Chapter 29
I buried my head deeper under my pillow as a little hand shook my big foot. By the brightness of the light trying to crash through my sealed eyelids, I knew I was late for work, and I couldn't have cared less.
I didn't even want to start thinking about, let alone dealing with, the mind-blowing letter I'd received last night from the Son of Sam.
Then there was a giggle and more fingers wrapped around my other foot. Two someones were now having some silly fun at Daddy's expense. Two about-to-be-spanked someones.
'Daddy,' Shawna said, wiggling my ear.
'No es Daddy here-o,' I said in my best Speedy Gonzales voice as I peeled her hand off. 'Daddy es mucho nighty-night.'
'But Daddy, you have to come,' Shawna said. 'Grandpappy is cooking breakfast. Grandpappy.'
'What?' I said, rolling to my feet in my Manhattan College boxers.
Seamus cooked breakfast on one occasion only. Christmas morning. The funny thing was, it was so good, it was worth the yearly wait.
I couldn't believe it as I came into the kitchen and the smell hit me. It was true. Seamus, in a chef's hat, was working all the burners, and the table was already a feast of pecan bacon, links from heaven called Pork King Sausages, eggs, home fries, and pancakes. Seamus had gone to town. All the way downtown, in fact, I thought as I saw a stack of homemade doughnuts covered in powdered sugar.
'What gives, Seamus?' I said as he laid down some sizzling blood pudding. 'You leaving us? Is that it? You're heading back to the ol' sod, Danny boy. Is this farewell?'
'You wish,' he said, pointing the spatula at me. 'If you haven't noticed, this family is in need of some cheering up ever since we went to war with Clan Flaherty.'
'Dad?' said Juliana as I took my place at the head of the table. 'Could you at least, like, I don't know, put on a bathrobe?'
Everyone was smiling around the crowded dining-room table. Even poor Ricky with his stitches.
'Why do I have to be so formal, Juliana?' I said, smiling back at everyone. 'Is Joe coming by?'
'Ooooh!' everyone said.
'Ooooh yourselves,' Seamus said, coming in with a platter of buckwheat pancakes. 'How about we say grace instead. Mr. Bennett, you lead us, if you can even remember it.'
'Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts,' I said as we all joined hands, 'which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord.'
'AMEN!' everyone agreed heartily.
Joking aside, I actually did say a prayer for the professor's poor wife who was about to give birth. I even asked for help to catch the insane son of a bitch who blew her husband's head off at point-blank range.
I was in a breakfast-grease coma and biting into my first doughnut when someone made the mistake of putting on the TV.
'Dad! Dad! You have to see this!' Ricky yelled.
'I'm a cop,' I said, calling into the family room. 'Don't mess with a cop when he's anywhere near a doughnut.'
I winked at Mary Catherine across the table. She seemed to be in a good mood, having slept in while Seamus cooked. Maybe today would turn out better than yesterday, after all. I was due for a small miracle. Past due.
'But it's another bombing, Dad. At Rockefeller Center. No one dead, it says at the bottom of the screen. But a dozen people are in the hospital. The mad bomber strikes again!'
Rockefeller Center? This loser didn't quit, did he? Or was it two people? One Son of Sam copycat and another fool?
I didn't even look for my phone. I didn't need my boss to tell me where I needed to be.
Running for the shower, I passed Seamus coming in with the coffee.
'I'll need to take that to go.'
Chapter 30
Pedal to my city-issued Impala's metal, flashers and siren cranked to full amplification, I plowed a swath through the BQE's left lane that morning.
A scraggly red Ford pickup that had missed out on the Cash for Clunkers deal tried to cut in a hundred feet in front of me. His mirrors must have been broken, as well as his ears. I roared up until I was practically in his rusting truck bed before I sent him packing with a fierce barrage of machine-gunning yawps and whoops.
No wonder I was on the warpath. What was happening was beyond incredible. Police presence had been beefed up at all major public places around the city, and still our bomber had managed to set off even more explosives. At the same time as all three network morning shows were being broadcast, no less!
I thought about the crime scene from the night before.
I lifted my BlackBerry as I pounded past a nasty stretch of Queens tract housing and half-finished construction sites. Talking on the phone was beyond stupid and reckless, considering I had my cop car up near the three-digit range, but what was I going to do? Stupid and reckless happened to be my middle and confirmation names this crazy morning. It was time to brainstorm with Emily Parker down at the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program in Virginia.
'Parker,' Emily said.
I quickly told her about the previous night's murder scene and the Son of Sam letter addressed to me.
'So not only is someone setting off bombs every three seconds, but the Son of Sam has apparently returned,' I said in conclusion. 'And to top things off, the only connection between the crimes so far seems to be a desire to correspond with lucky old me.'
'You think the three terrorist acts are connected to the Son of Sam copycat killer?' Emily said. 'That is truly bizarre.'
That's when I remembered what Ricky had said as I was leaving. I almost ran off the elevated expressway.
The mad bomber strikes again!
'Wait! The Mad Bomber. Of course!' I cried. 'It isn't a terrorist act, Emily. The bombings are copycats, too. There actually was a Mad Bomber who terrorized New York in the forties or fifties, I think.'
'Hold up, Mike. I'm at a computer,' Emily said.
I could hear her typing.
'My God, Mike, you're right. It's right here on Wikipedia. The guy's name was George Metesky. He was known as the Mad Bomber, and it says here that in the forties and fifties, he planted bombs at New York landmarks. Wait! It says he planted bombs at the Public Library and Grand Central Terminal.'
I shook my head.
'Is that what this is?' I said. 'Someone or more than one person is copycatting two famous crime sprees at once?'
'But how?' Emily said, sounding astounded. 'Think about the logistics. How could it be coordinated? Four bombings and a double murder in a little over twenty-four hours?'
'Well, from the sophistication of the bombs, we're not dealing with dummies,' I said as I fumbled my grip on my phone. I was just able to catch it against my chest.
