Burn: (Michael Bennett 7) Page 20

  I immediately slammed on the brakes and wheeled left, the Chevy’s tires throwing dirt and gravel as we bumped up off the road into a construction site under the bridge.

  “Aw, c’mon, man,” I heard Washington say in the back as he clicked on a seat belt.

  When we came back out on the other side of the overpass, we saw Roger. He was back near the shelter, tearing away on the deceptively fast little vehicle across some baseball fields toward the shore of the island, where there was a footbridge back to Manhattan.

  I couldn’t let him get away. Not again. Arturo and Washington and I almost hit the roof of the Chevy twice as I sailed down and up over the access road’s two curbs. The Hispanic man sleeping at the bus stop got a rude awakening as I raced past the shelter into the baseball field at about sixty and climbing.

  I’d been on a few car pursuits in NYC in my time, but never an off-road one!

  Roger looked surprised when he turned around and saw me right on his quad’s bumper. He tried to turn again, but I was waiting for him. He and his vehicle went flying as the right front bumper of the Chevy tapped the rear of the quad, sending it into a fishtail that soon turned into a barrel roll over the diamond’s infield dirt.

  I screeched to a stop about a millimeter from home plate just in front of the fenced-in backstop, turning to see if Roger was still alive. Of course he was. Off the toppled quad and on foot now, he slipped through a gap beside the backstop and ran for the footbridge about a football field away.

  “I got this,” Arturo said, already out of the car and up-righting the still-running quad.

  I could hardly believe my eyes as my chunky partner pinned it after Roger through the gap in the fence.

  Roger was twenty yards from the base of the footbridge when Washington and I, watching through the chain-link, saw a fired-up Arturo leap from behind the wheel of the speeding quad. Like a three-hundred-pound Puerto Rican cannonball, he sailed through the air toward Roger’s sprinting back.

  It was a direct hit, center mass. Roger and Arturo went facedown in a plume of dust.

  When I finally got the car around the fence and screeched up, Arturo had already cuffed him. Still amped on adrenaline, Arturo leaped to his feet, dancing around, arms raised over his head like Rocky.

  “How’s that for fast, Mike?” Arturo yelled as Roger lay there gasping. “Oh, yeah! Uh-huh! Done! Finito! Over!”

  “Not bad, Lopez,” I said, laughing, as I finally got out of the car and gave him a high five. “Your form could use some work, but I have to hand it to you. You definitely nailed the landing.”

  CHAPTER 86

  A WINDOW-SHAKING RUMBLE of thunder woke me without preamble that next Monday morning. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, I remembered the meeting I had to be at in a couple of hours.

  How could I forget it?

  We’d been subpoenaed to appear at a preliminary custody hearing for Chrissy at ten a.m. at the Manhattan Family Court House downtown.

  I’d been going crazy on the phone with Gunny Chung all weekend. We’d been working hard on a pretty good game plan to nip this in the bud ever since Bieth had come uninvited to my house. We’d uncovered some very interesting information about Robert Bieth and his relationship to Chrissy’s birth mother that definitely threw this whole matter into question.

  But now, with the hearing staring me in the face, I wasn’t so sure.

  I clamped a hand over my stubbled chin as I stared out through the blinds at the rain pouring down from the glum, dirty-gray sky.

  Why the hell is this happening?

  I was still sitting there frozen with worry a minute or two later when my phone hummed on the nightstand.

  Michael God bless you and God bless Chrissy said the text from Mary Catherine. I let out a breath. Despite the fact that my nanny was an ocean away dealing with her own heartbreaking problems, she’d insisted that I keep her in the loop on Chrissy.

  What time was it in Tipperary? I wondered. Noon? And how did Mary Catherine even know I was awake?

  Because she was Mary Catherine, of course. Nothing was hidden from the angels and saints.

  The phone gave off its little hum again as I was putting it back down.

  Everything will turn out well. I know it will, Mary Catherine had typed.

  “I’m glad you’re confident, lass,” I whispered to the screen in the dark as I stood. “Because I’m not so sure.”

