Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury

by Steve Cavanagh

  “You’re wasting time,” said Kane. “Tell him it’s safe. Get him out.”

  The lawyer stepped forward and stood in front of the door.

  “Tell him,” said Kane.

  Raising his head, Flynn looked toward the camera and said, “Bobby, it’s me, Eddie.”

  Kane reversed his grip on the knife, stepped slowly into the room, careful to stay out of the view of the camera.

  “Bobby, listen to me very carefully. You’re safe. You’re totally safe. Now, there’s something I need you to do …” said Flynn.

  A long tongue snaked from Kane’s mouth and ran around his lips. He could feel his heart beat quickening, aching for the kill.

  “Bobby, no matter what happens, don’t open this door,” said Flynn.

  Fool, thought Kane.

  He would get to Solomon. Maybe not tonight. But soon. Right now, the lawyer had to pay. He gripped the ceramic blade, felt the first wave of heat from his blood rush. He watched the lawyer grab his tie, and hold it over his mouth and nose.

  That’s when the window on his left shattered, and the room filled with tear gas.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Soon as the first canister exploded in the corner of the bedroom, I heard glass breaking all around me. Two federal agents in SWAT gear and gas masks burst through the bedroom window. I heard glass breaking in the hallway, and saw another SWAT team member land on his feet behind Kane. The agent closest to me handed me a mask and I managed to drop to my knees and crawl into a corner before I slipped it on. My eyes were stinging by the time I’d tied the Velcro strap at the back of my head.

  I heard the agents announce themselves and shout out a warning to Kane to drop the knife and get on the floor. I couldn’t see them. With the window in the bedroom and the hallway smashed open, and the winter wind outside, the room had quickly become a cloud of impenetrable white smoke. The windows were sucking the cloud outside, but for those first few moments I couldn’t see a thing.

  A ripple of automatic fire. The sound of empty shell cases tinkling as they spilled onto the floor. Then nothing. I heard a groan, and the sound of something heavy falling on the floor. Then the firing really started. Two heavy bursts of deafening gunfire. I saw the muzzle flash in the smoke, but couldn’t detect the direction of fire.

  A figure moved quickly through the smoke. I could see the outline only. The figure bent low in the corner of the room, stood up, and then I heard the sound of glass breaking, and saw an arc of smoke from the window. Footsteps on the staircase. Heavy. Fast.

  The smoke cleared some more. I stood up, and almost tripped over the body of an agent on the floor. The one who’d handed me the gas mask. His throat had been ripped open. And his weapon was missing. Beyond him, a second agent lay face down. Then, in the hallway, I saw Kane standing over the body of the last agent to break through the windows onto the second floor. He was lying on the carpet, twitching. Kane emptied the rest of the magazine into his body. The agent lay still. Kane dropped the weapon, picked up his knife and came for me.

  His eyes were red and streaming tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. I saw a dark patch on his shirt, over his belly. He’d been hit before he’d managed to kill the first agent and take his weapon.

  Again, it didn’t seem to have fazed him or slowed him down. Not one bit.

  What the hell was this guy?

  There was ten feet between me and Kane. The footsteps on the stairs grew louder. I backed up until my legs hit the steel door of the panic room. Kane strode forward, a smile on his face.

  I drew Holten’s Glock from my coat pocket and shot Kane square in the chest. I’d swiped the weapon when Holten had his back to me, closing the front door. The shot threw Kane back a few steps, but miraculously he stayed on his feet. He looked down, saw the massive impact wound. His head came up and his mouth opened. Blood spouted from his lips and he started toward me again.

  Another shot took him in the shoulder. This time he didn’t even stop.

  Eight feet from me. The knife still in his Goddamn hand.

  I pulled the trigger again and again and again. Missing, hitting him in the stomach and the chest and still the bastard kept coming.

  Five feet. Footsteps in the hallway now.

  I aimed low and fired twice. Missed the first time. Second shot blew out Kane’s knee and he dropped. He started crawling, wheezing blood.

