Cory's Flight

by Dan Petrosini

  Cory wondered whether Black would get a message to his wife. No one would know about it. Nobody would be able to trace it, would they? Cory believed Black was worried Linda would say something and the police would find out. Or was it the authorities were monitoring Linda’s calls?

  The hope he felt that his family would find out he was safe evaporated. The DA said they were using every resource possible to track him down. It made complete sense to keep an eye on his wife; she was the most likely to lead them to him.

  Cory flopped onto the couch. What a mess, and it was because of Tower. What had hardened the lawyer, making him so unfeeling? How could someone be so evil?

  Chapter Fifty

  Black carried a bag of laundry into the laundromat. The only person inside was a gray-haired woman reading a book. He went to the rear of the store and put his clothes into a dryer. Black slipped a bill in a coin card machine and started the dryer. He sat on the bench watching the door.

  As the clothes began tumbling, a wiry man in a wool cap walked in. He loaded the machine next to Black, and after it began cycling, sat on the bench next to Black. He said, “Man, the hawk is out today.”

  Black said, “Yeah, the wind is blowing.”

  He looked around, reaching into his jacket. “Here’s the info on the bailiff.”

  Black nodded. “How do you know this guy?”

  “He’s from the neighborhood.”

  “Is he solid?”

  “Rock-solid.”

  “You told him I wanna talk to him?”

  “Uh-huh. I told him you’d meet him at O’Brien’s on Forty-Sixth Street at three.”

  Black nodded and got up. A rush of dry heat hit him as he pulled open the dryer. Pulling out a tee shirt, he said, “Dry as a bone.”

  He loaded the clothes into his bag and walked out. Black hailed a cab and got out on Thirty-Ninth Street. After walking two blocks, he tossed the laundry into a trash can and headed to his meeting.

  Black walked into O’Brien’s Irish Bar. Sitting at the bar, two men were hunched over their drinks in the narrow room. Black walked along the brick-faced wall to a handful of high-top tables in the back.

  He sat at the last one, next to a wall decorated with shamrocks. The bartender took a couple of steps toward him. “What’ll it be?”

  Eyes on the door, Black said, “Jack, on the rocks.”

  As he placed a glass full of amber liquid in front of Black, a beefy man lumbered in. He glanced at the two drunks at the bar and headed to the rear. Dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, the man nodded at the bartender. “Gimme a Bud and a shot of rye.”

  Black examined the Hispanic man as he raised himself on the barstool. He was carrying as much extra weight as his age and said, “So, you wanna know about Ledger.”

  “Mostly what you know about him and Tower.”

  Black held up a hand as the bartender approached with the beer and shot. He nodded as the server left.

  “Like I told Hernandez, I seen Tower handing over a chunk of cash to Judge Ledger.”

  “When was this?”

  “Like a week before the McCarron trial started.”

  “And you think that’s why he excluded the recording from the trial?”

  “Yeah, I mean, he’s done it before.”

  “You saw him accept cash before?”

  “No, but I know Tower must have paid Ledger off on the Boler case. He wouldn’t let the knife into evidence while everybody knew he used it to kill his wife.”

  “I didn’t know that one. How’d he rule it was inadmissible?”

  “Some bullshit about the chain of custody. The DA went nuts, and even the New York Times said Ledger overstepped.”

  “Going back to McCarron, now, how sure are you that Tower was paying off the judge?”

  “Sure as I’m sitting here. I didn’t know he was in his chambers, and Charlene, she’s the court clerk, had some papers she needed signed, so I was gonna put them on the judge’s desk, and they were right there. Tower had a briefcase with stacks of cash in it. What else was he doing with it?”

  “I’m not interested in the judge, it’s Tower I’m after.”

  “That’s okay with me. I mean, I don’t think the judge is doing right, but I’m just trying to earn a little, you know?”

  “You know anything about the Cory Lupinski case?”

  “The music guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I see it on TV, but that’s it. Why?”

  “Tower’s his attorney.”

  “Who’s the judge?”

  “Waterstone.”

  “He’s all right. I only had him a couple of times. He’s a quiet guy.”

  “I’m going to need an affidavit from you—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It won’t go anywhere. We’re just going to use it to force Tower to back off.”

  He shook his head.

  “The only person that’s gonna see it is Tower. I’m going to tell him if he doesn’t stop screwing with my client that I’ll go public with it.”

  “I can’t have that getting out. Ledger would come after me. He’s nasty.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll never get that far. Tower’s going to cave.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s the last thing he wants out. Plus, I got some other stuff on him.”

  “Who you working for?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Confidential? That’s bullshit. You want me to put this in writing, and you won’t tell me who it’s for?”

  “I’m sure Hernandez told you we’re willing to pay good money for the information.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten grand, cash.”

  “Make it twenty and we got a deal.”

  “Done. It’s going to have to be notarized.”

  “No problem. How fast can you get it?”