  Shaved and dressed ten minutes later, I walked into Chrissy’s bedroom to find her not only already awake but already ready. Her face was scrubbed, her curly blond hair washed and carefully combed and ponytailed, her nails polished. Wearing her nicest poufy dress and a cardigan and tights, she looked like she was on her way to Easter Sunday Mass.

  “Look, Daddy. I’m all ready for our special day,” my little girl said.

  I’d been very vague to Chrissy about the whole situation from the beginning. Today I had promised her a special lunch, just the two of us, after an appointment I had with some people downtown. I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do, but I was out of ideas, as well as time. I just couldn’t stand scaring her.

  I shook my head as I smiled at Juliana and Jane standing behind her. Without being asked, my two eldest daughters had gotten up early and gone way above and beyond.

  “You guys are the best sisters in the world, you know that, don’t you?” I said to them.

  “We had to help, Dad, especially with Mary Catherine gone,” Jane said solemnly. “We also know how important it is that everyone know how much we love Chrissy, even if they don’t know us.”

  That was when my dread came back with a vengeance, along with a dull wave of anger and sadness. Because I could see now what this whole ordeal was doing not just to me and not just to Chrissy but to all the kids in my entire fragile family.

  This was an adopted kid’s worst fear come true, I suddenly realized.

  The feeling that no place was secure no matter how much you were loved. That you were always just one knock on the door from being taken away.

  CHAPTER 87

  THE OLD TWENTY-STORY stone courthouse building just west of lower Broadway on Worth Street was about as cheerful as a cell block. I’d been doing relatively OK on the ride south, but as our cab pulled up in front of the soulless gray monolith of a building, I didn’t think I’d ever felt so hopeless and helpless and alone in my life.

  It was so bad that instead of going straight in after getting out of the cab, I actually stood in the rain with Chrissy, racking my brain for a way not to go to this horrendous hearing. The alternative plan I kept coming back to was to go home and pack and pick up everybody from school with the van and just keep on going.

  Because if living in New York meant that some flaky stranger could just march into my house and take my daughter away, then maybe it was high time to go find some new place to live. We’d done it before.

  As I stood there continuing to stall, Chrissy tugged her hand out of mine and suddenly jumped and splashed with both feet into a huge sidewalk puddle.

  “Chrissy, what are you doing? Stop, you’ll ruin your shoes!” I cried.

  “It’s OK, Daddy. I’m making them shinier. See?” she said, kicking and sloshing her feet through the water.

  I pulled her out of the puddle and finally caved and reluctantly walked us in through the Family Court building’s old brass revolving door. After we went through the always-exciting lobby metal detector procedure, during which Chrissy was actually wanded, we took a dusty elevator car up to seventeen and came down a wide, dingy, dimly lit corridor to a pebbled-glass-paned door.

  On the other side of it, I gave my name to a grim, heavyset brunette clerk behind a cluttered desk. I stared at the JUDGE CEYAK sign on the mahogany door behind her. I already knew from reading the subpoena that Ceyak was the name of the man who somehow had been handed complete control over my family and the rest of my daughter Chrissy’s life.

  “And what’s your name, young lady?” the clerk said cheerfully
to Chrissy, smiling. “You look so pretty. I love your dress.”

  The clerk seemed nice enough, but Chrissy wasn’t having any of it. In response, she dug in behind my leg and said absolutely nothing. I didn’t blame her. Disney World this was obviously not.

  As we sat dripping on a wooden bench by the door, I handed Chrissy the Nintendo DS I had smuggled from the house to keep her distracted. Over the chimes of Super Mario collecting coins, I could hear an indistinct voice talking softly into a telephone from behind the dark-wood door. I was just about to text Gunny again, when he opened the door to the hall.

  Robert Bieth was right behind him with his own lawyer, Pendleton.

  “The judge is ready, gentlemen,” the clerk said, standing and opening the door behind her desk.

  I reluctantly left Chrissy on the bench and followed my lawyer into the judge’s chambers. I was thinking that there would be two tables set up, like in a courtroom, but instead there was a line of padded folding chairs in front of a small writing table.

