I thanked Rudy, and was on my way out the door with Holten when Rudy gave me one last piece of advice. “When you read the files, remember what happened in here tonight. Remember how you felt. Remember that you know this young man is innocent. We need to make sure he stays that way.”
CHAPTER TEN
Kane had killed the connection on the listening device just after he heard Robert Solomon make his confession. He locked up the station wagon, and transferred to the gray Ford sedan. He sat in the driver’s seat, facing the exit ramp to the parking garage. From this vantage point, he could see enough of the street below to spot the big, black SUVs that Carp Law used to move their people.
The Ford’s engine ticked over.
Without taking his eyes from the road ahead, Kane leaned over the passenger seat and opened the glove box. He lifted the Colt .45 from its resting place and slid the magazine clear. His fingers found the rounds clipped into the mag. A soft slap echoed in the car as Kane returned the mag to the receiver. Followed by a metallic click from the mechanism as he chambered the first round.
A red Corvette rolled by on the street ahead.
The Colt found a new home in the inside breast pocket of Kane’s coat. The clock read seven fifteen.
Any minute now, thought Kane.
He put on a pair of tight-fitting leather gloves. Kane loved the smell of leather. It reminded him of a woman he’d once known. She had regularly worn a black leather biker jacket, white tee and blue jeans. Kane remembered the tight curls in her black hair; her pale skin; the way she snorted when she laughed; the taste of her lips. Most of all, he remembered the biker jacket. That overpowering smell. And the way blood seemed to sit on top of the leather before being gradually absorbed, as if the jacket had been taking a long, slow drink.
Kane gripped the steering wheel.
He listened to the rub of leather on leather – glove on steering wheel. He thought about the sound that had come from the girl’s biker jacket as she’d flailed her arms, trying, pathetically, to fight him off. She didn’t scream. Not once. Her mouth had opened, but no sound came from her throat. It was only the zip on the biker jacket, jingling, and the sound of leather whipping leather as she had flung her arms at him. It had occurred to Kane that this sound could almost have been a whisper.
The noise of tires squeaking on painted, poured concrete. The sweep of headlights. Kane looked toward the sound and the lights and saw a pick-up truck descending the ramp from the floor above. He didn’t want the truck obstructing his line of vision. Kane pulled out and moved to the exit ramp. Stopped. The camera read his license plate. The barrier began to lift. Kane eased the Ford forward.
As he approached the street a black SUV passed him, pulled up outside the Condé Nast building. Kane looked to his right. Looked left. Traffic was clear. He pulled out as slow as he could without drawing attention. There was enough space to drive by the parked SUV, but Kane didn’t want that. He rolled up behind it and saw, to his relief, Flynn and the Carp Law security goon exiting the building and heading toward the vehicle. Studying the pair, Kane got the feeling the lawyer was just as much of a physical threat as the guard. It was too dark to make out their faces, but he watched the way they moved. There were that many security men protecting Bobby, it was hard to tell which one it was – they all looked pretty similar. While the guard was squat, broad and muscular – he moved stiffly. It was difficult to tell the guards apart – they were all built like this and moved in the same way. Flynn, on the other hand, moved like a dancer. Or a boxer. Always in good balance. Confident. He was tall, fit. A man who used to work out when he was younger. Flynn carried himself like a fighter.
The guard had one of those briefcases. A laptop case. The firm were tight-assed about their laptop security. No way to hack it remotely, no way to get access to it without using one of their lawyer’s individual passwords which changed daily. If he had time with the laptop he could hack it, but he needed to get one first. Without the firm knowing it. Kane had methods, contacts and ways in to the Carp Law building. None could get him the time he needed with the laptop without raising suspicion. And it was impossible to get one of the laptops out of the office with every inch of desk space covered by security cameras. He wanted one of those computers. They contained the Solomon case.
The thought of possessing the files sent prickles of electricity over Kane’s skin. The hairs on his neck stood up. Kane let out a tremulous breath. The lawyer and the guard got into the vehicle, and pulled out into the lane.
Kane let out the clutch, and followed.
In this part of Manhattan, at this time, traffic was reduced to a slow crawl. The pace suited Kane. He wanted that briefcase.
A smartphone, unregistered of course, sat in a dock to the right of the steering wheel. Kane accessed Google, and searched for “Eddie Flynn, attorney.” To his surprise, the first pages were news articles. Past cases of Flynn’s. Scanning each article, Kane decided that Flynn was a considerable threat in the courtroom. This man was dangerous. He flicked past a number of screens which seemed to carry the same stories as before, only reposted on different blogs and media sites. There was no website for Eddie Flynn’s firm. Only thing Kane found was an address and a phone number in the Yellow Pages website.
