I just couldn’t believe it. What had happened to Brian? My son, arrested for selling drugs. Both meth and a new form of ecstasy. It was almost too much to process.
I hadn’t lectured or yelled. He knew what a terrible mistake he’d made. He realized what could happen. Now I needed answers. I had to get to the bottom of this and save him. It didn’t matter to me if he wanted to be saved or not.
I said, “You’ve got to help us. Help yourself. I need to know who gave you that shit to sell.”
He just stared at me. There was no answer. Barely an acknowledgment.
“And right there near Holy Name. The kids…” I caught myself. I channeled my inner Joe Friday. Just the facts, ma’am. I gave it thirty seconds. Half a minute of dead silence in this tiny room. The chilling sounds of the lockup drifting inside. Cell doors slamming. Men yelling insults back and forth. For the first time in my career, it was depressing to me.
Finally, I calmly said, “Who gave you the drugs?”
Brian’s voice cracked as he said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t tell you.” He was resolute.
My world crashed down around me.
Brian and I were done for the day. There was nothing left to say. He wasn’t going to tell me what I needed to know. It could’ve been stupid stubborn teenage pride. Acting like a tough guy, or, more likely, fear of what would happen if he talked. That was relatively new in the culture cops operated in. The whole “snitches get stitches” attitude had popped up in inner-city neighborhoods and spread through music and TV shows. Now it seemed to be the mantra of anyone under thirty.
When the door opened, I had to snatch one more hug from my son. He wrapped his arms around me as well. Then I watched silently as a corrections officer led him away. He moved like a robot. His feet shuffling and the flip-flops making a sad slapping sound on the concrete floor.
I headed toward the exit, where my friend Vinny was waiting to lead me out. I said, “Is there anything you can do to protect him?”
He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “We have Brian in what we call the nerd ward. Hackers and financial guys who decided they weren’t going to follow the rules. Those sorts of perps. He only comes into contact with the general population if he goes out to exercise once a week or if we have to move people around because of trouble. But I promise, Mike, we’re keeping a close eye on him.”
This was special treatment because I was a cop. I wasn’t going to refuse it.
When he told me Brian was safe for now, I thought I’d break down and cry right in front of him.
What did people without friends working in the jail do? What about people with no access to a decent lawyer? It made me think about cases I had worked and how I would persuade people to cooperate. Now I saw that they often had no other choice.
Then Vinny took my arm, and as we started to walk, he leaned in closer and said, “The rumor is that the DA’s office wants to make an example of Brian. Wants to show that they’ll go after a white kid as hard as a black kid. And they want to look fair by not showing preference to a cop’s son.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the truth like that all at once. It felt like a punch in the gut. I slapped the cinder-block wall in frustration. The jolt of pain through my body reminded me that I had stitches in that hand. Blood stained the white bandage.
Vinny draped his arm over my shoulder and subtly headed us toward the exit.
I found myself shuffling, just like Brian. I wondered if it had something to do with this place.
This place I would never look at the same way again.
When I left the jail, I knew exactly what I had to do. By the time I got back to my van in Queens, clouds had drifted in and given the streets a particularly gloomy look. I couldn’t go in to the office. I was on leave. Officially for my injury, but unofficially for beating the murder suspect Laszlo Montez. Thank God no one asked too many questions about a guy who put a knife to a teenage girl’s throat and murdered two people.
My sergeant told me to just go with it. There might be an investigation later, but for now I was a hero who’d been stabbed by a murder suspect. The city sure didn’t care much about heroes’ kids.
But I was still a cop. And, much more important, a father.
Like any cop worth his salt, I had informants. The word snitch had fallen out of favor in police work over the last few years. But it’s hard to find words that rhyme with informant. “Snitches get stitches” is catchier than something like “Informants get dormant.”
Informants are a fact of police work. People like to point out all the problems with using informants, but few understand the benefits. They can go places cops can’t. Cops can’t be everywhere at once. Informants help in that effort. They also give insight into how a criminal thinks.