  “Give me two days. Meet you here, same time?”

  “Not here. The Playwright Bar on Thirty-Fifth Street.”

  “Been there. Good place to watch the game. They’ve got screens all over the place.”

  “See you then.”

  Black placed two twenties on the bar and walked out.

  He walked a block before putting his jacket on. He needed a clear mind and didn’t want the drink to cloud his thinking.

  Black thought about how Tower would react when he was shown the incriminating document. Any way it went, he was sure Tower would deny it. Though Black was developing a strong dislike for the lawyer, his job was to get Cory off the hook.

  He tried to calculate the odds Tower would cave without a fight. But the more he considered it, the less likely he thought it would be. Black knew he’d have to be careful or risk having the attorney strike back if he was backed into a corner.>

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Black made a copy of the affidavit that Ruiz gave him. It was short, but the bailiff had put the day he witnessed the bribe in it. The operative had two choices: go to Tower directly with it, or use an intermediary.

  Black knew Tower, not well, but well enough. He considered a scheme of approaching the lawyer, telling him he’d come upon a potential problem for the attorney. He knew Tower would demand details. Black felt he could concoct a believable story.

  It was a good plan, but two things worried the investigator. Tower was a world-class schemer and would organically suspect Black’s involvement. Black believed he could defend the claim and remove the suspicion.

  But his main worry was revealing his involvement in any capacity. Based on what the lawyer was doing to Cory, Black wanted to avoid the crosshairs as long as possible.

  Black could send the document by mail or use a messenger. The post office would provide the most cover. If he used Express Mail, it’d arrive overnight. The operative didn’t want an employee reading the affidavit, as it would add a level of unpredictability.

  If he put it inside a second envelope marked Personal and Confidential, it would guarantee Tower
would personally eyeball the inflammatory document. He also could call Tower, telling him about the affidavit. He could use a burner phone with a voice distorter to disguise his voice.

  It was too late to mail it, and Black was too disciplined to default to calling. It had to be a conscious decision. Black would sleep on it.

  * * *

  Cory looked out the window. Tire tracks cut through the snow dusting the streets. His eyes followed the roof of a police car as it headed toward his building. Cory held his breath as he backed away from the window.

  Had he blown it? Black had told him to throw his trash down the chute in the hallway once a week. He specifically said to do it in the middle of the night to crush any chance of being seen.

  After he ate last night, Cory tied the top of the garbage and put it by the front door. He brushed his teeth and did a set of push-ups. It was just before seven. He had several hours to kill before going to bed.

  Cory sat on the couch and put the TV on. He scrolled through the free movie section and chose Lawrence of Arabia. He wasn’t sure if he’d like it, but he’d heard the score, composed by the famous Maurice Jarre, was exceptional and featured two themes: one to show the British side and another the Eastern.

  Cory clicked play, knowing there was the added benefit of it being a long movie. He was enjoying the orchestral score more than the movie when the screen announced an intermission. Cory couldn’t remember the last movie he’d seen a film with a break.

  As the orchestra played the overture, Cory took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Washing his hands, he spied the bag of trash by the door. It was a quarter to nine. He looked through the peephole. No one was in the hallway.

  He grabbed the bag and cracked open the door. No sign of life. Cory grabbed a hat off the hook and put on his fake glasses before clicking the latch. He kept the dead bolt open and stepped into the hallway. Cory walked to the door housing the trash chute and recycling room.

  Approaching the elevator bank, Cory froze. A ding sounded an arriving car. He looked over his shoulder; his apartment was at the end of the hall. While making a dash for the refuse area, the doors of an elevator opened.

  Cory nodded at a man with a closely cropped beard and boots. The man said, “Hey, you must be the guy who moved into Fourteen F, right?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I was wondering if somebody was hiding out in there.”

  “Funny.”

  He stuck his hand out. “Marty, Marty Kelly. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Uh, Cor—John Cochran.”

  “Like the guy who was OJ’s lawyer?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “So, where’d you move from?”

  “Br—Baltimore.”

  “Never been there. You move for work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Tech.”

  “Cool. Man, I could use some help with my Wi-Fi hookups. Maybe you can take a look at it for me.”

  “I don’t know much about that. I do, like, web design stuff.”

  “Neat. Must be busy.”

  “It’s been crazy, that’s why I never leave the apartment.”

  “That sucks, man.”

  Cory shrugged. “Look, I’m working on something right now, so I gotta go.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you around.”

  Cory dumped his trash. Marty was standing outside his door. He lived across the hall. Cory waved and went to push his door open. His neighbor said, “Hey, tomorrow I’m having some people over. A couple of the guys from the station live in the building, you’ll love them. Why don’t you come over around seven and say hello?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I got a project I’m trying to finish up.”

  “You got to take a break. Come over, have a brew and say hello.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see how the day goes.”

