The Plea, page 23
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
“Everything all right, Mr. Langhiemer?” said the doorman.
“Just fine,” he said.
Out of the building, on the sidewalk, he let go of my hand.
“You shouldn’t have come here. I waited in the diner, like you asked. Nice touch with the doorman. I’ve got my phone and you knew that. I guess it was your phone taking a ride around Manhattan in the back of a cab. Clever.”
“I thought the message I left the doorman might give you a hint. You’re not very hospitable. I was looking forward to taking a look at the view from your apartment.”
“What do you want?”
This was why I’d come. I wanted to unsettle the guy before I popped the question. And I remembered that when he’d first called me, there was a female voice in the background telling him to hang up. The phrase that she’d used was strange: “Hang up. No calls.”
“You sure you don’t need your girlfriend’s permission before you talk to me?” I said.
“What?”
“When you called me in the diner today, out of the blue, I heard a female voice telling you to hang up. No calls. It’s good to know who wears the pants in your house,” I said.
It was a cheap way to antagonize him: playing on his anger. I’d expected him to explode, to loosen his tongue and maybe, just maybe, he might give something away that he wouldn’t have done if he’d been calm.
Langhiemer didn’t explode. He didn’t let his temper go wild. The opposite.
He stumbled backward, shaking his head. I could tell by the look on his face that he was scared. Not the reaction I’d hoped for, but I decided to take advantage.
“Where were you on Saturday night around eight?”
No words passed his lips. He simply studied me for a moment, giving himself time for the venom to flow back into his system. “I was murdering David’s girlfriend. Is that what you want me to say?”
A flicker from his right eyebrow, and his hands dove into his pockets.
“Where were you?”
“I was at home. Alone. Now get your crummy ass away from me or I’ll call my lawyer.”
He didn’t move. Neither did I. He backed away, holding my stare.
“I value my privacy highly, Mr. Flynn. Now leave.”
“Pity you don’t think much of other people’s privacy,” I said, and I took out my cell phone and snapped a pic of Langhiemer. He thought about making a grab for my phone, thought better of it, and went back inside. The doorman got yelled at and fingers pointed at him.
He was holding something back. I knew it. Whether that had something to do with Clara’s death, or David, I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it had something to do with the woman’s voice I’d heard on the phone. The fact that I’d heard her scared him. And I had no clue why.
I turned swiftly, conscious that I had to get to the airport for midnight. Just as I turned, something registered in my peripheral vision. Somebody standing still across the street at the park. The man with the Scream tattoo. I froze in his stare and began making calculations. Holly’s car was parked around fifty feet away. The man was probably seventy-five feet away from me and fifty feet from the car, but on the opposite side of the street. A steady flow of cars on the avenue meant he would have to bob and weave through the moving traffic to get to me.
I thought I could make it to the car, start it up, and get away. But it would be tight. If he was too close by the time I got to the car, I’d have to open the trunk and hope Holly kept a tire iron handy.
The car keys jingled in my hand, the surge of fear in my chest strangled my breath, and I felt my legs itching to take off.
Just before I broke into a sprint, the man across the street smiled, lit up a cigarette, turned his back on me, and wandered away, into the park.
Before he could change his mind, I took off as fast as I could, got into the car, and spun the tires into the asphalt.
CHAPTER SIXTY
The wind licking off the runway of Teterboro Airport rocked the little Honda as I drove north along Industrial Avenue, headed for the Homeland Security hangar that served the FBI and a handful of federal agencies whenever they needed a ride. Teterboro sat around ten miles west of Manhattan, in Bergen County, New Jersey. It was home to a bunch of private air charter companies that hauled goods and people. I’d once dated a girl in nearby Moonachie, and we’d drive down Industrial Avenue and then sit on the hood of my beat-up Chevy and split a six-pack while the planes roared overhead.
