The Plea, page 11
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
Christine strode ahead toward the exit, her arms swinging as she walked.
I stopped in front of the man in the black coat. Guy stank. Nicotine stains on his index finger. He must’ve been going through a couple of packs a day at least. Placing my files on the floor beside me, I put one knee on the ground and worked at my shoelace. I was maybe three feet from the man in the black coat. I coughed, swore. He didn’t look up. I was close enough to his personal space for anyone to open their eyes, lift their head, and check what the hell I was doing. He didn’t move. At this distance I could make out the tattoo on his neck. The image tattooed onto his flesh was at once familiar and yet still remained strange to me no matter how many times I saw it: a man, or a ghost of a man—his body was fluid and formed in curves that accentuated the oval head, hands clasped over his ears and mouth open. It was The Scream, the painting by Munch.
He didn’t look at me and I was glad. I didn’t want to see those black eyes again. The thought of it gave me a dry mouth.
While I opened my laces, I watched the guy in the green jacket approaching me from behind. Before he passed, he disconnected the earpiece, folded the wire, and stuffed it into his right jacket pocket. The phone went into the left pocket. From his reflection I could see him watching me. His pace increased as he got closer. He planned to walk straight past me.
I got up quickly and moved to my right, straight into his path. My right shoulder hit him just under his left arm. He stumbled, and I grabbed him, steadying him before he fell. Eyes wide, he looked at me in total surprise and embarrassment.
“Oh, jeez, sorry, pal. Damn laces. You okay?” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, and walked straight out the door without stopping. It was him all right, the firm’s chief of security—Gill.
The man in the black coat with the tattoo, even with the noise of the collision just feet away from him, didn’t raise his head.
I followed Gill out of the front doors and saw Christine propped up against one of the pillars, heel tapping on the stone, one arm across her chest, eyes on the traffic.
Gill walked past her and half ran down the stone steps.
I tucked his cell phone into my coat pocket and joined Christine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I know what this is about,” said Christine, nodding.
She still wasn’t looking at me. The wind picked up and blew the lapels of her jacket. She hugged herself and blinked through the cold, holding her jaw tightly closed so that her teeth wouldn’t chatter. I thought she must have been so pissed off at Sinton’s PA that she’d run out of the office without even grabbing her coat. Her eyes watered, and I wondered if it was from the easterly wind blowing through the man-made canyons of Manhattan, or because of the life that we’d once had, and lost. Seeing her, smelling her, listening to her voice and knowing that right then we weren’t together—it was like grieving.
At that moment, I had a strong urge to lean on David, to save her. I resisted; it was a false hope and a foul thought. With the right moves, I could save them both.
There was no anger in her voice. She spoke softly. “It’s not like you, but deep down I think you’re jealous, Eddie. You think now that I’ve got a career, I might not want you, or maybe that I don’t need you. You don’t have to feel that way.”
“This isn’t about us. Something bad is going on in your firm. I can’t discuss it here. Do me a favor. Don’t go back to work. Get Amy and disappear for a couple of days.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is Harland and Sinton you’re talking about.”
This was the worst place to have this conversation. I didn’t know who was around, listening. I couldn’t risk telling her any more. She swung toward me, and I could see the disappointment building in her gaze. Whatever progress we’d made in the last few weeks, she thought I was throwing that away by being stupid.
“I’m asking you to trust me. I’ll explain everything tonight.”
“No, you won’t. This ends here and now. Send the client back to Gerry Sinton and then we’ll talk,” she said.
“I can’t. Trust me, this…” My voice fell away as her hand dipped into her bag and came out holding a ring. Her wedding ring. I wore mine every day. Never took it off. She’d stopped wearing her ring a long time ago.
“After you left the other night, I put this on. Just for few minutes. I wanted to know how it felt.”
I said nothing, just tried to stop myself from taking her in my arms.
“It felt good, you know? Like when we were first married. I’d stopped wearing it because it reminded me of all the bad times. Now I can put it on and think that there might be something in the future—something good, for us and Amy. I put it in my bag and I’ve been carrying it around. I don’t want to have to put it back in a drawer, Eddie. Send the client back to the firm, please. For us,” she said, pushing herself off the pillar and heading for the street.
Ignoring me as I called after her, she held out a hand to hail a cab. A taxi driver stopped and she got into the cab and left.
A digital chime sounded.
I checked my cell, but there were no messages, no texts, and no e-mails.
Scanning the crowd for faces as I moved, I turned my back to the street and carefully checked the phone I’d taken from Gill. It was a burner, Nokia, cheap, no GPS, no trace.
There was one new text message.
I clicked on OPEN MESSAGE.
We’re outside.
There was no name beside the message, just a cell number. It was, however, the second message in a text conversation. The first message had been sent three minutes ago.
A single statement in capitals. Three words that sent a ripple through my spine that lodged itself at the base of my neck like a block of ice. I gripped the phone so hard I almost cracked the screen.
