Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(28)

The two security people had moved to within earshot. Maybe the senator wanted witnesses in case I went off on him. I broke the strained silence with “What can I do for you, Senator?”

“I’d be happy if you went back to New York. Maybe help the citizens who pay your salary.”

“I don’t understand. I’m on vacation.”

From everything I had heard about the senior senator from New York, his way was the only way, and he clearly wasn’t expecting any pushback. He stared at me as if to get a better look. Then I realized he was trying to intimidate me. I’d been threatened by drug dealers with knives to my throat. His idea of a threat was damn near pleasant.

The senator decided to take a different tack. He said, “You ever thought about what you’re going to do after the NYPD?”

I didn’t answer. I knew it would drive him crazy.

The senator was undaunted. “I could use a law-enforcement liaison on my staff. A lot more money. You could move your family to someplace more livable, like Albany.”

I had to concentrate not to make the face I usually make at the sound of the three syllables in New York’s state capital. Then I looked at the senator and said, “You’re worried I’m poking around your son-in-law.”

“When he did nothing wrong.”

“Then he’s got nothing to worry about.”

The senator glared at me.

Then I said, “Your son-in-law is an interesting guy. With an interesting family. It’s funny, it feels like his whole family works for the government.”

“You mean his sister, Beth?” Now the senator gave me a crooked grin. “I’m pretty sure she’s a woman. Tough as nails but odd. As my mom would say, ‘as odd as a kid raised in a remote Adirondack farm.’ You should thank me for steering you away from her. Probably just another reason to leave. If you got on her wrong side, she might twist your head right off your body.”

I couldn’t control myself any longer. “What do you have against finding justice for a murder victim?”

“That’s not what you’re doing. You’re simply trying to ruin the reputation of a good man.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not even in Washington officially. Like I said, I’m on vacation.”

The senator stepped closer to me. He lowered his voice so his two security people wouldn’t hear. “And I’m not speaking to you officially. That’s why I can say, go home or hold on tight. You have no idea what’s coming your way if you don’t stop.”

Then I laughed out loud. If the senator thought it was uncontrollable nervous laughter, he was mistaken.

The senator almost shouted, “What’s so damn funny?”

“You sound like the blowhards who tell cops ‘I pay your salary’ when they’re being arrested. You’re not even any more polished than those assholes. You’re just an obnoxious, entitled politician. Good day, Senator.” I spun in place and marched away like I’d just dropped the mic. It felt glorious.





Chapter 35



The next morning, I had an appointment with Emily’s psychiatrist. She knew, thanks to calls from both Emily’s mother and Bobby Patel, that I was involved with the case.

Her office was two rooms in a professional building occupied by a few lawyers and a plastics company and located in Columbia Heights near the Smithsonian National Zoological Park. With no receptionist monitoring the waiting room, she opened the door to her office almost immediately.

I introduced myself and shook hands with the sixty-year-old Elizabeth Zeta. Her long dark hair had dignified streaks of gray. Her brown eyes were clear as she gave me a quick once-over. She had nice laugh lines around her eyes. I like that in people. I noted diplomas from Notre Dame. As Seamus would call it, the Holy Grail of the Catholic community.

She offered me a chair in front of her desk, but my eye was drawn to the green leather couch. In movies, psychiatrists always have similar couches. I really wanted to ask if I could lie on it while we spoke. I realized that would be unprofessional, so I sat in the offered chair. She sat in a second chair across from it.

Dr. Zeta explained to me that although she was trying to help the criminal investigation, she was required to follow certain parameters so that she didn’t expose any of Emily’s personal issues. I commended her professional attitude toward my dead friend.

After a few questions, Dr. Zeta said, “I’m sure you understand, Detective, that we all make choices. Some choices turn out well, and some don’t. Some people might agree with those choices, while others don’t.” She leveled those intelligent brown eyes at me and added, “I’m sure you’ve made choices others might disagree with during your career.”

I withheld a smile as I said, “You have no idea.”

She paused as she assessed my answer. Clearly she was sharp enough to pick up on body language and read into comments like that.

She made me consider my choices during this visit in DC. For the first time I wondered if insulting a US senator was helpful. Would it lead to finding Emily Parker’s killer? Or did I just throw up another roadblock to my investigation? To be fair, I’ve resisted my entire life being told what to do. Listening to that pudgy politician as he basically ordered me to return home had made something inside me snap. I wouldn’t have left if he had been holding a gun to me.