very late in life, he loved nothing more than walking around in his tab-collared clergy shirt.

He was the one man who knew not to coddle me. He was also the reason I didn’t like being coddled. He said, “Hello, my boy. Will you share a glass of wine with me? Think of it as a way to laugh in the face of death. You can drink and none of it is going to leak out through holes in your stomach or chest.”

Then he shocked me by giving me a hug. “Thank God the NYPD trained you well.”

We all filed into the dining room. I heard the news come on the TV where Ricky had been watching a cooking show. All I heard was the first line: “The Reverend Franklin Caldwell says he will personally investigate the claims that NYPD detective Michael Bennett shot an unarmed man in cold blood today.”

I cringed at the fact the kids had to hear something like that. My grandfather stomped to the TV and shut it off as he threw a quick scowl at Ricky for not turning it off after the show.

We all took our seats at the long table. One chair, as always, was left open for my son Brian. The other nine children, Mary Catherine, my grandfather, and I clasped hands for grace.

As always, Seamus said it. This time it was surprisingly short. “Dear Heavenly Father, all we can say today is thank you.”

Silently I added, Please have mercy on Ronald Timmons Junior’s soul.





CHAPTER 9





ALICE GROFF WAS impressed by New York City. It was everything she’d heard about when growing up in Berlin. Soaring skyscrapers, crowded streets, something to do every minute of the day. And yet she was bored. At least at the moment.

She and her business partner, Janos Titon, had accepted an assignment from a guy named Endrik “Henry” Laar, based in Tallinn, Estonia. He was some kind of cyber genius and had plenty of money. The issue was his God complex. How she hated to hear him go on and on about his ability to break any computer security system. Her grandmother had always told her that men who bragged were hiding their flaws.

If he was so damn smart, why did he have to contract out work? She knew he had a couple of Dutchmen who did dirty work for him. But this job called for a little more subtlety.

They had a list of several New York–based hackers. They had just found where the first one lived. His name was Tommy Payne and he had gone to some school in Massachusetts known for its technology. All they had to do was convince him to come work for Endrik, who liked to go by the Anglicized version of his name, Henry. If that failed, they’d been told to make sure he didn’t talk. That could mean a lot of things. She didn’t have time to decipher what Henry actually wanted. She was built for efficiency. That meant if this nerd wasn’t willing to work for Henry in Estonia, she’d put a bullet in his head.

Janos said, “Will you recognize him if he walks up the stairs to the apartment?” Janos was from Romania originally and they generally communicated in English. Today was no different.