  Behind the table, wearing his robes, was Judge Ceyak. Fiftyish, with gray hair and a scruffy beard, he reminded me of the gravelly-voiced “you’re gonna love the way you look” guy from those men’s clothing store commercials. I seriously wondered if we were gonna love the way we looked after these proceedings.

  “Firstly, Your Honor,” Pendleton started in his dulcet, genteel southern tone before everyone was even seated. “I’d like to apologize for being late. Our flight up from Miami was delayed and—”

  “Thanks, that’s fine,” Judge Ceyak said impatiently, cutting him off in much gruffer, less genteel New Yorkese. “Gentlemen, I know you must be as eager to begin as I am, so let’s get right to it. Mr. Pendleton, do you have your client’s DNA test results, which I requested over the phone?”

  “They’re right here, Your Honor,” Pendleton said, handing over a sheaf of papers from his Cross briefcase.

  “And you, Mr. Chung? Do we have the Bennett girl’s DNA information?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, we do, but first, I’d like to present something else that has recently come to light on this issue that I believe is of even more import,” Gunny said, removing a stack of papers from his battered valise.

  “Of more import than DNA?” Judge Ceyak said, giving Gunny an annoyed look. “What could be more important than establishing genetic linkage, Mr. Chung? I thought I explained on the phone that this is just a formality to get the ball rolling and that we would have plenty of time to get into everything else as the case proceeds.”

  “I do remember, Your Honor,” Gunny said, still offering him the papers. “But if you would humor me just this once, I promise, you won’t be sorry.”

  I held my breath in the silence that followed. This was really the do-or-die moment for our plan. We needed to bring this legal machine to a screeching halt before its gears could start turning and pull Chrissy and all of us in.

  “You have five minutes,” Ceyak finally said with a sigh. “This better be good, Chung.”

  CHAPTER 88

  GUNNY STOOD AND TOOK a Post-it-flagged Us Weekly magazine off the top of the stack and folded it open in front of the judge.

  “I’d like to direct your attention to this photo from the American Music Awards of last year,” he said. “As you see, in the top right-hand corner of the page, Mr. Bieth here is accompanying the celebrity pop singer Amora on the red carpet.”

  “Magazines? Really?” Pendleton said. “This is silly. That Mr. Bieth is in a relationship with Amora Searson is common knowledge. Mr. Bieth worked for the celebrity singer as a backup dancer. They fell in love. Will we next be shown the Entertainment Tonight clip that chronicles their relationship? How does this matter, Judge?”

  “Mr. Chung?” the judge said.

  “Because of this,” Gunny said, peeling a printout from the stack. “This is a copy of a TwitPic and a tweet Amora sent out to her thirteen million followers three months ago. As in the magazine photo, again we see Mr. Bieth and Amora, but this time poolside with Amora’s two adopted boys from Rwanda, Alexander and Harry. The accompanying tweeted caption reads, ‘Just hanging with my boyzzz livin the good life finally after the tour. Though a pretty little girl would make my life even good-er I think…’”

  “Which means?” Pendleton said.

  Gunny turned toward the judge, who seemed to be losing his patience.

  “Mr. Bieth’s claim is that he’s here for his daughter because he just found out about her existence. How curious it is to see this sudden revelation coinciding with his celebrity love interest’s desire to acquire a new human accessory—I mean, excuse me, to adopt a little girl.”

  “Coincidences happen all the time, Chung,” Pendleton said. “The fact of the matter is, my client never knew of this pregnancy, let alone signed off on any adoption. Now trot out the DNA that proves paternity. This poor young man has been put through enough. He wants his daughter back.”

  Gunny looked at Pendleton for a long beat. Then Gunny looked at me, and we both smiled. My fingers were crossed even tighter now. It was time to reveal our ace in the hole. Or was it the joker?

  “Of course he does,” Gunny said, reaching into his jacket. “But first, there’s just one more thing.”

  He laid a photograph on the desk in front of the judge.

  “This photograph was found on Barbara Anjou’s memorial Facebook page, posted after her suicide three months after Chrissy’s birth.”