As I drove I tried to keep Christine out of my thoughts. In my mind I replayed my conversation with Langhiemer. He had no love for David. Probably hated him. But was that enough to kill Clara to set up David for murder? At my core, I knew David didn’t kill Clara. But I wondered whether I was being conned by David, or was conning myself into believing he was innocent.
One way or another, I needed to stop this before the firm’s tattooed man dropped a bowl of acid on Christine, David, or me.
The Honda slammed over a speed hump that I hadn’t seen. My head hit the ceiling and I swore.
As soon as I relaxed my mind and stopped thinking about David and Langhiemer, my mind went straight to Christine. Replaying our phone call not a half hour ago.
Christine told me she didn’t want to leave New York. She wanted to stay and tough it out. She was plenty tough, but in the way that lawyers are often tough: crusading against the odds and playing the risks. This was a different situation. I told her she wasn’t safe and that if she didn’t get on the damn plane with Amy that I would throw her on board and tie her to the seat.
Guilt.
I blamed Ben Harland and Gerry Sinton for their greed, for their cowardice in using the junior associates at their firm as patsies for their fraud.
And I blamed myself.
When Amy was born Christine said she didn’t want to work until Amy was well into her teens. I figured it was to do with Christine’s upbringing. Her mom had worked long hours and Christine had spent most of her early years with nannies and babysitters, rarely getting much time with her parents, even on weekends.
Guilt.
The only reason Christine took the job at Harland and Sinton was because I couldn’t make ends meet for my family. Christine had worked in prestigious firms after she passed the bar exam and so her résumé opened a lot of doors. Just before Christmas, Christine took the job in Harland and Sinton, part-time at first, then more hours. By the end of January she was doing sixty-hour weeks. She didn’t want the job. She wanted time with Amy. Time that I denied them both by not bringing home the dollars.
A light rain had begun to fall, and I struggled to see much ahead of me in the tiny headlight beams. After ten minutes with my nose close to the windshield, watchful for speed humps, I saw the taillights of a small aircraft up ahead on the right and the beacon light from an airfield hangar just beyond the plane. I turned in to the lot and made for the hangar.
As I got closer I saw Dell’s car parked outside the open hangar doors.
Christine, her sister, and Amy would be arriving soon.
I parked the Honda, folded the collar of my suit jacket around my neck, and jogged to the hangar door. By the time I’d stepped inside, I was wet through. A yellow-orange glow from the overhead lights gave a false impression of heat. The hangar was like a meat locker. Standing by the small plane I saw Dell, Kennedy, and two or three other agents in suits, Ferrar and Weinstein among them. Weinstein still cradled his strapped-up fingers.
A hand in the air from Dell silenced Kennedy as I approached them. Both men wore long overcoats and gloves.
“I knew I could rely on you, Eddie,” said Dell. He nodded and smiled.
“Kennedy knows I always deliver,” I said.
“Thank God,” said Kennedy, in a way that somehow made me understand that he was against the whole setup from the start. While Kennedy and I would never be buddies, I suspected he didn’t appreciate Dell’s methods. Kennedy had a family, too.
A tech opened up a laptop on the hood of a black SUV, and Dell held out his hand for the pen drive. Farther back in the hangar I saw another black SUV, but I didn’t pay it any further thought.
“We want to make sure you’re not conning us, Eddie. If you don’t mind, we want to look at the kind of data that’s on the drive,” said Dell.
“You won’t be able to read it, not without the password,” I said, handing it over.
The tech inserted the drive into the laptop and I heard the machine purr as it came to life, running its checkups and alert systems as it began to access the memory.
A thumbs-up.
“There’s a lot of data here,” said Dell.
“It’s there. Let me see the money,” I said.
An agent produced a large sports bag and opened it. One-hundred-dollar bills—twenty-five of them in each bundle. I emptied the money onto the poured concrete floor and tossed the bag away. Stack by stack, I flicked through the bills, making sure there were no devices like a tracer or an ink bomb and that each bill carried a portrait of Benjamin Franklin. As I assessed each bundle I piled them up neatly beside me and began to build a small tower of cash. They all looked the same, felt the same, and weighed about the same.
