Blindside (Michael Bennett #12)(66)

The cops had been impressed by the way I’d managed to stick the Dutch killer, Christoph, in the mud. Apparently there were John Doe warrants for him in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Latvia. New York would throw some more warrants in for him and his former partner, Ollie.

It could’ve been a hospital room anywhere in the States. White, clinical, dull, with a TV anchored to the wall. The only thing that surprised me in the room was Father Marty Zlatic sitting on the far side of the bed, chatting with a silent Bill Fiore. The FBI man was sitting up, with the bed elevated. He had tubes in his nose and two IVs in his right arm, with one of them bandaged into his hand.

Fiore turned his head as I walked in. Father Marty let a huge smile spread across his face as he stood up to greet me. He came around the bed and embraced me. “I felt Agent Fiore deserved some extra attention from me. Especially after you told me how he saved your life. God surely guided him into our lives.”

“It all worked out for the best, Father.”

“You had us so worried last night.”

“Sorry to cause you all this trouble, Father.”

The priest laughed. “Trouble? This is the most interesting week I’ve had in years. I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. Especially since you rescued the girl. I’ve been filling in Agent Fiore on everything. He is most impressed.”

I couldn’t help but smile when I looked toward the FBI agent. No employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was ever going to admit he was impressed by the NYPD. Especially in another country.

Fiore motioned me over to his bed with a movement of his left hand. I came closer, but he couldn’t speak clearly. He was weak and had too many tubes. He motioned me closer.

I lowered my ear toward his mouth in case he wanted to speak. I knew it would be hard for him to admit I had done the right thing saving Natalie. I didn’t intend to rub it in his face. Much.

As I leaned over, he tried to form a word. At first, it was just air brushing over his vocal cords without much response. Finally, after great effort, he managed to make his word clear.

I steadied myself on the bed, my head just above his mouth. Then he said, “Asshole.”

I started to guffaw. It was hard not to. A man who had risked his life, been shot twice, barely out of the operating room, and he still managed to summon enough strength to call me a name. I loved it. It completely restored my faith in the FBI.

I wouldn’t repeat to Father Marty what he’d said, even after the priest asked.

I looked down, and Fiore managed a smile under the tubes. I said, “I agree with you. If someone had come into my jurisdiction and ignored every reasonable warning I gave them, I would have choice words as well.” I patted the FBI man on his unbandaged shoulder. “Let me say it clearly in front of a witness. You saved my ass.” I quickly looked up at the priest, ready to change ass to life. Father Marty motioned to me to continue.

“I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told an FBI agent.” I liked the look of anticipation Fiore managed even under these difficult circumstances. I sucked in a breath of air and said, “You are one hell of a cop.”

I meant it.





CHAPTER 93





I’D NEVER FELT so safe preparing to board a flight in my life. Natalie and I were in a lounge at Lennart Meri Airport with several Estonian police officers and Bill Fiore’s FBI partner, Matt Miller. The Estonian police were growing more concerned about how Henry’s operation had flown under their radar for so long.

The cops could’ve been from any country. Command staff in suits, detectives in cheap jackets, and a few patrol officers, years younger than the others. Lots of bald spots and graying hair, a phenomenon that happens to all police officers, regardless of nationality—stress takes years off our lives. One of the less-talked-about aspects of police work, and one of the contributing factors to an early death after retirement.

I knew how uncovering an operation like Henry’s would lead to speculation about corruption, and that sometimes affects an investigation, because no one is sure who to trust.

Besides all the damage to the concrete columns, they’d found only a couple of casings and some blood in the warehouse room where the big shoot-out took place. I wasn’t much help finding the second office. Natalie was able to point them to where it was located, but Henry and his crew had cleaned the place out by the time the cops showed up.

As I sat in a comfortable cushioned chair, I muttered, “This is a lot of protection.”

Matt Miller, who sat next to me, said, “There’s no way the Estonians want to explain how a cybercriminal like Henry whacked you at the airport. They’re going to cover you like Secret Service agents around the president.”

I smiled and checked my watch. It was seven o’clock in the morning in New York, and I made the call I’d been avoiding. Telling your fiancée that you were almost killed is never fun. I figured I would gloss over a lot of the trip.

As soon as I heard Mary Catherine’s voice, any concerns I had vanished. All I wanted to do was get home. She had a million questions.

She quickly spit out, “Are you okay? How can I help? What’s Estonia like?”

“I’m fine. Don’t need anything. Estonia is nice.”

Before I could ask about the kids, she said, “Did you find the mayor’s daughter?”