The Plea, page 20
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
They nodded.
They understood, but I wasn’t convinced they’d hold up.
“Just follow Boo’s lead. Don’t talk to security. Leave it to me and Boo. David, when you’ve got what you need, I want you to say that you’re tired—that you need to sleep before the prelim. That’s the signal. We’ll wrap up and get the hell out of there.”
“What happens if they see through this? What happens if they try to kill me?” said David.
“They won’t,” I said.
David, Holly, and I piled into her car. Boo, Roger, and the Lizard got into Roger’s van.
We set off, and I rehearsed with David some code words so he could let me know his progress, and the word to let me know he’d been made.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The notorious Manhattan traffic had eased as we made our way to the Lightner Building, home to Harland and Sinton. David sat scrunched up in the back of Holly’s car, and I tried not to think about the con. Boo was probably the finest con artist I’d ever met, with the exception of my dad. When our paths had first crossed, Boo was plying her trade as a high-class hooker. She’d been looking for a way out that paid as much as the five hundred an hour she earned turning tricks, and I soon showed her how she could use her acting talent to devastating effect.
In any con, you needed a persuader. Most of the insurance cons I’d run needed a person to deal with the insurance investigators, who, for some bizarre reason, were all men. So for a car accident that I’d set up, with a fake plaintiff, fake injury, fake medical center, Boo usually manned the reception desk of the med center and flattered the investigators until they were convinced she was on the level. She was the ultimate persuader.
My thoughts drifted to the next morning’s preliminary hearing. I prayed that if tonight went well I wouldn’t have to go to court tomorrow, but part of me knew that I wouldn’t get a deal for David and that I had to plan for the worst. I’d never won a preliminary hearing, and I didn’t know anyone else who’d won one in the last ten years. They’re basically rubber stamps; if the prosecution can show even a shred of tangible evidence against the defendant, they win.
If I was going to win the prelim, I would have to show that David was innocent.
“I’m thinking about tomorrow’s hearing,” I said. “We need another suspect.”
“I don’t know anyone who could even think about harming Clara. She was…” I checked the mirror in my sun visor and saw tears streaking David’s face.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Forget about it for now. Let me worry about that. Just stay focused on what we’re doing here.”
He produced a pack of antibacterial handkerchiefs, wiped his face and blew his nose noisily. How did a beautiful woman like Clara end up with little David? Then I stopped being stupid—So, Clara, what first attracted you to billionaire David Child?
“She was older than you, right?”
“Yeah, but that didn’t matter. She was amazing-looking and smart, too. She had a good heart, Mr. Flynn. She, ah, she was the best thing that ever happened to me. Those six months we had together were the happiest of my life.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Holly tighten her hands on the steering wheel.
“How did you and Clara meet?” I said.
“Reeler. She was one of my followers and we met up on a Reeler hook.”
“I didn’t get any of that,” I said.
“Are you on Reeler?” said David.
“No, can’t say that I am, and my daughter is a little too young for social media. I know the basics, nothing more.”
“It’s like this—you set up an account and you post your photos, your blog, and all your updates to your Reel. Your Reel is like your own page—and the Reeler algos send your updates to people who it thinks would be interested in your post and hooks into your other social media platforms, like Twitter and Facebook, so you can post everything from your Reeler account. Then there’s the big selling point; Reeler is the only social media platform that encourages face-to-face interaction—we call them hooks. So if you’re in a bar and you post a pic, as long as you’re up for a Reeler hook, Reeler will tell all other Reeler users in the area where you are and what you’re doing and invite them to go talk to you. That’s why Reeler took off so quickly with college kids—you know how many spontaneous Reeler parties there were in the first month it was online? Try eight thousand. Reeler is the only true social media.”
“Okay, I get it. So how did you meet Clara?”
He rubbed his hands together and dipped his head for moment before coming up with the answer.
“I don’t go out much. Normally I sit at home or I go to parties at friends’ houses. Well, this one night there was a huge Reeler party kicking off in the Loft. You know the Loft—it’s a big cabaret bar in the city. Nearly everyone in the bar was posting on Reeler, and there was so much activity the network almost crashed. TV news cameras were headed there to cover the story, so me and a couple guys from the board went down to the party. Get our faces on prime-time news.”
He smiled fondly at the memory; then the new reality of her death spread over his features, strangling his smile.
“Her friend had stood her up for dinner, so she went to the party and she got interviewed by one of the news channels. She was so pretty, seemed the obvious choice for them, and she spoke so passionately about Reeler that I wanted to meet her in person and thank her. So we met, we talked, we left and got coffee. I don’t like crowds much. That was it.”
The car went over a drain cover, and it felt like we’d just gone through a crash barrier.
“So tell me about her,” I said.
“She was from Virginia, she studied languages, and she’d worked abroad for a while as a freelance translator. I can’t remember how many languages she spoke, maybe seven or eight. She worked all over the world, got tired of it and came back to the States. Her parents had moved out to Florida. There wasn’t much sense in going home, so she came to New York looking for work with the UN as a translator. She’d been back only a few weeks when I met her. It was like fate or something. Because she’d been away, she didn’t know anybody in New York, and I suppose, really, neither did I. We kind of found each other.”
