James Patterson - I, Michael Bennett

They cheered as though we were rock stars when they saw the arrested gang members in the back of the van. They even offered us refreshments as we passed, just as they would hand them out to marathon runners. Everyone laughed as Ed opened his mouth to accept a jelly doughnut.

“We’re so proud of you,” a smiling old black woman in a yellow tracksuit said to us as we frog-marched the punks up the steps of the armory. “My grandkids can play in the street this evening. At least for one night, my babies won’t die.”

Proud of us? I thought, looking wide-eyed at the group. It really was a touching thing. It reminded me of right after 9/11, when so many regular people lined the West Side Highway and handed out water and food to cops and utility workers heading down to Ground Zero.

I exchanged a stunned look with Ed, who seemed equally touched. We didn’t have to say it. This spontaneous and unprecedented outpouring of humanity from the good people of Newburgh was one of those brief moments in a cop’s career when it’s all worth it. All the pain and bullshit and nut-cracking and nonsense and slogging through the mess. I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

That same night, around 7:00 p.m., Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” was pumping at deafening levels from the overhead speakers as neon disco lights alternately circled and strobed all around me.

Over the pounding dance track, a DJ suddenly urged me to throw my hands in the air and shake it like I just don’t care. And I would have, except I didn’t want to drop the Hannah Montana sheet cake I was carrying through the middle of the Tarsio Lanes bowling alley.

Nope, I wasn’t out clubbing. The disco sound track was for “cosmic night” at the bowling alley, and the party people in the house tonight were me, Seamus, and my ten kids, here to celebrate the twelfth birthday of my twins, Fiona and Bridget.

The kids’ birthday wasn’t the only reason to party. We’d put away a grand total of seventy-two criminal gang members that afternoon. In eight hours, we’d cleared the town of just about every bad guy. And not one cop had been hurt. It was an insanely successful day.

I spent the next few hours after we left the armory doling out pizza and tying bowling shoes. Which was a lot more fun than it sounded. The kids had never bowled before and were having a complete panic. Especially when Eddie and Trent stood on their plastic chairs beside the ball return and did a spirited square-dance routine to the song “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

“Hey, Dad! Dad! You have to see this. It’s Grandpa Seamus’s turn,” Ricky called as I was setting out the paper plates.

“Ladies and gentlemen, behold Seamus Bennett, legendary master of the lane, as he bestrides the golden hardwood,” the old man said in a mock TV announcer’s voice as he lifted his ball.

“What a perfect approach,” he said. “What perfect form.”

“What a perfect load of malarkey,” I called out.

Eyes locked on the pins in concentration, Seamus swung the ball back, stepped forward, and let her rip. His right foot swung dramatically behind his left during his release. He actually was pretty graceful.

“Go, Twinkle Toes,” I said, clapping.

“Come on, baby,” Seamus yelled as the ball hooked. “Cruise in the pocket! Cruise in the pocket!”

Cruise in the what?

Wouldn’t you know it? It was a devastating, pin-crushing strike. Seamus pumped his fist and high-fived everyone as the kids went crazy.

What the…? Who knew the old codger was a good bowler?

I was up next. My ball made a lot of noise, but instead of a strike, it was a four-ten split that I missed completely on my second roll. Worse than that, I received nothing but crickets from the kids.

“I thought you said you played this game before,” Seamus said, licking the tip of the pencil he was using to keep score.

“Granddad is better than Daddy. Granddad is better than Daddy,” Shawna called out to everyone.

“That really was awesome, Granddad,” Brian said. “Who taught you how to bowl?”

“A nice American fella I met when I first came to this country from Ireland,” Seamus said.

“Wait, it was a tall guy, right?” I said. “White wig, wooden teeth? George Washington?”

“‘O beware, my lord, of jealousy,’” Seamus said, holding up the pencil. “ ‘It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on.’ ”

I held my hands up in defeat.

“Now he’s busting out Shakespeare? Okay, okay. You doth win, Father. I know when I’m beat. You’re firing on all pistons tonight.”

We cut the cake and sang “Happy Birthday” as Fiona and Bridget blew out their candles. I scanned the kids’ faces. They seemed happy. Sugar-crazed and binging around like pinballs with all the treats and dance music, but happy. A large contingent of safe, content, well-adjusted kids.

I thought of what the woman had said outside the armory.

At least for one night, my babies won’t die.

Exactly, I thought. What else was there? I couldn’t have said it better myself.

That’s when someone pointed it out. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the corner of the disco-pumping bowling alley.

“I wonder where Mary Catherine is right now,” Fiona said as I handed her the first slice.

That did it. The party was over right there, right then. Though the music still raged, the laughter stopped as everyone looked down at their bowling shoes.

At least they weren’t looking to me for the answer. Because for once, I didn’t have the slightest clue.

At long last, the dreaded moment had arrived. It was packing-and-cleaning day at the Bennett vacation compound.

Sunday was still two days away, but with Mary Catherine still AWOL, I thought it best to start the herculean task of moving my family back to the city as early as possible. I thought getting my guys to get their stuff together was going to be like pulling teeth, but I was in for a surprise.

Not only had Mary Catherine devised an effective system for the care, organization, and cleaning of everyone’s clothes and possessions, she had taken pains to teach it to the kids. In no time flat, the guys were working the dishwasher and the washing machine and rolling their little suitcases out into the hall one by one like a troop of seasoned business travelers.

If anyone was having trouble finding their stuff, it was yours truly. I was under my bed, scattering dust bunnies as I looked for my flip-flops when my cell phone rang. Still on my belly, I managed to retrieve it from the pocket of my shorts.

“Yeah?” I said into the hardwood floor.

“Mike? It’s me, Tara. I have big news. How fast can you get to Shawangunk prison?”

I flipped over on my back.

“Well, Tara, we hicks up here pronounce the prison ‘Shawn-gum,’ and I can get there fast. Why?”

“Cleaning out Newburgh is starting to pay unexpected dividends, Mike. Huge ones. You know the Puentes brothers, Miguel and Ramon?”

“The gentlemen who run the Newburgh Latin Kings?” I said.

“Yep. It seems like those fine young men want to play ball. I just got a call from their lawyer. They claim Manuel Perrine is still in the States. Not only that, they say they know where he’s hiding out and are willing to tell us in exchange for immunity and witness protection.”

I smiled up at the multitude of cracks in the lake house ceiling. I couldn’t believe it. Actually, I could. The connection made sense, since the Latin Kings were supposedly being supplied with drugs by Perrine’s cartel.

That’s exactly how it happened in cases sometimes. You’d be beating your head against a wall for months with no clue about a murder or a felony, and then one day, the phone would ring with a willing eyewitness or an out-of-the-blue confession.