Sure enough, twenty minutes later the SUV pulled up on the right, outside an address on West 46th Street. The same address Kane had found on the internet. Kane pulled in to a space on the left, killed the engine. Grabbing his phone from the port, he put it in his jacket, got out of the car and popped the trunk. He looked around first, making sure there was no one else behind him on the street. It was clear. Beneath a blanket in the trunk, Kane found a set of kitchen knives which he’d had specially made. He selected a filleting knife and a cleaver. Both were in leather protective covers. A backpack sat open and ready beside the blanket. Kane placed both knives in the pack, zipped it up and threw it on his back. When the men were dead, Kane still needed the briefcase. He’d learned, many years ago, that the easiest and quickest way to sever a limb had more to do with skilled butchery than brute force. If he hammered on the dead guard’s wrist with the cleaver, it would likely take between five and ten blows to sever the hand. Most of the impact would be absorbed by the muscles and sinew within the wrist. This method would likely take thirty seconds. Instead, Kane planned to take five seconds to run the filleting knife through the muscles and flesh of the wrist, exposing the bone. A single blow from the three-pound cleaver would then complete the job. Estimated time would be fifteen to seventeen seconds.
Kane pulled down his ball cap over his face, closed the trunk and crossed the street.
The security guard with the briefcase chained to his wrist had already exited the vehicle. He stood with his back to Kane, on the street, his hand outstretched to open the rear passenger door. The nearest streetlight didn’t penetrate far enough for Kane to get a good look at the guard. Fifty feet between Kane and his target. The door of the SUV opened and Flynn stepped out. He recognized him by the way he moved. Kane reached into his jacket, put his right hand around the pistol grip and placed a light pressure on the trigger.
Forty feet. And Flynn was buttoning his coat, ready to take the steps to his office.
Kane heard a car door slam just ahead of him. He tensed. An older black man in a navy suit walked around the hood of a low, dark green convertible and stepped onto the sidewalk just a few feet in front of Kane and into the glow from a street lamp. He was walking in the same direction, headed toward Flynn’s office. Kane couldn’t see his face. Just the gray hair on the back of his head.
Kane was about to pull the weapon, and push the man out of the way, when that same man held up his hand and called out.
“Hey, Eddie!”
Flynn turned in Kane’s direction. So did the security guard. Both men were on the steps, in an elevated position. Kane dipped his head. He could see their torsos beneath the brim of this cap, but he couldn’t see their faces. He didn’t want to risk eye contact. L
ast thing he needed was to be recognized. As the guard turned he whipped aside his coat and gripped a sidearm. The guard and Flynn were both facing in Kane’s direction.
He’d lost the element of surprise. If Kane pulled the weapon, he would be seen doing it. In that instance, given average reaction times, it was likely the security guard would get at least a couple of shots off. The guard would have to be the first target.
Kane’s boots beat on paving flags. His heart thrashed out a faster rhythm. Blood pounded in his ears. He could almost taste the acrid residue left in the air from gunfire. A delicious chill swept up his spine. This is it. This is what Kane lived for. The glorious anticipation. In one fluid movement, he let out a breath, raised his elbow, and swiftly pulled his right hand from his jacket.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I’d taken the third step at the entrance to my building when I heard someone call my name on the street. Instantly, I felt Holten tense. He hadn’t spoken at all on the drive over, other than to ask me if I was comfortable. He’d given polite, but monosyllabic answers to my small talk. Was Rudy Carp a good boss? Yes, Holten was a private contractor but Carp was easy to work with. Had he worked with the firm for long? Yep. Was he a baseball fan? Nope. Football? Nope. I gave up, figured he was watching the road and I shouldn’t distract him. Standing on the steps leading to my front door, I was surprised when he reacted protectively. He didn’t do anything, not really. But he just became ready. Ready for anything. I pivoted in the direction I’d heard the call and saw Judge Harry Ford waving at me from the sidewalk. His old, classic convertible was parked up on the street.
I was about to give Harry a wave back when I saw the guy behind him. He wore a ball cap, low over his brow. In the glare from the streetlights, I couldn’t see his face. The brim of the cap covered his features. Right then, his face didn’t seem that important. I was more interested in his right hand. It was jammed into his inside coat pocket, like he was ready to pull a gun.
In the corner of my eye, I became aware that Holten had clocked the same guy and had placed his palm on his sidearm, slung on his waist. My mouth felt dry and I found that I couldn’t take a deep breath. My body had frozen. Whatever basic, primal instincts that survived within me were focusing everything on the approaching man with his hand in his jacket. My body didn’t need any distractions, like breathing or thinking. Every muscle and nerve ending suddenly went on high alert. All of the energy my body used was now re-routed to full survival mode. I was glued to the spot. If that hand came out of the jacket with a gun, I was ready to dive for the floor.
The temperature was dropping. I could see fresh ice forming on the sidewalk, glistening in the sodium streetlamps like crushed crystal.
The man drew level with Harry, and whipped his right hand from this pocket. The man’s right arm extended, pointed in our direction. There was something shiny and black in his hand. I heard the hollow, sucking pop of Holten’s gun clearing its leather holster. As if some kind of internal switch had been activated, I took a massive lungful of air and dropped to my knees. My hands covered my head.
Silence. No gunshot. No muzzle flash. No bullets hitting the bricks over my head. I felt a big hand pat me on the shoulder.
“It’s alright,” said Holten.
I looked up. Harry was standing beside the man in the ball cap. Both of them were staring at the cell phone in the man’s hand. Harry pointed at the cell phone, then pointed west, along 46th Street. The man nodded, said something to Harry and held up the phone. Even from this distance, I could see what looked like a map on the big screen of the smartphone. The man walked past my building, headed west.
