Tick Tock

Chapter 57

THE REST OF MY DAY was nasty, brutish, and long.

Running with our new theory to find some connection between the victims, Emily and I split up and proceeded to try to interview as many of the victims' families as we could. Every session had been grueling. All the family members I sat down with were still confused and angry, raw with loss and grief. Laura Habersham, the mother of the girl who'd been killed in the Queens lovers' lane double murder, actually cursed me out before collapsing onto her knees in tears at her front door.

I didn't blame her in the slightest. I just helped her up and asked my questions and went on to the next poor soul on my list.

By the time I was finished, I'd spent twelve hours driving hither and yon through NYC's gridlocked outer boroughs and only managed to track down the families of four of the eight victims. Even so, it was a ton of data to crunch, a ton of potential connections. That was police work in a nutshell-too little or too much info.

Around ten p.m. that night, sweating, bone tired, and yet unbowed, I cornered 91st Street onto steamy West End Avenue. Stumbling over the opposite curb in the dark, I just managed to catch the sliding Chinese takeout and six Dos Equis I was balancing on top of the file box I was lugging. When my phone went off in my pocket, instead of stopping to answer it, I continued to soldier on toward the awning of my apartment house a block and a half away. Beat-ass tired cops in motion tend to stay in motion.

Since there was no way I could make it out to Breezy tonight alive, I'd have to make the best of it, crashing in my apartment alone.

My building's front door was locked when I arrived. Which was sort of aggravating considering how much my pricey prewar building charged for twenty-four-hour doorman service. Instead of putting down the heavy box, I turned and knocked on the thick glass with the back of my thick skull.

I almost fell down when the door was flung open suddenly two long minutes later.

"Mr. Bennett. I'm so sorry," Bert, the whiny evening-shift doorman, said hastily, tightening his loose tie. "Everyone else in the building is marked in, or I would have been standing right here at my post as usual. I thought you and the kids were away. We weren't expecting you back until next week."

I watched the short, old doorman yawn as he continued to make no attempt to help me.

"Yeah, well, you're looking at what they call a working vacation, Bert," I said as I walked around him.

Bert actually stopped me again halfway to the elevator to load me down even more with piled-up mail and packages.

"Don't worry, Mr. B. Your secret is safe with me," the old codger whispered, winking at my six-pack of suds. "I've been reading about your case in the Post. Who could blame you for hitting the sauce a little?"

I rolled my eyes as the door finally slid shut and the elevator began to take me upstairs.

Just what I didn't need in my life, another elderly wiseguy. And I was looking forward to a Seamus-free night, too.