Jodie Foster didn’t need Anthony Hopkins’s help in The Silence of the Lambs because his character was a Boy Scout. He was a psychopath, and he found the break in the case. Informants are vital and horrible at the same time. And cops need them no matter how they feel about them.
I knew people. Some through favors and some through fear. Both seemed to work well. My biggest issue was that whoever gave Brian that shit was somewhere near Holy Name. At least that’s where he was operating. I had to be discreet.
My first stop was at a deli—or, more precisely, behind a deli—off La Salle Street. I ditched the van and walked to the alley behind the North Side Deli. After just a few minutes, a skinny white guy with a shaved head and tats up and down both arms stepped out for a smoke.
He didn’t notice me until I said, “Hello, Walter.” It was satisfying to see him jump. “You could pass for either a skinhead or a chemo patient. You need to eat a little more while you’re at work.”
The young man turned and said, “No labels, man. I just like short hair now. Besides, some of my beliefs don’t go over so well inside.”
I didn’t have time to waste. I said, “I need information.”
“I’m clean. You got nothing on me.”
“I don’t need anything on you. The statute hasn’t run out on the guy you stabbed over near Riverside Park.”
“That was self-defense. You even said he was just a dope dealer. I already paid that debt. I told you about the West Side gang’s gun stash.”
“You paid part of your debt. Now I need more. Unless you want the judge to decide what, exactly, is self-defense and what’s just a senseless attack.”
“But the guy wasn’t even hurt bad. A few stitches, a little blood. Who cares?”
I looked down at my bandaged hand and said, “I bet he cares. And I still have his contact info.”
Walter looked resigned as his head dipped. He mumbled, “What do you need to know?”
“Who’s giving meth and X to local kids to sell?”
“Man, this ain’t my neighborhood. It’s none of my business.”
“Make it your business.”
Walter caught my tone and looked up at me. “This means something to you, doesn’t it?”
I gave him a silent stare.
He said, “You’ll owe me.”
I just nodded.
“Big-time.”
I said, “Don’t push it, Walter, or some of your white supremacist asshole buddies might find out that your real last name is Nussbaum.”
I knew he’d do as I said.
I spread the love for ten blocks in every direction. By midnight I’d be a curse on the tongue of every dealer and informant on the Upper West Side.
I spoke with Lenny Whitehead, a black crack dealer whose daughter I once rescued from a gang he owed money to. Back then he’d offered to kill anyone I wanted him to. I thought it was a joke, but I didn’t want to push it.
Manny Garcia, a slick former Latin King, talked to me because I’d helped him when he was fingered for a homicide he didn’t commit. I found the real killer, and Manny had been my best friend ever since.
Billy Haskins, a former set designer I put away for selling coke to Broadway actors, talked
because he didn’t want any trouble. The little Bostonian had no use for New Yorkers other than as drug customers or producers willing to pay union scale.
Everyone was part of the program. I’d have answers soon.
All the social interaction with lowlifes had made me late to pick up the kids. When I pulled the van into the pickup lane, I saw my brood lined up along the fence talking with Sister Sheilah. That was never a good sign.
I rolled to a stop and hopped out, knowing the best defense is a good offense. Whatever Sister Sheilah was asking, I was prepared to answer.
I was shocked when she smiled at me. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing at first, because I’d seen her smile so rarely. I stammered, “S-sorry I’m a little late.”
She said, “Ten minutes is a little late. Forty-five makes me worried you’d forgotten you had kids.”
Was that a joke? I was too terrified to ask.
The sister said, “It’s no problem, Mr. Bennett. Bridget and I were discussing the fine points of bedazzling and other crafts.” She stepped toward me and led me by the arm away from the children as they started to file into the van. In a low voice she said, “We’ve been so worried about Brian. Anything new?”
“No, Sister. Not yet. There’s a long way to go.”
