But instead of getting ice cream, I hopped into the Impala and called into my squad to get the address for the Flaherty family in Breezy Point. Was that a little crazy? It was. But then again, so was I by that point.
Their house was on the Rockaway Inlet side of the Point about ten blocks away. I drove straight there.
They really did have a pit bull chained in their front yard. It went mad as I stepped out of my car and made my way up the rickety steps.
It wasn't madder than me, though. I actually smiled at it. After today and everything that I had seen, I was in a man-bites-dog sort of mood.
I pounded on the door.
"Oh, this better be good," said the bald guy who answered it.
The guy was big. He was also shirtless and in damn good shape, I could see: huge bowling-ball shoulders, six-pack abs, prison-yard pumped. There was another man, just as big and mean-looking and covered in tattoos, standing behind him.
I should have been cautious then. I knew a violent criminal mobster asshole when I saw one. But I guess I was through giving a shit for the day.
"You Flaherty?" I said.
"Yeah. Who the fuck are you?"
"My name's Bennett. You have a kid?"
"I got five of 'em. At least. Which one we talkin' about here?"
"Fat, freckles, about fourteen. Did I say fat?"
"You talking about my Seany? What's up?"
"Yeah, well, your Seany split my eleven-year-old's chin open today is what's up," I said, staring into Flaherty's soulless doll's eyes. "He had to go to the hospital."
"That can't be right," the man said, stone-faced. He smiled coldly. "We went fishing today. All day. It was sweet. Got some blues. Hey, Billy, remember when Sean caught that blowfish today?"
"Oh, yeah," the thug behind him said with a guffaw. "Blowfish. That was the puffy balloon thing, right? That shit was funny."
"See. Guess you made a mistake," Flaherty senior said. "Wait a second. Bennett. I know you. You got all those rainbow-coalition crumb crunchers, right? You're a cop, too. Look, Billy. It's the Octo-cop in the flesh."
"I do have a gun," I said with a grin. "You want me to show it to you?"
I really did feel like showing it to him. In fact, I actually felt like giving him a taste of my Glock.
"I know what they look like, but thanks, anyway," Flaherty said, cold as ice. "If you don't mind, though, I'd like to get back to the ballgame. Mets might even win one for a change. Have a nice night, Officer."
That's when he slammed the door in my face. I felt like kicking it in. The pit was in a frenzy. So was I. But even in my stress-induced hysteria, I knew that wasn't a good idea. I chose to retreat.
An empty Miller High Life can landed beside me as I was coming down the steps.
Young Flaherty himself waved to me from the rattletrap's second-story window.
"Gee, Officer, I apologize. Must have slipped out of my hand."
Even over the dog's apoplexy, I heard raucous laughter from inside.
Death all day and ridicule for dessert. What a day. I crushed the can and hit the stairs before I could take my gun out.
Chapter 25
RETURNING TO THE HOUSE with a full head of steam, I decided I needed some alone time. Wanting to make it both relaxing and constructive, I opted for doing what any angry, overworked cop in my situation would do. Inside the garage, I tossed down some old newspaper on a workbench and began field-stripping my Glock 21.
For half an hour, I went to town, cleaning the barrel and slide until everything was ship shape and shining like a brand-new penny. I'm not proud to admit that as I went through the motions meticulously, some un-Christian thoughts went through my mind concerning certain Breezy Point residents. As I reloaded the semiauto's magazine and slapped it home with a well-oiled snick, I made a mental note to set up a confession the next time I saw Seamus.
I discovered a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on a shelf behind a bolt-filled coffee can as I was cleaning up. One of my cousins must have left it there after his own Clark W. Griswold family vacation fiasco, no doubt. I drummed my fingers on the workbench as I eyed the half-full bottle.
Why not just get drunk and let the world go straight to hell? I certainly had a good excuse. Several, in fact.
As I stood there weakly and wearily pondering the Scotch bottle, beyond the front door of the garage I heard steps on the porch and the doorbell ring.
"Hey, is Juliana around?" a voice called out.
The voice belonged to Joe Somebody-or-other, some tall, friendly nonpsychotic high-school kid from up the block who kept coming around because he had a crush on Juliana.
"Hey, Joe," I overheard Juliana say a second later.
"Do you and Brian and the guys want to play roundup again?" the sly Breezy Point Romeo wanted to know.
"Can't tonight, Joe, but I'll text you tomorrow, okay?" Juliana said curtly before letting the door close in his face with a bang.
That was odd, I thought, heading outside and up the porch steps after Joe left. I knew my daughter had a bit of a crush on the lad as well. What was up?
I figured it out when I saw Juliana through the new front window. She was sitting on the couch, laughing, painting Bridget's toenails as Fiona and Shawna and Chrissy waited their turns. I spotted Jane sitting in the recliner with cucumber slices over her eyes.
I stood there shaking my head, amazed. Juliana knew how upset this whole Flaherty thing had made her little sisters, so she had scratched her plans in order to comfort them with some sister spa time. While I was itching to crack the seal on a bottle of booze, Juliana was stepping in, stepping up.
"Let's have a hand for father of the year, Mike Bennett," I mumbled as I plopped myself down on the front porch swing. I was still there when Mary Catherine came out. She frowned at my sad, self-pitying ass as she sat down beside me.
"And how are the Flahertys?" she asked.
I looked at her, about to deny my visit to the neighbors. Then I cracked a tiny smile.
"Bad news, Mary," I said, looking off down the sandy lane. "Which is about par for the course lately, isn't it? For this vacation. This city. This planet."
She wisely went back inside and left me alone with my black mood. When my work phone rang a half hour later with my boss's cell number on the display, I seriously thought about throwing it as hard as I could off the porch. Maybe taking a couple of potshots at it before it landed, my own personal Breezy Point clay shoot.
Then I remembered what my son Trent had said two days before. Who was I kidding? Vacations were for real people. I was a cop.
"This is Bennett," I said into the phone with a grim smile. "Gimme a crime scene."
"Coming right up," Miriam said.
Chapter 26
AS I DROVE THROUGH Queens twenty minutes later, I thought about a documentary I once saw on cable about the annual NYPD Finest versus the FDNY Bravest football game.
At halftime with the score tied, the firemen's locker room was about what you'd expect: upbeat, healthy-looking players and coaches encouraging one another. The NYPD locker room, on the other hand, was about as cheerful as the visitor's room at Rikers. In place of a traditional pep talk, red-faced, raging cops opted for screaming horrendous obscenities at one another and punching the lockers like violent mental patients.
No doubt about it, we're a funny bunch. Not funny ha-ha, either, I thought as I arrived at the latest atrocity, a murder scene along an industrial service road in Flushing.
I was a little fuzzy as to why I, of all people, needed to come to this godforsaken place in the middle of the night when I was already up to my eyeballs in the bombing case. But I was pretty sure I was about to find out.