  Instead of the red carpet or a mansion poolside, this last photo had been taken in what looked like a crummy hospital room. But Bieth was in this one, too. Along with Chrissy’s birth mother, who was holding a day-old Chrissy.

  “If you want a magnifying glass to read the tag on Chrissy’s wrist, Your Honor,” Gunny said, taking one from his pocket, “I happen to have one right here.

  “This photo proves the fact that Mr. Bieth knew about Chrissy from the very beginning,” he said. “He chose not to care about her in the slightest. That is, until now, when custody of Chrissy would provide him an opportunity to stay in the good graces of his wealthy paramour.

  “This case hinges on the claim that Mr. Bieth had been kept in the dark. It’s obvious that was never the case. We move for you to dismiss this claim right now.”

  Judge Ceyak looked through the magnifying glass for a long minute, then laid it down on top of the photograph. When he looked up, Pendleton and then Bieth both put their heads down. Pendleton raised his head and opened his mouth for a moment; then he closed his mouth and lowered his head again.

  In the silence through the doorway, I could hear the glorious sound of my beautiful daughter humming happily and obliviously as she played her video game.

  “I have one question for you, Mr. Pendleton,” Ceyak said.

  “What’s that, Your Honor?” Pendleton said.

  “With this rain, you’re going to find it difficult to get a taxi back to the airport,” Ceyak said. “Would you like the number of a good car service?”

  CHAPTER 89

  EARLY THAT FOLLOWING FRIDAY afternoon, I found myself back in the thick of things at work.

  After several—at times heated—meetings between me, my boss, Miriam, and the chief of detectives, a proposal of mine had finally been approved concerning the diamond heist case.

  With all the panache and boldness that the crew had already displayed, coupled with the fact that each score had been bigger than the one before, it was obvious they weren’t done yet. It was my theory that they would strike again in the splashiest way possible sometime during the International Diamond Conference, which had started on Wednesday. Also, considering how quickly the thieves had escaped in each robbery, I knew we needed to be right there on the scene when it happened.

  So after much debate and volunteering my Harlem squad guys for the special assignment, a multilocation round-the-clock surveillance detail had finally been approved for Tiffany’s and Harry Winston and the Diamond District. Straws were drawn, and for the last three days, Arturo L
opez and I had been having our breakfasts at Tiffany’s.

  Across from the famous jewelry store on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-Seventh Street, we sat in the back of a graffiti-covered white box truck watching the world go by on the surveillance vehicle’s hidden high-def camera. So far there had been no sign of the thieves. Or even Audrey Hepburn.

  I was getting concerned. Surveillances, with all the overtime, were quite expensive, and the one thing I didn’t need any more of was egg on my face.

  “Hey, Mike, check this out,” Arturo whispered from the corner where he was working the camera.

  “What is it?” I said, rushing over to see that he had the camera trained on two tall, attractive, well-dressed young blond women hurrying across Fifth.

  “Man, look at them! Look how tall they are, and they’re like superrich and so hot! They’re models, right? They have to be.”

  “I think you’re right, Arturo,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Why don’t you hop out and ask for their numbers? Show them the badge. You know, lay down some of that famous Latin charm on them.”

  Lopez looked up hopefully. Then he frowned.

  “Yeah, right. In my dreams. They’re wooml.”

  “Wooml?”

  “Way out of my league.”

  “In that case, how about you keep the damn camera focused on the store where it belongs,” I said as I plopped down on the camp chair behind him and cracked open a Red Bull. “I vouched for you on this gig, Arturo. The least you could do is pretend you’ve been below Ninety-Sixth Street before.”

  I pressed my push-to-talk radio.

  “Hey, how are things with you guys?” I called to Brooklyn and Robertson, stationed ten blocks south down Fifth Avenue in the Forty-Seventh Street Diamond District.

  “Same as they were when you asked us five minutes ago,” Brooklyn radioed back. “So far, so quiet. Not to mention that Robertson just came back with coffee and forgot the diamond necklace I asked him to buy me. Imagine, and I thought we were partners.”