“If I find any tracer spray on these bills…”
“They’re good,” said Dell.
Satisfied, I stood. The rain grew louder on the aluminum roof of the hangar. Even over the pounding noise, I heard a car approach and saw the headlights reflected in the sheets of fat, heavy rain. The car stopped outside the hangar. It was Carmel’s Lexus with Christine and Amy inside.
“Your passengers?” asked Dell.
“That’s them.”
“Then we’re all here. The password please, Eddie.”
“The agreements first.”
Stepping forward, Kennedy drew out two envelopes. He placed one of them on the hood of the truck and gave the other to Dell.
The first envelope contained an immunity agreement for Christine—signed by both Kennedy and District Attorney Zader, confirming that no state or federal criminal charges of any kind would be filed against Christine White arising out of her employment at Harland and Sinton.
But there was a condition.
There’s always a condition.
Her immunity hinged on her testifying against Benjamin K. Harland and Gerald Sinton at their subsequent trials.
I folded the document back into the envelope and slipped it into my jacket. Dell mirrored my move and placed the second envelope into his coat.
“I need to see David’s agreement,” I said, extending my hand.
“We don’t know what you’ve really got on that drive. If it’s good, he’ll get what he deserves,” said Dell, who began walking toward the open doors. He gestured for me to follow him. Ferrar grabbed an umbrella, stepped in beside Dell, and winced as he tried to open it. He switched the umbrella to his left hand. His right arm must’ve still been ringing from the brass knuckles.
I joined them at the threshold of the hangar, where the wind whipped the rain into our faces. The rain seemed to chill the hot, leaden pain in my neck. I let it wash over my face—breathed it in.
“We had a deal. The agreements first,” I said.
“Where are you taking my plane?” said Dell.
“You don’t need to know.”
“She’ll need to tell the pilot, at least. He’ll have to radio in the destination, so you might was well tell me now.”
“When the plane is in the air, I’ll let you know,” I said.
“I don’t suppose it matters much,” he replied, sniffing the air and letting his gaze fall into the dark sky. “There’s a storm coming,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The jet doors hung open. A small staircase built into the frame of the aircraft door beckoned to me. I wasn’t going anywhere. I had to stay behind to complete the deal and make sure the charge against David got dismissed in the morning.
I hated saying goodbye.
Christine’s hair smelled of cigarettes. She’d quit before Amy was born, but I’d always known that she’d sneakily enjoyed the occasional Lucky with a glass of wine. I held her close. Both of us wrapped ourselves around Amy and hugged in the rain. Letting go, I gently cupped her face in my hands and kissed her. Her lips were cold and sweet, and I tasted the smoke on her tongue. It was the first time we’d kissed in months. Somehow, it almost felt like our first kiss—there was excitement and fear, but this time there was also love and regret. She broke away, looked at the ground, and knelt beside Amy.
“We have to go, sweetie,” she said.
The pins on Amy’s denim jacket that bore the logos from a multitude of rock bands I’d never heard of glistened in the light from the cabin. I hunkered down and took my little girl in my arms. I could feel her trembling. I looked at Carmel, a taller, slightly older version of Christine. She had never liked me.
“I love you, kiddo. You look after your mom. You’re going somewhere far away—somewhere really safe. I’ll be with you soon.”
Amy kissed me on the forehead, gave me another tight squeeze with all her ten-year-old might, and took her mom’s hand, and they set off toward the plane. I gave Carmel the money. “I’ll make sure they stay safe,” she said.
Before she ducked into the plane, Christine turned and looked at me again. Her eyes were streaming with tears. She wiped them away. Her lips moved. “I love you.” I couldn’t hear her over the sound of the plane’s engines. Maybe knowing that I wouldn’t hear her speak those words somehow made it easier for her to say them.