“We’ll pray for him and for you.”
“Thank you, Sister. I need prayers right about now.”
Once we were back home, I opened the door to a smell that made me smile. It was one of Mary Catherine’s standards. It took me a minute to pinpoint the aroma. Irish pot roast with brown gravy. I caught the look on each kid’s face as he or she crossed the threshold. Sometimes it’s the little things that can perk you up.
Mary Catherine came out of the kitchen looking like a young housewife from the fifties. A white apron, a smile, and a twinkle in her eyes.
She said, “Dinner in two hours. Two hours of hard labor. Homework first. The chores next. Cleanup last, and in that order.” She looked across the room, and for the first time I noticed my grandfather Seamus standing in the corner, looking out at the street below. She said to him, “You’re in charge of homework. Make yourself useful if you want to be fed.”
I doubted she had ever spoken that way to a priest when she lived in Tipperary or Dublin. But it was hard to think of my grandfather as a priest unless he was wearing his clerical collar. And sometimes even then it was hard to believe. But despite his impish and mischievous nature, he had been a blessing to me since my childhood. And now he was here for my children.
I watched the miracle of dinner at the Bennett house unfold. Mary Catherine was the author of this blessed event, and I couldn’t express how much I appreciated her efforts to keep the kids’ lives normal. She awed me. By dinnertime, the kids had their homework done, their chores completed, and the table set.
Once again the crowd was quiet. The empty chair where Brian normally sat didn’t help matters.
Seamus, sitting at the far end of the table from me, bowed his head, as he did before each meal. The kids followed his lead. He said in a low, comforting voice, “Lord, thank you for our many blessings. Thank you for our time together. Thank you for allowing us to realize how fleeting it can be. Please bless this family and protect our precious Brian. Amen.”
A quiet chorus of “Amen” followed.
Dinner proceeded with the clank of silverware and the occasional comment just to break the silence. Mary Catherine engaged Chrissy. She was our best chance if we wanted to hear a quirky, funny story from the day.
Mary Catherine said, “What did you learn in history today, Chrissy?”
Usually the little girl would light up at a chance to tell a story in front of the whole family. Instead she mumbled, “We talked about the men in Boston who decided we shouldn’t be part of England anymore.”
Mary Catherine took a moment and managed to gather everyone’s attention without saying a word. Then she said, “Listen, everyone. I know we’re worried about Brian. You can believe your father is doing everything he can to help him. But sometimes things don’t work out the way we expect them to. Not better, not worse—just not like we expect.”
Now she was playing to the crowd’s full attention.
“My brother Ken wanted to come to America. He’s a big, burly lad and a great fan of the Kennedys. All he talked about was coming to Boston. But he got in trouble.”
Shawna said, “What kind of trouble?” We were all hooked.
“It was a bar fight, and Ken punched a man who hit his head when he fell on the floor. My brother was charged with assault and later convicted. He didn’t have to go to jail, but he had a conviction on his record, and that kept him from doing what he expected to do. That conviction kept him from coming to America. But you know what?”
Chrissy and Bridget both said, “What?”
“Things turned out differently for him. He met a lovely girl. And now he lives right there in Dublin with two beautiful kids. He has a good job and is happier than he could ever think of being. It’s different from what he expected, but certainly not worse. Sometimes things happen in life, and we just have to accept them.”
I could almost see the kids understanding what she was saying and feeling better. It felt like the pace of eating even picked up. But Seamus was still quiet. None of his usual silly quips or semi-risqué jokes. When I looked at him, I could see why. He was silently crying, trying to hide it from the kids.