  Three feet and he lashed out with the knife, the blade bit into my thigh. Kane’s eyes changed in that last moment. They softened, relaxed. Almost as if some burden had been lifted as he stared up at the barrel of the Glock.

  I pulled the trigger one last time and blew the back of his head off.

  My knees gave out as the pain ripped through me. There was a long slash right across my thigh, and I could feel the blood soaking my pants. My mind drifted. The room tilted. I must have slumped onto the floor. I saw Holten’s gun in front of me. I must’ve dropped it. I looked up and saw Holten standing over me, panting. He bent down, picked up his gun.

  Staring up at him, I saw the decision on his face. He ejected the magazine, looked at it. There was at least a couple of rounds left. I couldn’t breathe with that damn mask on. I tore it off.

  “Tuesday, in the Diner. We met for breakfast before we went to the crime scene,” I said.

  Holten knelt down, stared at Kane’s body.

  “Never thought I would see the day,” said Holten.

  He shook his head in disbelief at Kane’s corpse.

  “There was no one like him. He couldn’t be hurt. Didn’t feel pain. I thought he wasn’t human,” said Holten.

  “The Diner. You took the cash I’d counted out to pay the check, then gave it back to me and said you’d pay. You took one of the dollars, gave it to Kane. You helped him set me up. You helped him all along,” I said.

  He stood up, turned toward me and a smile broke free on his face.

  It was a twisted, evil thing – that smile. I’d seen the photo that the Chapel Hill cop sent to Harper. Holten hadn’t changed a bit. I wanted him to know his cover had been blown, that there was no more hiding behind a false name. My voice was breaking, the pain was too much. Somehow, I said, “You switched Richard Pena’s DNA swab for Kane’s in Chapel Hill. Isn’t that right, Officer Russell McPartland?”

  He slid the mag home, chambered a round and pointed the gun at my head.

  I gritted my teeth. Met his eyes.

  His body began to jerk and the broken glass that still clung to the window frame turned a violent shade of red before Holten’s body fell out through the window.

  Delaney and Harper stood side by side in the hallway. They lowered their guns. I heard Delaney call for a paramedic and the room fell dark again. I tried opening my eyes, but found that I couldn’t. My head felt heavy and I was covered in sweat. I felt my back sliding down the door, and I couldn’t get my feet underneath me to stop myself. I was going under, fast.

  Before I drifted off I felt a hand on my cheek. I couldn’t make out what was being said. Someone was banging on a metal door. Bobby, asking if it was safe to come out. I tried to tell him it was okay. I tried to tell him that he wasn’t going to court in the morning, that the case against him was over, but I couldn’t find the words.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  In the eight weeks that had passed since the 39th-street shootout, the full picture of Dollar Bill’s crimes had emerged. I was too weak to meet Delaney, but she’d called Harry and told him. I was staying in Harry’s apartment while I healed, and he’d told me the full story.

  Kane had been a prolific killer, and his DNA was found at three further crime scenes. A man called Wally Cook had gone missing the week of the trial. Kane’s DNA was found on the slashed tire of Cook’s car, parked in his driveway. Cook’s body had been burned, but was subsequently identified by dental records. He had been on the jury list for the Solomon trial. Also, Pryor had been found dead at the wheel of his Aston Martin parked right on Bobby’s street.

  Kane
had left Grady’s Inn, met Pryor, taken his clothes, killed him, put an overcoat on him and a hat over his face to cover the hole in his eye socket.

  Although it could never be conclusively proven, Kane was also believed to have murdered the jurors Manuel Ortega and Brenda Kowolski.

  Delaney also got more information on Holten, whose real name was Russell McPartland. He’d been dishonorably discharged from the army after a string of allegations of sexual harassment. None of which were proven, but it gave the command enough impetus to get McPartland kicked out for a series of minor infractions, most of which his fellow officers had engineered. McPartland got a job as a security officer at UNC Chapel Hill, not long before a series of brutal rapes started happening on campus. For all intents and purposes, he was a cop and the young women trusted him when they saw him coming for them. When the first victim of the Chapel Hill Strangler was found, it was believed that the rapist had upped the ante, but the FBI now thought differently. Delaney was convinced Kane sought out McPartland, and threatened to expose him unless he helped Kane hide his crimes.

