James Patterson - Worst Case

“Ericsson, Weymouth and Roth,” Mason said.

I don’t know whose eyes went wider at the mention of Mooney’s firm, Emily’s or mine.

“That’s funny. Small world. Mine, too,” said Parrish.

Emily and I faded into the corner of the bus.

“Charities? Wills?” she said. “This is definitely connected. Mooney was the head of Trusts and Estates, wasn’t he?”

“Wait a second. Damn it!” I said. “There was something Mooney said in our last conversation. Something about the Ash Wednesday Gospel.”

I whipped out my cell and speed-dialed Seamus. Sometimes having a priest in the family came in handy.

“Listen up. I need your help here, Seamus,” I said. “No monkeying around. Today’s Gospel. Read me today’s Gospel.”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t listening? Remind me to box your ears next time we meet, ye heathen. Okay, I have it right here. Let’s see. Matthew six, one to four: ‘Beware of your practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them. For then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven. Thus, when you give alms, do not sound the trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and the streets that they may be praised by men. Truly, I say unto you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be in secret, and your Father who sees what is in secret will reward you.’”

“Wait a second. Read that back about the alms.”

“‘That your alms may be in secret,’” Seamus said.

That was it!

I grabbed Emily as I slapped the phone closed.

“I got it! Mooney’s giving alms in secret!”

“Giving what?” Emily said, confused.

“Alms. Charity. Don’t you see? In every case, the family had a philanthropic bent. And in every case, the child was the sole beneficiary of mega wealth. When Mooney learned he was going to die, he concocted this whole thing as a way to cut out the child and donate as much money as he could directly to charity!”

Emily stood there with her mouth open.

“That clever little weasel. That explains the deal with the tests he gave the kids. He was trying to see if they were socially conscious enough to be allowed to inherit their parents’ wealth. That explains why he let the Haas girl live. But how does that help us now?”

“I’ll tell you how,” I said. “Mooney doesn’t want to exchange the fathers for the kids. He’s not going to exchange anything. Mason and Parrish are both single. Once Mooney sees the fathers, he’s going to kill all of them. The fathers, the sons, and himself. The money won’t even have to wait for the fathers’ natural lifetimes to expire in order for it to go to charity. It’ll happen right now.”

Carol Fleming came over.

“What’s the story, guys? Are we sending the fathers in or not?”

“No way, boss,” I said. “But I think I have a plan.”

“Let’s talk about the horrors of the modern world that the greed in this room has helped to create,” Mooney said into the balcony microphone.

“Let’s go over the crimes that all of you here have helped to perpetrate. The environmental travesties, the worker exploitation and deaths, the public corruption and tax evasion. Do you care about the black lung and asbestosis that your corporate masters inflict on their workers? The pollution that your holy shareholders and investors condone?”

Mooney looked down at their blank faces.

“I was like you. I slaved for the corporate machine, protecting it from the law in ways regular people will never be privy to. Protected illegal price fixes and unethical policies against millions of regular working-class people. I saw crimes of unthinkable magnitude. I saw pristine waterways irrevocably befouled with pollution. No one was held responsible. No one went to jail. Why is that? Can anyone tell me?

“By the way, I can see that many of you here are grossly overweight. But what percentage of the world’s population is starving as we have our little talk here? Anyone have the answer? Don’t be shy.”

It took us five minutes to confer with my boss and the Hostage Rescue Team chief Tom Chow. Chow made the final arrangements over his tactical mic as Emily and I pulled on ceramic bomb vests.

“What’s the story now, Detective?” Howard Parrish said as we emerged from the bus. “We’re not going in now? What about my boy?”

“Something new has come to light. It’s our best chance to resolve this thing without any more innocent people getting hurt. We’re going to do the best we can, sir,” Emily said.

“That’s not good enough. Fuck that! I want my son alive. If you can’t guarantee that, then I want to go instead of him. I demand to!”

I stopped and held the executive by his elbow.

“Listen to me, Mr. Parrish,” I said. “I guarantee you that I will bring your son back to you alive.”

We walked away.

“What the hell are you doing, Mike? How can you make a promise like that?” Emily said under her breath as we headed down Wall Street toward the Stock Exchange entrance.

“Easy,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “If things go south, I won’t be around for him to yell at me.”

Chow met us at the security barricades and briefed us a final time while we walked through the maze of steel.

“Everything is in place,” he finally said, stopping by the Exchange’s door. “The rest is up to you two.”

Emily and I passed the metal detectors in the huge empty lobby. We walked silently, thinking our own thoughts as we stepped down the hall.

“Good luck, Detective Bennett. This works, I’ll buy you dinner,” Emily said as I stopped by the door that led to the balcony stairwell.

“Hope you brought your American Express card, Agent Parker,” I said as she continued on, heading for the trading floor. “Because if this works, I’m planning on about fifteen before-dinner drinks.”

Coming down the hall, Parker was grateful for the speed with which all this was happening. There was no time to think. Which was good. If she’d had to think about things, she knew she’d be walking in the opposite direction.

A couple of Stock Exchange cops were crouched by the last security station, staring through the window of the entrance to the trading floor. Parker badged them.

“Where is he?”

A couple of brokers cringing behind the trading desks whispered loudly.

“Watch it, lady. That guy’s nuts.”

“He’s got a gun,” a pudgy white guy with thinning black hair told her.

She stepped out into the space.

“You actually thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you, shit for brains! Yes, I’m talking to you, scumbag!”

“Who are you?” Mooney called over the microphone.

“Me? I’m a moral person who went to work today,” Emily screamed. “You, on the other hand, are a common murderer, a killer of children, a serial killer, and probably a pervert.”

“Hey, lady!” one of the brokers said. “Shut up! You’re going to get us all killed!”

“I am not!” Mooney yelled.

“I am not!” Emily said, mimicking him. “Who are you kidding? You got off on killing every one of those kids.”

“Those kids, as you call them, were worthless, useless. They deserved to die!” Mooney screamed. “Their parents should have educated them better. Should have taught them the importance of being human.”

“Oh, you’re teaching all of us humanity?” Emily screamed. “My mistake. I thought you were just killing children!”

Checking my watch, I knelt down next to the tactical “mouse hole” the HRT guys had already made into the hallway wall to avoid the explosives. At the top of the narrow stairs, I unscrewed the fluorescent light and laid it down carefully on the dusty, worn marble tiles and slowly opened the door.