I said it back. She waved and got on board.
The aircraft door closed and I heard the jet engine start up, and then the change of pitch as the plane turned and taxied toward the runway.
“The password?” said Dell.
I said nothing—willing the plane to take off, to take Christine and Amy far away. Away from the firm, away from Dell and Kennedy.
Away from me.
Ferrar switched the umbrella into his left hand with some difficulty and handed his boss a radio.
“Hold here,” said Dell. “The pilot won’t take off without my command. The password, Eddie. Or that plane never leaves the ground.”
“We have a deal?” I said.
Dell nodded.
Bile rising in my throat, I gave Dell the napkin with the password written in blue ink. Dell handed it to Ferrar, who folded away his umbrella and took the password to the waiting tech.
Without looking at Dell, I raised a hand, halting any further talk, and strolled out after the plane. I heard him mumble something to the pilot on the radio. The rain had eased to a light shower, and I saw the clouds clear a little as the jet accelerated down the runway and rose into the tumultuous sky.
I stayed there for a few moments. They were safe. No one could touch them, at least for now. As the plane got higher, the sharp ache in my shoulder blades melted into a dull echo of pain.
“Destination?” said Dell to the pilot on the other end of the line.
“Let me save you the trouble,” I said. “They’re heading in the wrong direction at the moment. Christine won’t give the pilot the landing location for a while yet. When she does, you won’t have time to set anything up. As soon as the plane lands, there’ll be someone to take my family to a safe place, a secret place. All you’ve done is given them a head start on the firm. They won’t truly be out of this until you take down Harland and Sinton.”
He nodded and we strolled back to the hangar. The tech worked quickly, and within a few seconds I saw a smile brush across his features. His teeth shined brightly in his reflection from the polished hood of the SUV. He popped a bubble of strawberry gum over his lips and whispered to Dell.
“Thank you,” said Dell.
“David’s agreement, I need it,” I said.
He handed me the envelope. As soon I took it I knew. The weight, the feel of it. Kennedy saw my expression change. The anger and the boiling fear in my stomach must’ve leached the color from my face.
“What’s wrong, Eddie?” said Kennedy.
I handed him the envelope. He opened it. It was empty. Kennedy tore it up and was about to speak when Dell cut him off.
“If you want to avoid a life sentence for David Child, you’ll have to talk to him,” said Dell.
The rear passenger door of the second SUV opened, and District Attorney Zader stepped out. He buttoned his gray, pin-striped jacket and adjusted his tie. He held a larger brown envelope marked EVIDENCE—DAVID CHILD. He handed it to me.
As he spoke he struggled to keep the triumphant tone from his voice.
“You know, Eddie, I’m disappointed. I didn’t think I could hustle a hustler.”
I tore open the envelope and found five closely typed pages.
It wasn’t a plea agreement. I skim-read the document, and a sickening feeling in my stomach grew into a cramp that spread up my abdomen, holding my throat in a tight, bitter grip.
Right then I knew two things.
I’d let my concerns for Christine compromise David; I never should’ve handed over the password without seeing the agreement. The last kick in the teeth was the knowledge that it didn’t matter what I did the next day—or months from then in the eventual trial. The document Zader had given me would ensure that David Child would be convicted for murder.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
20 hours until the shot
The document Zader had handed me was a ballistics report. It confirmed, beyond any doubt, that the rounds found in the victim were fired from the same gun found in David’s car. I’d expected to see this report but not then, not so soon. And I could not challenge a word of this evidence. The DA was putting the murder weapon in David’s car, to match the body of his girlfriend in his apartment. There was no coming back from that scenario.
Game over.
“You used me,” I said, my fingers curling into fists. My legs parted in a fighting stance and my heart kicked into rhythm with the adrenaline soaking through my blood—into my muscles.
“And your wife,” said Dell. “We don’t care about her now that we’ve got the partners. She can go. She won’t face any charges. She is no longer of use.”