  The two worked well together. McPartland had a security background, contacts who were cops. All the resources Kane needed. And of course, he knew the right people when it came to altering IDs. Kane hadn’t been merely lucky for all those years – he’d had help.

  Then the exonerations started to happen. Some were posthumous, most were not. Men who were convicted of Dollar Bill’s crimes were released and started the long road to obtain damages for wrongful convictions. No matter what they got – it wouldn’t give them their lives back.

  I lay on Harry’s couch, watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey. Bobby had been calling me every day, wanting to thank me for saving his life. Again, Harry was kind enough to talk to him for me. And I’d watched Bobby’s interview on CNN. He talked about the ordeal of being on trial for a crime he didn’t commit. He talked about his epilepsy, and how he’d hidden it from the industry. And he talked about his sexuality. He told the reporter he’d been with another man on the night Ariella and Carl had been murdered. Another actor. Another world-famous man, living a lie. How that still haunted him, and how he’d hidden that shame from everyone – even his lawyers.

  America forgave Bobby, even if Hollywood wouldn’t. I heard the front door open, and Harry came in with a bottle-shaped brown bag.

  He put the bag on the coffee table along with a stack of mail, fetched two glasses and poured each of us a drink.

  “What are you watching?” he said.

  “Cagney and Lacey,” I said.

  “I always liked that show,” said Harry.

  He sipped at his bourbon, put down the glass and said, “Bobby Solomon wants to hire you.”

  “What for?”

  “He’s working on a pilot for Netflix, about a con artist who becomes a lawyer,” he said, smiling.

  “That’ll never work,” I said.

  Harry saw me staring at the mail. He picked it up, and took it away.

  “Are there papers in there for me?” I said.

  He didn’t answer. I’d seen a brown envelope, large, familiar.

  “Give it to me, Harry,” I said.

  He sighed, selected the brown envelope from the stack of mail and brought back to me.

  “You don’t need to do this now,” he said.

  I opened the envelope, drew out the papers and sat up. My leg was still painful as hell, but I was healing. Doc said in a few weeks I could get rid of the walking stick. I only felt a dull ache now. The papers in front of me on the coffee table hurt a lot more. I picked up a pen from the stack Harry kept in a pot on the table, flicked over a few pages and signed my divorce and custody papers.

  I drained my glass, feeling the first hit of alcohol in a long time. Harry filled up the glass again.

  “I can talk to Christine,” he said.

  “Don’t,” I said. “It’s better for them. The further they are away from me, the safer they are. That’s just the way it is. When I was in Bobby’s house in Midtown, and Kane threatened me and Harper, I was almost glad. If I’d been with Christine and Amy, he would’ve threatened their lives, or worse. It’s better if they are far away from me.”

  “Bobby paid you well. You could bow out of this game, Eddie. Go do something else.”

  “What else could I do? I’m not in the best shape to go back into the con game.”

  “I didn’t mean that. You know, take up some other career. Something legal.”

  The commercials came on, and the first was a trailer for a documentary on Bobby Solomon and Ariella Bloom. The media were milking Bobby for everything while he was still hot.

  Following that trailer, I saw another ad for an interview with Rudy Carp. Rudy had been on every talk show and news channel, claiming victory for the Solomon case. I didn’t care. I let him have it. No point in fighting for glory with a lawyer like Rudy. I didn’t do the case for the publicity. That was the last thing I needed.

  “I think I’ll stick around as a defense attorney for a while yet,” I said.

  “Why? Look at all this has cost you, Eddie. Why do it?”

  I wasn’t even looking at Harry, but I could sense he already knew the answer.

  “Because I can. Because I have to. Because there will always be the Art Pryors, and Rudy Carps of this business. Somebody’s gotta do the right thing.”

  “It doesn’t always have to be you,” said Harry.