About the Authors
JAMES PATTERSON received the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community at the 2015 National Book Awards. He holds the Guinness World Record for the most #1 New York Times bestsellers, and his books have sold more than 350 million copies worldwide. A tireless champion of the power of books and reading, Patterson created a children’s book imprint, JIMMY Patterson, whose mission is simple: “We want every kid who finishes a JIMMY Book to say, ‘PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER BOOK.’” He has donated more than one million books to students and soldiers and funds over four hundred Teacher Education Scholarships at twenty-four colleges and universities. He has also donated millions to independent bookstores and school libraries. Patterson invests proceeds from the sales of JIMMY Patterson Books in pro-reading initiatives.
jamespatterson.com
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RICHARD DILALLO is a former advertising executive. He lives in Manhattan with his wife.
Books by James Patterson
Featuring Alex Cross
Cross the Line • Cross Justice • Hope to Die • Cross My Heart • Alex Cross, Run • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Kill Alex Cross • Cross Fire • I, Alex Cross • Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo) • Cross Country • Double Cross • Cross (also published as Alex Cross) • Mary, Mary • London Bridges • The Big Bad Wolf • Four Blind Mice • Violets Are Blue • Roses Are Red • Pop Goes the Weasel • Cat & Mouse • Jack & Jill • Kiss the Girls • Along Came a Spider
The Women’s Murder Club
16th Seduction (with Maxine Paetro) • 15th Affair (with Maxine Paetro) • 14th Deadly Sin (with Maxine Paetro) • Unlucky 13 (with Maxine Paetro) • 12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro) • 11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro) • 10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro) • The 9th Judgment (with Maxine Paetro) • The 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro) • 7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro) • The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro) • The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro) • 4th of July (with Maxine Paetro) • 3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross) • 2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross) • First to Die
Featuring Michael Bennett
Bullseye (with Michael Ledwidge) • Alert (with Michael Ledwidge) • Burn (with Michael Ledwidge) • Gone (with Michael Ledwidge) • I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge) • Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge) • Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge) • Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge) • Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge)
The Private Novels
Missing: A Private Novel (with Kathryn Fox) �
�� The Games (with Mark Sullivan) • Private Paris (with Mark Sullivan) • Private Vegas (with Maxine Paetro) • Private India: City on Fire (with Ashwin Sanghi) • Private Down Under (with Michael White) • Private L.A. (with Mark Sullivan) • Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan) • Private London (with Mark Pearson) • Private Games (with Mark Sullivan) • Private: #1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro) • Private (with Maxine Paetro)
NYPD Red Novels
NYPD Red 4 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 3 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp)
Summer Novels
Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan) • Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge) • Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro) • Sail (with Howard Roughan) • Beach Road (with Peter de Jonge) • Lifeguard (with Andrew Gross) • Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan) • The Beach House (with Peter de Jonge)
Stand-Alone Books
Murder Games (with Howard Roughan) • Penguins of America (with Jack Patterson and Florence Yue) • Two from the Heart (with Frank Costantini, Emily Raymond, and Brian Sitts) • The Black Book (with David Ellis) • Humans, Bow Down (with Emily Raymond) • Never Never (with Candice Fox) • Woman of God (with Maxine Paetro) • Filthy Rich (with John Connolly and Timothy Malloy) • The Murder House (with David Ellis) • Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan) • Miracle at Augusta (with Peter de Jonge) • Invisible (with David Ellis) • First Love (with Emily Raymond) • Mistress (with David Ellis) • Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge) • Guilty Wives (with David Ellis) • The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo) • Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp) • Toys (with Neil McMahon) • Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan) • The Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund) • The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard) • Against Medical Advice (with Hal Friedman) • Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet) • You’ve Been Warned (with Howard Roughan) • The Quickie (with Michael Ledwidge) • Judge & Jury (with Andrew Gross) • Sam’s Letters to Jennifer • The Lake House • The Jester (with Andrew Gross) • Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas • Cradle and All • When the Wind Blows • Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge) • Hide & Seek • The Midnight Club • Black Friday (originally published as Black Market) • See How They Run (originally published as The Jericho Commandment) • Season of the Machete • The Thomas Berryman Number
The Store Page 18