  Cory closed the door behind him and sank to the floor. The guy said station. Was he a cop and he was having more cops come tomorrow? Cory wagged his head. He’d been so good. Why couldn’t he have just waited a few more hours?

  Cory got up and turned off the TV. He knew Black would want to know. But did he really have to tell him? If the guy was a cop, he should advise Black. The operative would know what to do. If he wasn’t a police officer, what was the harm of avoiding him going forward?

  The neighbor could be a fireman, Cory thought. They work at stations. Cory recalled what Marty looked like. It was hard to tell until he remembered his last name, Kelly. It was Irish, and a lot of police officers were of Irish descent. Maybe he was a cop.

  Like it or not, Cory would have to tell Black what had happened. He’d let his guard down, and now he needed Black to tell him what to do.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Cory stayed up, alternating between looking out the window and peering through the peephole. He was nervous over telling Black about his encounter. The operative would pepper him with questions, and Cory tried to predict what he’d ask.

  He looked at the time on the day’s burner phone. It was minutes before six a.m. He hit dial.

  The call was answered, but no one spoke. Cory said, “Hello, it’s me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I wanted to tell you something that happened.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I was taking the trash to the chute and a guy came off the elevator. His name’s Marty Kelly—”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t tell him anything. He wanted to know if I was the new neighbor. He lives right across the hall—”

  “What time was this?”

  “Uh, a couple of hours ago. I was waiting to call you.”

  “He say anything unusual?”

  “I’m worried he might be a cop.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he was having some guys over from the station and wanted me to come over.”

  “Station?”

  “Yeah.”

  Black went silent.

  “You think he’s a cop?”

  “I’ll find out. Meanwhile, sit tight.”

  “What’ll I do if he is?”

  “I don’t do hypothetical.”

  “Come on, man. I’m just trying to be prepared.”

  The phone went dead. Cory said, “Bastard!”

  Three hours later, the burner vibrated. “Hello.”

  “How old was this Kelly guy?”

  “About forty, why?”

  “There’s three Martin Kelly cops in the Boston Metro area.”

  “Any of them live in my building?”

  “Addresses aren’t made public.”

  “Let me describe him to you: my neighbor is about—”

  “Photos aren’t published either.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll do more checking, but keep an eye out for him. You said he’s across the hall, so watch when he leaves, see if he’s in a uniform. It’s the fastest way to find out.”

  “I can’t believe this. I’m screwed.”

  “Get a hold of yourself. Nothing’s happened at this point.”

  “Okay, what happened with that crooked judge Tower was working with?”

  “We got something interesting yesterday. It might be enough.”

  “Oh my God. Really?”

  “Keep your eyes on Kelly and call me with any developments.”

  Cory went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was quiet. He pulled his eye away and thought about what Black had said. They were close to getting the goods on Tower. Cory wondered exactly what he had.

  Had Black been able to turn someone? If it was the judge, it would be huge. The media would be all over it, giving Cory a chance to clear his name.

  Once the story broke, he’d reach out to Worth. He didn’t know much about the law, but if Tower was implicated in a bribery scheme, they could ask the court to postpone the trial as he’d need a new attorney.

  Cory realized he hadn’
t asked Black if he got a message to Linda. His wife was entitled to know he was okay. He took another look across the hall knowing that Black played things too safe. He’d never reach out to Linda.

  She must be going crazy on her own, and she had to deal with the kids. He regretted leaving without telling her. It was selfish, and he hoped she’d forgive him. If his plan worked out—and with what Black said, it looked like it was about to—she’d get over it.

  Things were developing much faster than he, or Black for that matter, had figured. Was he finally getting a break? Was the universe evening things out?

  Linda needed a lift; she needed to know he was safe and on the cusp of exposing Tower for the evil man he was. He grabbed the phone off the couch and dialed Linda’s number.

  Cory whispered, “Linda, it’s me.”

  “Cory? Oh my God. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. How are you and the kids?”

  “We’re good. Where are you?”

  “I can’t say. Did Black call you?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I can’t hear you. Why are you whispering?”

  Cory spoke in his normal voice, “Everything is all right. I’m doing good but miss you and the kids.”

  “We miss you too. When can you come home?”

  “I’m not sure, but we got some dirt on Tower that should let me come home and straighten everything out.”

  “Oh, I hope so. We miss you so much. I’m worried sick about you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but it was the only way. How’s Ava?”

  “Ava is Ava. She’s put up a wall, but it’s a low one.”

  “Tell her I’m okay and I love her. What about Tommy?”

  “He’s doing good. He accepts what I tell him. When he asks for you, I tell him a little longer and we listen to the songs you wrote for us. They’re wonderful.”

  “It was my way of saying something.”

  “I’m wearing mine out. Are you in Mexico?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “The police took your laptop, and the detectives grilled me about Mexico, trying to get information out of me. They don’t believe I don’t know anything. But I don’t. They even talked to the kids.”