KILL THE WIFE.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Christine’s cab had disappeared into traffic. The guy in the green jacket was nowhere to be seen. I turned and sprinted back into the courthouse, bumped my way through the security line and saw that the bench was empty. The man in the long black coat had left.
Fingers shaking, I dialed Christine’s cell from the phone Dell had given me. If I’d used my own, she wouldn’t answer.
The phone rang. No answer. I let it ring.
I began pacing the floor.
Two rings. I ran to a bank of pay phones in the corridor next to the inquiries office.
Oh Jesus, Christine, pick up the damn phone.
Three rings. Blood rushed to my face, and I felt my chest filling, drawing my shirt tight, but I had no breath. I sucked at the air like I was drowning and slammed a fist into the wall.
Voice mail.
I hung up, dialed again.
“Christine White,” she said. She hadn’t mentioned she’d reverted to her maiden name.
“It’s me. Don’t hang up. You’re in danger. Where are you?”
“What? Eddie?” She heard the urgency in my voice, the high pitch as I forced the words through my panting breath.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a cab on Centre Street. What’s wrong? Is it Amy?”
I heard the first tremors of fear in her voice; she spoke fast, and she knew I was serious.
“No, it’s you. Tell the cabdriver to change lanes, as if he’s turning right on Walker Street. Then ask him to check if any cars follow you into the lane. Do it now.”
“You’re scaring me. If this is some kind of—”
“Do it now!”
“All right,” she said, and I heard her giving instructions to the cabdriver. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but she repeated the instruction, forcefully.
“Did you get a death threat? I’ve got a right to know, and why the hell didn’t you tell me this five minutes ago?”
“Christine, don’t ask. Not now. I’ll explain later. Have you changed lanes?”
“Yeah, we’ve moved. Exactly what am I supposed to be looking—wait,” she said.
The driver mumbled something and Christine replied. I couldn’t make it out.
Then I heard the driver say, “Blue sedan, three cars back.”
“Tell him to move back into his original lane, like you’ve changed your mind and you’re going back to the office.”
She gave the instruction.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“Did the sedan follow?”
The slow rumble of tires on the asphalt, a distant horn.
The driver again: “There he goes, lady. We’ve got a tail,” he said.
“Oh my God. What is this? What have you done?”
“I’ll explain later. You’re in danger. The guys in that car are going to hurt you, understand. Now, do exactly what I tell you.”
She was crying now. The driver tried to calm her.
“I’m calling the police,” she said, fear rippling through her voice.
“No, do not—”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I called her back, but it went straight to voice mail. I called her again. Nothing.
My head spun. What the hell was I going to do? She was too far away for me to make it to her in time. I redialed.
“Eddie, I’ve got the police on the other line. We’re going to pull over and wait for a patrol car.”
“No! Do not pull over. If the cab stops, you’re dead. Do you hear me? Tell the driver to keep going. Where are you exactly?”
“On Walker. Wait…” I heard her talking to the driver. “He wants me to wait for the cops.”
“Put me on speaker.”
I heard the radio and the driver in midsentence.
“Hey, if you pull over, the men in the sedan will get out, and they will kill you and my wife before the cops get to the street. You want to live? Do exactly as I say.”
“Okay, Jesus, what do I do?” said the driver.
“What’s your name?”
“Ahmed.”
“Okay, Ahmed, you should be coming up on a junction with Baxter. When you get there, take a left and floor it.”
“Coming up,” he said.
“Hold on,” I said.
I don’t know if Christine even heard me. She didn’t say anything.
“Deep breaths, you’re nearly there. You can do it. Talk to me. Tell me where you are.”
“We’re passing the supermarket. Traffic’s backing up. We’re stopping.”
Her clothes rustled, and I guessed she was turning around, checking behind her.
“Face front honey. I don’t want them getting nervous and jumping you in traffic.”
“Wait…” A dull thud. “They’re right behind us. Light’s still red. Oh Jesus…”
“Hold it together,” I said.
“They’re getting out of the car!” yelled Christine.
“Get down,” I cried.
I heard the roar of the engine and Ahmed saying, “Those guys have guns.”
“We’re moving. We’re moving, thank God,” Christine said.
“Stay down. You ready, Ahmed?”
“Oh shit, wait. Baxter is one-way; I can’t turn,” he said.
“That’s exactly why you’re going to turn. Floor it, hit the horn the whole way. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”
I heard the revs go through the roof. Christine let out a whimper. All I could do was listen to her wet, heavy breaths and pray. The cab was accelerating and braking, the throaty murmur of the engine followed by tire squeal and the heavy beat of the horn. Ahmed weaving through oncoming traffic.
“They haven’t made the turn,” said Ahmed.
Glass breaking, metal shearing. Christine screaming. A huge thump. The horn stopped beating and instead blew out a long, slow note.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My cell phone sat still in my hand, silent. I checked to make sure that my phone was clear of calls and I stared at the home screen, willing it to ring. I called her—no answer.