“Did she get a job at the UN?”
“No, she’d applied. She’d been waiting tables.”
“And there were no ex-boyfriends on the scene, nobody with a grudge?”
“No. I can’t think of a single person who even disliked her. She didn’t know that many people.”
Holly chimed in. “I’ve known David since the eighth grade. He won’t mind me saying this, but he didn’t date a lot in school or college. When Reeler went massive, David had a good time, but there was nobody serious. Am I right?”
David nodded and smiled.
“I’ve always looked out for him. We’re friends and he took care of me when I got laid off. He also got me through a few breakups. I’ve gotta say that Clara was different from most girls that David met after the Reeler thing. Most of them wanted David for his status and his money and he didn’t get serious with any of those girls. Clara was different. She was, I don’t know … genuine. In both her affection for David and her lack of interest in his money. You remember you bought her that necklace from Tiffany?”
I could see from David’s expression, a smile and then a narrowing of eyes, that the memory was at first warm and then painful. A reminder of the person that had been—and the robbery of the life unfulfilled. I thought of Dell, and for a moment I understood him more. He was convinced by the evidence that David was the killer, and he wanted him to pay. The loss of life, so violent, so sudden, had to be rebalanced.
David couldn’t speak, and Holly picked up the story, but she spoke softly, as if her words could wound.
“They’d been dating for a month, and David surprised Clara with a Tiffany necklace that came in at a hundred thou. She told him not to be ridiculous. That Saturday they returned the necklace and went shopping in secondhand stores in Brooklyn. She picked out a little necklace that she liked and David bought it. It cost forty dollars.”
We zipped over another manhole cover and my spine was beginning to protest at Holly’s choice of car. I thought about Langhiemer again.
“You think Langhiemer could have set you up on his own? He may be ruthless when he’s safely behind a keyboard, but could he pull the trigger?”
“I don’t know,” said David.
I thought of the hall footage. No one had left the apartment after David, and the cops had found it empty. Everything pointed to him. If Langhiemer had killed Clara, or even if he’d paid someone else to do the shooting, did they just jump out of the window afterward? I thought about this as we approached the Lightner Building and I was reminded about something my pal Judge Ford once told me—sometimes you reach so far for an explanation that you ignore the solution sitting in your pocket. Even with the GSR testimony I’d wrung out of Porter, David could’ve shot Clara wearing a pair of gloves and then tossed the gloves out of the broken window, leaving only the GSR from the air bag explosion on his hands. Porter hadn’t thought of that, but I bet that Zader eventually would.
I was tempted to call my mentor, but Judge Harry would’ve told me that I was crazy—and that no matter what I thought, or what I believed, the evidence only pointed one way.
I didn’t want that conversation. Maybe I was afraid Harry would convince me he was right.
Holly pulled up outside the Lightner Building and my phone began to ring. An anonymous number.
“Eddie Flynn,” I said.
“Why is it you want to meet me, Mr. Flynn?” It was Bernard Langhiemer. I recognized his voice, traces of a rural accent being fought down by that Harvard graduate tone. I got out and stepped to the sidewalk.
“I want to talk. Funny, I was just thinking about you. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to call me back.”
“That’s strange. I would’ve thought you’ve got enough on your mind, what with David’s legal difficulties. But you seem to be handling them quite well. I saw David’s Reels on the news. That was your idea?”
“Why don’t we meet and we can talk about Reeler all you want.”
“But we are talking. Why do you want to meet me?”
I wanted to look the son of a bitch in the eyes when I asked him if he’d framed David. It’s much too hard to discern the truth on the phone.
“It won’t take long,” I said.
“Will it help David?”
Only if I figure you’re lying, I thought.
“I doubt it, but you never know.”
“In that case, I’ll meet you. Tonight?”
“Great. Ted’s Diner on Chambers Street. Ten o’clock.”
“I’ll be there. Just be careful tonight. There are a lot of sharks swimming in the Lightner Building.”
The call went dead. I stared at my phone. Langhiemer was tracking my cell. He clearly liked to intimidate, play little power games. I still had the cell phone Dell had given me. It would have to do for now. I turned off my own cell phone, dropped it on the sidewalk, and raised my heel, ready to turn it into parts. I stopped. Picked it up and put it in my pocket. If the cell was switched off, he couldn’t track the signal. There were better uses for it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The automatic revolving doors of the Lightner Building allowed all of us to fit into one of its three segments, and we slowly turned around as it ushered us toward the lobby. A tasteful mixture of steel, granite, and marble made up the grand entrance, and a single reception desk sat twenty feet away, on the right, between us and the elevators.
Four men occupied reception. At this time of night, in most buildings, you were lucky if you could get one receptionist; you certainly didn’t need four.
The first man was tall, wide, and wore a sharp black suit with a badge on his lapel that read SERGEI. He had a shock of white-blond hair, and I recognized him from the photos of the security team. Behind him, a formidable middle-aged woman with strawberry-blond hair in a bowl cut sucked on an iced coffee through a straw. Off to the left of the desk, two men, black jackets, in their early thirties, short hair, probably armed—part of the security detail for Harland and Sinton. I also recognized them from Dell’s file. The firm was in lockdown, and I’d no doubt these guys were ready to kill us as soon as we stepped into the elevator.