  “What if everyone said that? What if nobody stood up for anyone because they expected the other guy to do it? Somebody has to be standing on the other side of the line. And if I fall, somebody will have to come along and take my place. All I have to do is keep standing for as long as I can.”

  “You’re not doing much standing lately. Harper wants to see you.”

  I let the silence build.

  I gathered up the papers Christine’s lawyer had prepared, put them back in the envelope. My mind went back to that bedroom, in Midtown. I pulled off my wedding ring, dropped it inside the envelope. It was better for them if I didn’t have a family. They were too good for me. And I loved them far too much.

  I kept Christine’s wedding ring in my wallet. Right then, I didn’t know what to do with it. I would go through with the divorce and agree to everything Christine wanted, of course. It was for the best. For them.

  I drained the glass, poured another and lay back down on the couch.

  “So what are you going to do?” said Harry.

  I took out my phone, thought about calling Christine. I wanted to call her, but I had no clue what to say to her. On the other hand, I knew I had a lot to say to Harper, but I thought that perhaps those things were better left unsaid.

  I stared at the phone for a long time before I selected a contact and hit dial.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks, as ever, to Euan Thorneycroft and the whole team at AM Heath. An author couldn’t wish for a better agent. Francesca Pathak and Bethan Jones at Orion have bashed this novel into shape with considerable aplomb – my thanks to them, and the whole Orion team, especially Jon Wood, for believing in this book.

  My podcast partner Luca Veste – for keeping me sane, keeping me laughing and for reading this one. To all my friends and colleagues. My thanks to all the booksellers and readers who support me.

  Special thanks to my wife Tracy, who is first reader, first opinion, first everything. Because she is the best.

  Eddie Flynn has 48 hours to save his daughter …

  ‘A gripping, twisty thriller’ Ian Rankin

  ‘The Defence is everything a great thriller should be’ Mark Billingham

  It’s been over a year since Eddie vowed never to set foot in a courtroom again. But now he doesn’t have a choice. Olek Volchek, the infamous head of the Russian mafia in New York, has strapped a bomb to Eddie’s back and kidnapped his ten-year-old daughter, Amy. Eddie only has forty-eight hours to defend Volchek in an impossible murder trial – and win – if he wants to save his daughter.

  Under
the scrutiny of the media and the FBI, Eddie must use his razor-sharp wit and every trick in the con-artist book to defend his ‘client’ and ensure Amy’s safety. With the timer on his back ticking away, can Eddie convince the jury of the impossible?

  Out now in paperback and ebook.

  FRAUD. BLACKMAIL. MURDER.

  IT’S ALL IN A DAY’S WORK FOR EDDIE FLYNN.

  ‘Highly intelligent, twist-laden and absolutely unputdownable’ Eva Dolan

  ‘Steve is a fantastic thriller writer’ Mark Billingham

  When David Child, a major client of a corrupt New York law firm, is arrested for murder, the FBI ask con artist-turned-lawyer Eddie Flynn to secure the case and force him to testify against the firm.

  Eddie is not someone who is easily coerced, but when the FBI reveal that they have incriminating files on his wife, he knows he has no choice.

  But Eddie is convinced the man is innocent, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. With the FBI putting pressure on him to secure the deal, Eddie must find a way to prove his client’s innocence.

  But the stakes are high – his wife is in danger. And not just from the FBI …

  Don’t miss out – available to buy now.

  Eddie Flynn returns in the next edge-of-your-seat thriller

  WHO IS DEADLIER …

  Leonard Howell’s worst nightmare has come true: his daughter Caroline has been kidnapped. Not content with relying on the cops, Howell calls the only man he trusts to get her back.

  … THE MAN WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH …

  Eddie Flynn knows what it’s like to lose a daughter and vows to bring Caroline home safe. Once a con artist, now a hotshot criminal attorney, Flynn is no stranger to the shady New York underworld.

  … OR THE ONE WHO BELIEVES A LIE?

  However, as he steps back into his old life, Flynn realizes that the rules of the game have changed – and that he is being played. But who is pulling the strings? And is anyone in this twisted case telling the truth …?