I dialed, got her voice mail. Hung up. Again. Nothing. Again.
As if I were surfacing from deep water, the sound of my blood thumping in my veins was replaced with the noise from the courthouse lobby. I’d tuned it out when I’d gone into panic mode. I heard the soft beeps from the bag scanner, the sound of rubber soles squeaking on the toughened-rubber tile floor, the ping of elevators, the electric pump firing the coffee machine across the hall, the nervous chatter of witnesses and the fake laughs from their lawyers, all drowned out by the occasional burst of incoherent, cryptic static that passed for an announcement from the PA system.
My cell stared at me, stoically mute. I stepped past the phones, checked the full length of the lobby. Still no sign of the man in the black coat or Gill. Crossing my legs, I let my left shoulder grab the wall as I checked my phone again. Nothing. I held the phone up a little, to let the casual observer think I was checking my messages, letting my peripheral vision do its work. Nobody else stood out, but that wasn’t to say there wasn’t anyone around with a pair of eyes on me.
I felt the ring before I heard it.
“Christine?” I said.
Running. Panting. She was barely able to speak. Pushing hard.
“I’m okay. I don’t see them. Driver is okay. What do I do?”
“Are you still on Baxter?”
“Yes.”
“Run back the way you came, past the accident. Cross the street and jump into the nearest cab. Don’t look behind you. Just run.”
Feet pounding. Soft flutters in her throat.
“I’m across the street. I see a cab waiting.”
“Stop running. Put your shoes on. Get in. They’ll be trying to cut you off. They’ll hit Baxter by heading toward Canal Street, making a left, and coming toward you from Hester. They won’t be able to get down Baxter Street because of the accident. Get in the cab and tell the driver to make for the Manhattan Bridge.”
Nothing.
A car door opening. Christine getting in, giving instructions to the driver.
“I’m in. We’re moving.”
My head sank against the cool wall. It felt good, easing my system down. I let Christine catch her breath. When she did, she called me out.
“You wanted the driver to crash,” she said.
“I did. I knew they wouldn’t follow you. Too much attention for what they had in mind. I guessed they’d loop around and cut you off at Hester. They can’t now. Traffic is backed up on Baxter now because of your accident. Is Ahmed okay?”
“Yeah. I think so. We hit another cab. Pretty low speed. Everyone is okay, but the cars are totaled. Will they hurt him?”
“No. Too many witnesses now. This is New York. There’ll be twenty people around that accident scene already.”
I checked the phone I’d taken off Gill and found that it had locked itself. It asked me for a four-digit code. Placing the phone in my pocket, I breathed in and closed my eyes. She told me there was no sign of the sedan. She’d made it.
“I have to get Amy,” she said, and broke down.
“Listen to me. Call your sister. Tell her to get Amy from school right now. Find a motel in Red Hook, close to the expressway.”
“I have to call the office, tell them I won’t be back today.”
“No. You can’t. Listen to me. This is gonna sound crazy…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I told her everything. I told her about the share agreement with her signature on it. She half remembered witnessing the agreement for Ben Harland, who’d told her that he had a family emergency—something about his daughter—and asked if Christine could witness the signature. She’d thought nothing of it at the time. I told her about Dell and the task force. I went into basics about the firm, their history, their financials, and then David. I didn’t tell her about the evidence against him. No need. I told her I believed he was innocent. That was enough.
When I’d finished, I could hear her swallowing down the tears, the nerves vibrating through her throat. She whispered into the handset, keeping the conversation from the cabdriver.
“A guy followed me today in the courthouse. His name is Gill. He’s the firm’s head of security. I bumped his phone, which had a text message on it, ordering him to kill you. Your bosses are scared, and they don’t want me representing David Child. I suppose they figured if they murdered you, I wouldn’t be able to continue with the case. Seems a hell of a way to take out the competition.”
She breathed out again, the tension sending a trembling whistle through her breath.
“They’d kill me to get you off a case?”
“This guy can hurt them. They want to be able to control David, make sure he doesn’t make a deal with the cops that would shorten his sentence in exchange for bringing down the firm,” I said.
“What does he have on the firm?”
“One of the firm’s money handlers, Farooq, got caught by police in the Cayman Islands. The firm had been laying off the personnel that do their laundry; they’d found a safer way to clean the cash. The firm killed the informant before he could testify. A federal task force found out the firm is using David Child’s anti-hacker security system to clean the money. They can push a button and millions disappear from their client accounts, spiraling through thousands of accounts, in hundreds of banks, before it lands, clean, in a secure account.”
“This is all my fault. He told me they’d already completed due-diligence checks,” said Christine.
“I’m not blaming you. I mean, your boss, who’s a goddamn blue-chip legend, sets a document in front of you and tells you it’s kosher—well, anybody would just accept that. It’s not your fault. It’s Ben Harland and Gerry Sinton’s fault. We’ve just got to deal with it.”
