“Okay, okay. Just a second,” the old woman finally said.

Was it him, or did the old African American woman have a smirk on her face?

“You said you was coming, too, right? Must have forgot. Sit tight till I get Chester back in the closet.”

The door shut and opened again. The sound of Chester going absolutely batshit came from the rear of the apartment.

“C’mon in, I guess,” she said, waving impatiently. “Close the damn door behind you. What did you say about Reggie?”

He followed her into the living room. Judge Judy was on the TV. The woman lay down on a couch and put up her feet. She didn’t lower the volume.

“Well? What you want?”

“I heard about Reginald’s latest denial, and I’ve gone to the liberty of writing up a request of stay to the governor. It’s all done. I just need you to sign it. Then I’ll take it to FedEx. A friend of mine from law school is in the Florida State Legislature, and though he can’t guarantee anything, he is going to personally advocate for Reggie. I think we have a real good shot.”

“I gotta pay?” Mrs. Franklin said as she motioned for him to bring her the paper.

“For my legal services? Of course not, Mrs. Franklin.”

“No, I know that,” she said as she scratched her signature. “I meant for the FedEx. That shit’s expensive.”

“No, that’s covered, too, of course.”

“Good,” she said with another little smirk. “Anything else?”

How about a fucking thank-you? Francis X. thought, unable to control his anger. Then he looked around the room. It wasn’t her fault, he realized. Abject poverty made people this way. Mrs. Franklin was a victim, like her son.

“That’s all,” Francis said. “I’d better get going. Helping you and your son is my pleasure. It’s the least I could do.”

IT WAS COMING on five when I had Emily drop me off at my apartment. The end-of-day task force meeting downtown at headquarters had been bumped up to six-thirty, and I was in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. They would be looking to blame someone for the missing five million.

Inside, I grabbed a suit fresh from the dry cleaners from the front hall closet. It’s always been a policy of mine to make sure to look my best when I’m going to be called on the carpet.

“It can’t be, but it is! Daddy’s home before dinner! Ahhhhh!” one of my daughters, Fiona, shrieked ecstatically as I appeared in the dining room doorway.

The gang, still in their school uniforms, were home from school and in the midst of getting their homework out of the way. I went around, slapping high fives and administering hugs and even a few atomic tickles where appropriate.

Many cops I’ve worked with have asked me why the hell I would want so many kids, and I’ve always had trouble explaining it. Yes, there are fights. Legendary lines for the bathroom. Clutter beyond the nightmares of professional organizers. Not to mention the expense. I envy people who can live paycheck to paycheck. But it’s moments like these, when my guys are all safe and happy and busy and together, that every bit of it is incredibly worth it, when it is pure, unabashed happiness.

The kids are simply my tribe, my pack. We gathered them together, and everything good that my wife, Maeve, and I had ever learned, we passed on to them. Not only have they taken those lessons to heart in our house-being kind to one another, being polite, being good even when they don’t feel like it-as they get older, they’ve started spreading that goodness to the world. I can’t count how many times teachers and neighbors and school parents have said to me how wonderful, polite, and thoughtful they thought my kids were.

Maeve, and now Mary Catherine, being home with them every day, could take ninety-nine percent of the credit for that. But that one percent that makes me proud of myself exceeds everything I have ever accomplished professionally, hands down.

Mary Catherine smiled up at me from where she was surrounded by a sea of blue-and-gold Catholic-school plaid.

“Mike, is it you?” she said. “Can I fix dinner?”

“Don’t bother,” I said, putting my cell on the sideboard as I headed for my room. “This is just a pit stop. I have an hour, maybe less, until this evil object summons me again.”

Twenty minutes later, wearing a suit not covered in sweat, antifreeze, and grass stains, I stepped back into the dining room and almost fainted. Instead of being covered in textbooks, workbooks, red pens, calculators, and rulers, the table was set like it was Sunday all over again.

Mary Catherine and Brian and Juliana came in a second later with a plate of homemade fried chicken, jalapeño corn bread, and a fresh salad. Another incredible meal brought to you by my personal savior, Mary Catherine.

I shook my head at her for going to all the trouble. Besides my wife, Mary Catherine was the most genuinely generous person I’d ever met.

Who knew? Maybe this meant she was even a little less pissed at me.

After we said our prayers, I wolfed down a piece of hot corn bread. I closed my eyes in ecstasy.

“How can an Irish girl do Southern cooking this well?” I said, spraying crumbs. “Let me guess, you’re from the southwest part of Ireland?”

The smiles and happy, fuzzy mood all popped like a cigarette on a balloon when my blasted phone rang. I was standing up to get it when Chrissy reached back and grabbed it.

“Oh, no, Daddy,” she said, tossing it across the table to Bridget. “You’re staying right here. No phone means no work.”

They actually started chanting, “No phone! No work!” as our game of Monkey in the Middle began. Guess who the monkey was.

“That’s not funny, guys,” I said, trying not to laugh and failing.

I also failed to get to the phone. A game of Monkey in the Middle really isn’t fair against ten people. Eleven, actually, as Mary pretended to offer it to me and then passed it behind her back to the waiting Brian. He tossed it to Eddie, who opened it.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Bennett is not available,” Eddie said as everyone cracked up. “Please leave your name at the sound of the beep. Beep!”

“Mike, is that you?” Emily said as I finally wrested it from him.

“Sorry about that, Parker. My family is being funny. At least they think they are. What’s up?”

“One guess,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” she said grimly. “Another kid was grabbed, Mike. I’m pulling up in front of your building right now.”

EMILY HANDED ME her notes on the latest kidnapping as I buckled myself into the passenger seat of her Fedmobile. She surprised me by having a piping-hot black venti in my drink holder and a black-and-white cookie from Zaro’s on the dash. I noticed she was also doing a pretty professional job of carving our way south through the chaos of midtown Manhattan dinner traffic.

Unhealthy food and a healthy dose of road rage, I thought with an impressed nod. My new partner was getting this New York cop thing down pretty fast.

The calm from my shower and my visit with the kids lasted less than a New York minute as I scanned the pages of her notes. The latest victim was a seventeen-year-old high school student named Mary Beth Haas. She’d been missing since noon. She’d last been spotted leaving the very exclusive all-girls Brearley School on East 83rd Street to go to the school’s gym on East 87th. She’d never made it there. The poor teenage girl seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

“The similarity to the Hastings kidnapping is striking,” I said. “Both were grabbed from exclusive Manhattan schools. We need to check for teaching staff who have a history in both places.”

“No new leads on Hastings?” Emily inquired.

“Some Twenty-sixth Precinct squad guys are out looking for the Russian girlfriend, but so far nothing,” I said as I looked back down at the report.