I led the way to the reception desk, followed by David and Holly, Boo and Roger bringing up the rear. The Lizard stayed with the van. He was backup, and he would listen in on everything that happened via my cell phone. I’d called him and left the phone locked and on speaker in the breast pocket of my suit jacket.
“Eddie Flynn and David Child for Gerry Sinton,” I said to Sergei.
“These gentlemen are from Harland and Sinton’s security. They will escort you,” he said.
The security team eyeballed me, their jaws clenched, hands clasped in front of them. One of them looked Samoan, and was almost as wide as the reception desk. The other man was white and smaller, but he looked the meaner of the two.
“Just a second,” I said.
Turning to Boo, I said, “Ms. Feldstein, you wanted an establishing piece?”
“Thank you, Mr. Flynn,” said Boo, who walked past David and me. Roger followed behind her. I didn’t need to turn around to see the cogs working in the security team’s tiny little heads as Roger pulled a large TV camera from his bag, handed Boo a microphone, and hit a button on the camera lighting up the reception area.
Boo straightened her blouse, mumbled something to Roger, then began her piece to camera.
“Tonight, the billionaire David Child begins consulting with his legal team in preparation for tomorrow’s hearing. Over the weekend, Child’s lover, Clara Reece, was brutally shot and killed in his apartment. The NYPD believe they have a strong case against Child. Here at 60 Minutes, we will be taking you deep into the heart of this fascinating case. We’ve been granted exclusive access to the private, attorney-client consultations between David Child and his expert legal team as they desperately try to build a defense for what many believe to be an open-and-shut case.”
She paused. Roger made sure he got the security team in the shot, then flicked the beam off.
“Great, that’s uploaded. They’ll start cutting it right away—no retakes; you’re gonna be big, Lana,” said Roger. Boo smiled.
“What the hell is this?” said the big, wide guard.
“It’s TV,” I said. “CBS. You watch 60 Minutes?”
“No,” he said. “No cameras allowed in here, Mr. Flynn.”
“Really? Well, then, we’ll just have to go to my office. Make sure and tell Gerry I said hi.”
I turned and began slowly heading toward the exit. Holly, Child, Boo, and Roger came with me.
“Hold on,” said the big man, dialing from his cell phone.
We stopped. I kept my eyes on the ground. David stood next to me, and I could almost feel his body shaking through the vibrations passing up from the floor into my feet. I put an arm on his to steady him. Holly’s eyes were wide, and she kept rattling her fingers along her bag. Clearing my throat to get her attention, I then made a passive gesture with my hands and she stopped fidgeting.
I knew the big man wouldn’t take his eyes off of me. He worked a piece of gum in his massive jaws, and I could hear his breathing from ten feet away. He’d more than likely worked himself up into a state where he could pop a couple of people, and now he had to rethink because they’d brought a TV crew with them. His call was connected, and I heard him mumbling, probably to Gerry Sinton himself.
I heard the big guy say, “60 Minutes.” He listened, then said, “Because it’s on the side of the goddamned van.”
It was true. Roger was a veteran cameraman for CBS, and he could take out the van whenever he wanted. The benefits of a long-term business relationship with Boo meant Roger occasionally got first sight of a fresh, hot story. Whatever else Boo had her hand in, she dabbled a little in blackmail and trading the kind of photographs that politicians like to keep secret. Boo was a powerful asset for a cameraman with dreams of stepping in front of the camera one day. The producers had learned to give Roger the van and a little leeway—it always paid off.
The liveried CBS van had proved to be the ultimate persuader. My dad once told me that the heart of the con lies in the eyes.
People believe what they can see. As long as you control their view, you control their mind.
“You can go on up,” said the big guy.
David nodded frantically, clutched his laptop bag, and followed me. A discreet smile from me seemed to calm him a little.
As we walked past the security team, the big guard said, “Take all the time you need. We’ll be waiting here.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
If the lobby of the Lightner Building had been impressive, the offices of Harland and Sinton made the entrance look like the back door of a greasy rib house.
Gold.
Practically everything was covered in some form of gold leaf. Gold lamps, gold lettering on the glass walls, and free gold pens that sat in bowl on a coffee table that looked so delicate I was almost afraid to breathe on it. Ornate antique furniture lined the firm’s reception area, and the coffee table looked as though it belonged in a Viennese opera house. From the reception area you could see all the way into the conference room. The glass partition walls were clear and gave the impression of a large open office. The place was still in full swing, with lawyers milling around the offices, looking busy for the dollars turning over on the meter.
I gave Boo a slight nod, and she dipped into her purse, found her cell, and set the timer on her phone to count down from thirty seconds. This was also Roger’s signal; he fired up the camera and made sweeping shots of the offices.
“David, Mr. Flynn,” said a deep, authoritative voice. It was Gerry Sinton. He came out of a side office and strode toward us with his hand extended, ready to greet. Three younger men in suits, who I took to be associates, came behind him and hung back while he took David’s hand.