“Jesus, Holten. You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” I said.
“Sorry,” he said. “It pays to be careful.”
“Eddie, what the hell are you doing?” said Harry.
I stood up, brushed down my coat and leaned over the railing.
“I’m being careful, apparently. What did that guy want?”
“Just a tourist. He wanted directions,” said Harry.
I looked over my shoulder. The man had continued on his way, holding his smartphone up in front of him. He had his back to me. I watched him get further away, then swung back to Harry.
“We thought that guy had a gun. The way he was walking up. Kind of determined. You ever saw that guy before?” I said.
“Don’t know. Didn’t really see his face ’cause of the cap. Even if I did see his face, I wouldn’t be able to tell you much – I don’t have my glasses on,” said Harry.
“So how did you drive over here?” I said.
“Carefully,” said Harry.
Holten picked up one of my wooden chairs, walked out of my office and put it down beside the front door that led to the landing. He came back in, and gave my office another look over. From the couch, Harry stared up at Holten with the indifference of a man holding a glass of fine Scotch, and knowing exactly how fine it really was.
“There’s no real security here, Mr. Flynn. I’ll be outside for tonight. In the morning I’ll arrange for a safe to be delivered to your office. The laptop is to be kept in this safe when you’re not in. That okay with you?” said Holten.
“You mean you’re gonna sit outside my office all night?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well, you may have noticed the bed in back. I don’t have an apartment. I sleep here. I’ll probably work all night, so don’t worry about it. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll be fine.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay outside.”
“There’s a couch. If you’re staying then you may as well be comfortable.”
He took one look at the couch. Harry had fallen into the middle of it a few years ago and busted some of the springs. It sagged in the middle. As a constant reminder of that night, whenever Harry came over he sat on the far end of the couch, but the springs made him lean toward the middle and made it look as if he could fall into the center valley at any time. I got the impression Holten thought he might be more comfortable on a hard, wooden chair.
“I’m not much good as a security detail if I’m asleep on the couch when someone busts down your door for that laptop. I’ll be outside. That okay?”
I looked at the briefcase on my desk, the handcuffs still attached to the handle.
“That’s fine with me,” I said.
“I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” said Holten, as he closed the office door behind him.
“He’s a little intense,” said Harry.
“There’s nothing little about that guy. All the same, I kind of like him. You can tell he’s a professional,” I said.
“So what’s on the laptop that requires this kind of security?” said Harry.
“I could tell you, but you’re going to get too drunk tonight to remember so it might be better if we had that conversation tomorrow.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Harry.
I poured myself two fingers of bourbon, and took a seat behind my desk. Just one drink. To take the edge off. I needed my head clear to read the case files. For now, I could at least relax a little. The lamp in the corner, and my desk lamp with the green, glass shade gave a warm glow to my little office. Leaning back in the chair, I threw a leg on my desk and put the glass to my lips. I could enjoy the odd drink with Harry now. I’d developed that discipline, but it had taken me long enough to do it. Harry had helped.
If it wasn’t for Harry, I wouldn’t be a lawyer. I got sued for causing a car accident years ago, and defended myself. An insurance scam gone wrong. Harry was the judge. I argued with the other guy’s lawyer, won the case and Harry met me afterwards. Told me I should think about a career in the law. Sure enough, a law degree later and I was clerking for Harry while I sat the bar exam. He gave me a new life, away from the cons and hustles on the street. Now I did my shakedowns in the courtroom.
“How’s the family?” said Harry.
“Amy is growing up fast. I miss her. Maybe things are looking b
etter though? Christine called me, invited me to dinner,” I said.
“That’s good,” said Harry, excitedly. “You think maybe you can patch things up?”
“I don’t know. Christine and Amy are settled in Riverhead. Feels like their lives are moving on, without me. I need a job that won’t put my head on the block. Something stable, something boring that won’t get me or anyone else into trouble. That’s what Christine wants. A normal life.”
Even as I said it, I wasn’t sure if it was still true. A stable, safe home was what we always wanted. My job prevented that, but now I doubted if Christine still wanted me in her life at all. There was a distance. I hoped the invite to dinner was my chance to get closer to her, again.
Harry sipped at his Scotch, rubbed his head.
“What’s on your mind?” I said.
“That briefcase. The Butterbean lookalike sitting in your hallway. That’s on my mind. If you’re looking for more sedate work, this sure doesn’t look like it. Tell me you’re not in trouble.”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“Why do I think that’s not the whole story,” said Harry.
Swilling the amber liquid in the bell of the glass, I held it up to the light. Took another sip, then put the glass down on my desk.
“I met Rudy Carp today. He hired me to be part of Robert Solomon’s defense team.”
Harry stood up. Put the rest of the Scotch away and left the empty glass next to mine.
“In that case, I have to leave,” said Harry.
“What? What’s going on?”
He sighed, put his hands in his pants pockets and looked at the floor while he spoke.
“I guess you met him this morning. And you’d had no approach from Rudy Carp before that. No emails, or phone calls. Am I right?”
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 6