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As two FBI agents helped Ott to his feet, Harry Grissom leaned in close to me and said, “At least he’s not getting back on the street. It hurts to lose a suspect this way, but we did everything we could.”
“I know, Harry. All I wanted to do was stop the killings. I’m getting used to the FBI taking credit for shit.” Then I smiled.
Harry gave me a concerned look and said, “You’re not having some kind of seizure, are you?”
“No, Harry. Ott is going to prison, and I’m getting married. Moving on.”
Ott turned to me as he was led to the door. “I’m glad you’ll get to see your daughters grow up, Detective Bennett. That’s what I’ll miss the most.”
Chapter 98
I managed to time my homecoming to the news of the arrest hitting the airwaves. It was a sweet moment. Mary Catherine greeted me with a big hug and a kiss on the lips. The kids joined in with cheers and high fives all around.
Stopping these murders was an important accomplishment, but I was having a seriously hard time wrapping my head around the shadow case—in which Daniel Ott was not only a killer but a killer spy.
It was an unbelievable story. My wife-to-be was the second person I told. First honors belonged to my NYPD partner.
I had stopped in to visit Hollis on my way home. Even from his hospital bed, with half his body in a cast, he’d still managed a pretty good string of obscenities describing his outrage over the FBI stealing our case.
Our professional bonding ended the moment Brett Hollis’s mother entered the room, however, and motioned me out into the hallway with her.
Mrs. Hollis said, “Are you trying to stir him up? I’m running out for a sandwich. Don’t be here when I get back.”
I had to ask. “Have I done something to offend you?”
She clearly had an answer at the ready, but paused, almost as if for dramatic effect. “You allowed him to believe that he could be like you, and that delusion nearly got him killed. I have no use for the NYPD. Or for you.”
“Your son is a fine detective, a credit to the force,” I said.
“But he will never be ‘Michael Bennett.’ If he keeps trying for the impossible, it will cost him his life.”
She was dead serious. I had to wonder if there was any truth to what she was saying. Had I put Hollis in danger? Or was Ott to blame?
As I stepped back into the room, I found Hollis sitting up in bed, reading a book about serial killers. Of course.
“I see you’re studying for our next case, but I can say with authority our serial killer case is closed,” I said. “You made a lot of the important breakthroughs. You should be proud.”
“I just followed your lead,” he said. But then his bright smile faded.
Hollis had responded well to praise in the past but now seemed distracted. He hadn’t really been listening to what I was saying because he had been waiting to tell me something.
He stopped to gather himself, as if rehearsing his next words in his mind before speaking them. “I wasn’t reading that book for our next case. In fact, there won’t be another case. Not with us working as partners. Not any case.” He stopped short, choked up, and stifled a sob.
What the hell is Hollis talking about?
“What are you saying?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
He raised a hand, and my gaze followed, settling on the stack of papers resting on his night stand.
“What’s that? Workers’ comp paperwork?”
Hollis shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, pausing to run a tissue across his face. “I’ve been examined by two different department doctors. They want me to go out on disability.” His voice had trailed off, like that of a beaten man.
It was the first I’d heard of this career-ending medical directive. I stood in silence, shocked.
“What are the doctors’ main concerns?” I finally asked.
