Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(18)

I had completely lost my appetite.





Chapter 22



I sat on the stool in the rundown sports bar and stared at the TV until a follow-up segment came on the news. The bartender never walked by to see if I had eaten my cheeseburger or needed anything. I laid a twenty on the bar and shuffled across the sandy hardwood floor and pushed through the door with the sketchy hinge.

I’m not even sure how I got back to my hotel. All I did was nod at the valet as he took possession of the small purple Prius. I shambled to my room like a zombie. I was numb. And my brain was working no better than that of a mental patient who hasn’t received his daily meds.

I’ve never been a big drinker. Most times that was probably a fortunate decision. Right now I could understand turning to alcohol to numb the pain. I sat on the edge of the bed and let my brain run unfiltered.

I had lost friends before. Cops are murdered on a regular basis. The public doesn’t say much about it, but cops mourn together at the loss of every officer. The fact that Emily was also my friend only sharpened the pain. I wasn’t ready to accept that interesting, intelligent Emily could just stop being part of my world. Whether it was her choice or not. I already knew how much I’d miss her.

My mind turned to the small gestures that had made Emily dear to me, how she had gone above and beyond the call of duty when my family and I were in witness protection. Or how she would call just to say hello.

I thought about making a call home. Then I decided to not let my mood infect my family.

When my phone rang from across the room, it startled me. It was Bobby Patel calling, and I knew why. Even though I didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to hear confirmation, I answered.

The first thing I said was “I saw it on the news.”

Bobby said, “Just making sure. Are you doing all right?”

I mumbled, “Yeah. I think so.” I didn’t even know what I was saying. Then I remembered to ask, “What about you?”

Bobby groaned, then said, “It’s tough, but what are you going to do?” There was silence between us until finally Bobby said, “I’ll call you tomorrow after the autopsy.”

I had to do something, so I got off the bed and walked with a purpose down to the business center. My favorite computer was free, and I started doing research on the Supreme Court justices. I looked through some websites. There were a lot of them, and much discussion of conspiracy theories about who should or should not be on the Supreme Court.

Then I focused on Justice Robert Steinberg. An article about his sister, Beth Banks, who’d kept her name from a previous marriage, ran with an impressive photograph of an attractive, athletic-looking woman in her early thirties. Her short dark hair and glasses didn’t soften her image at all.

I thought again about Emily’s calls to me in Ireland. Maybe she had been going to tell me who was trying to kill her. Maybe it had been just to say hello. Either way, it made me realize there was no way I was going back to New York without knowing who murdered my friend.

This was now a homicide investigation. That was my territory.





Chapter 23



I woke up with what felt like a hangover. An emotional hangover. It was probably a good thing I hadn’t drunk alcohol. I could barely imagine feeling any worse than I already did.

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling of my standard hotel room. I thought about all the hotels I’d stayed at over the past twenty years. Most were exactly like this. Clean, cold, and dull. White ceiling paint dotted with a sprinkler head and a fire alarm.

I’d slept in fits last night. I had called Mary Catherine a little on the late side. I had to break the news to her before I went to bed. I felt pain as intense as a smack in the face when I had to say out loud that they had found Emily’s body. After all the years of seeing bodies, I never get used to the way they seem discarded. Especially a body that’s washed up onshore. They’re often mistaken for trash. It’s a sad and unthinkable situation.

Mary Catherine cried and, trying to support me, attempted to sound brave. I told her I was fine but tired. She accepted that, and we kept the call unusually short.

I knew the only way to find peace in this situation was to go at it hard. No matter what the DC Metropolitan Police thought. No matter how the FBI might react to me going rogue. I knew my time in DC was limited. Sooner or later the FBI would find out I was here and complain. So the first thing I did was call someone not with the FBI. Someone who got me: Roberta Herring.

Roberta agreed to meet me at the entrance to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, a short walk from my hotel. As I made my way through the lobby, a local TV news story caught my attention.

The reporter narrated a montage. Emily as a young agent, walking a crime scene. Cut to the crime scene around her body. Finally, an ambush of Emily’s mother. I cringed when I saw the reporter shove a microphone in Mrs. Parker’s face and ask how she felt about her daughter’s death. I didn’t go to Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, but that seemed like a pretty obvious question.

Mrs. Parker didn’t acknowledge the reporter. As he followed her up the porch steps, the reporter yelped. Then the sound dissolved into dogs barking or growling. I don’t know which one bit the reporter, but I was definitely a fan.

As soon as the story ended, I walked out the front doors of my hotel. Fresh air and the brief autumn sunshine did me some good. I was wearing my Holy Name basketball windbreaker while my sport coat was still at the hotel dry cleaner. I thought about making them do it a second time just to be on the safe side.