The Plea, page 25
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
I hadn’t been in my office since early that morning, and with the normal traffic through the front door, there was no point in putting my usual precautions in place. There was no dime and no toothpick to tell me if I had any unplanned guests waiting for me upstairs. We entered noisily and I closed the door too quickly, much too eager to get out of the storm. If anyone was upstairs, they probably heard us come in.
We shook out our clothes, and I wiped the rain from my face and swept back my hair, which had begun to cling to my forehead. Our breath was misty in the cold lobby, and pools of rainwater already formed around our feet. I gestured toward my office with a flick of my eyes. Kennedy nodded, handed me the plastic folder, drew his service weapon, and ascended the stairs cautiously. I followed him at a distance.
A reading light shined in my office.
Kennedy put his palm out flat, telling me to remain at the top of the stairs. He moved with a graceful, silent skip toward the door, his gun ready in a two-handed grip. I followed him, and we took our positions on either side of the door. Kennedy shook his head and mouthed that I should stay put. In one smooth, fluid movement, he flicked the doorknob with one hand, then kneed it all the way open as he pushed inside, his gun raised in front of him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Rain trickled down my back, and I pressed myself harder into the wall.
I heard nothing.
Not a sound.
“Kennedy?” I said.
“Clear,” he said.
I breathed out, went inside, and turned on the lights. I must’ve left my desk lamp burning this morning. That’s not like me. I was being careful. If Dell hadn’t offered me the cash to represent Child, I had planned to put this month’s electric bill on my credit card. We shook off more rain from our clothes. Then I took off my jacket and sat down to read the contents of the folder Kennedy had given to me.
The documents Kennedy brought didn’t contain much more than I’d seen already. Only a few other pages of exhibit lists and a clearer, larger version of the map of David’s apartment.
“You still think your client is innocent?” asked Kennedy.
I nodded.
“I don’t like the way it played out with Dell, so I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to know why you’re so certain about Child,” he said.
“I know how it looks. But I’ve looked him in the eyes. He doesn’t have it in him. It looks bad for David because that’s the way it’s supposed to look. Whoever set him up wanted him nailed for Clara’s murder. By the way, you haven’t shown me what you got on the victim.”
The FBI man put both hands in his pockets, drew them out, and held open his empty hands.
“Nothing?” I asked.
“No tax records, no Social Security number, no medical records in this state. Same with dental. No birth records, no cell phone registered in her name. The only thing I got was a driver’s license, library card, and an ATM card all issued around six months ago to Clara Reece.”
“That ever happen to you before?”
“Nope. Come to think of it, I’ve always been able to get more than one hit, even if it’s only birth registration. Her cell phone was an expensive burner. She had cash in her purse—no credit cards, just the checking account. Apparently PD sent a car to the address David gave for Clara. I know that she’d just moved in with David, but the apartment was cleared out. No furniture, no letters, and no TV, even. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in that place. Oh, and the smell; apparently the whole place had been steam-cleaned and chemically treated a few days before the murder. She’d told her super that she was moving in with David, but he says he didn’t clean the apartment. Somebody did, and they were thorough. The cops weren’t even able to grab a hair from that apartment.”
“It’s almost like she’s been erased,” I said.
Nodding his head, Kennedy said, “I got to admit, that threw me. The DA has got this set up as a wild crime of passion. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that way to me. Sounds to me like Clara Reece was running from something, or somebody, and hit the jackpot when she met your client. It doesn’t prove anything, Eddie. But it’s something to throw into the mix. I just don’t know how far any of this will get you.”
“If I’m right, it was a setup,” I said.
He suppressed a laugh. “Well, if he has been framed, then it’s the best setup I’ve ever seen. Your client says he left his apartment at twenty oh two, having just kissed Clara goodbye. She was alive and well when he left, according to him. Yet Gershbaum hears the shots, goes to his balcony and sees the window blowing out from the stray bullet and calls security—his call is logged at twenty oh two. The security camera doesn’t show anybody else going near the apartment until the security guards arrive four minutes later. The only person in that apartment is our dead victim. If there’s another killer, well, they must have flown away. Child shot her, Eddie. Why can’t you see that? So, what’s your client’s defense? Either he’s lying or Clara Reece shot herself in the back of the head twelve times. I don’t think she could’ve managed that, and there’s no one else who could’ve done it, because no one else was there. Gershbaum didn’t see anyone escaping onto his balcony, and nobody left his apartment in that time either—you can see his front door from the security footage, too. And if that weren’t enough, the murder weapon is in his car. Face it, this man killed her. You have to stop seeing what you want to see and look at the bare facts.”
Something Kennedy said pulled at me, but I wasn’t sure what it was. It was like I’d just been flashed a deck of cards and the dealer had held on to one card a microsecond longer than any other as he ripped through the deck. The dealer would show me the card he wanted me to remember—in fact, it would be the only card I could see. The others would go by in a blur. In my mind, I repeated what Kennedy had said, looking for my card.
I found it.
“You said I’m seeing what I want to see. And I want him to be innocent,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it so sound to blunt, but you needed to hear it,” he replied.
“But that’s it. That’s the key.”
It was simple. It was the cornerstone of any hustle: People believe what they can see.
Kennedy stretched his back and, as he did so, the file on his knee slipped off onto the floor. I stood and cracked my neck, then walked around my desk to bring the blood back into my feet.
“I need another favor. And I need a ride,” I said.
“Where to?” asked Kennedy, checking his watch.
It was coming up on one a.m.
“Central Park West. I need to take a look at the crime scene.”
“That may be difficult.”
“That building runs twenty-four hours a day. We can get in. We’ll figure something out. If this plays out the way I think it will, then I’m going to need you to look into an alternative suspect for Clara’s murder. Guy called Bernard Langhiemer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s hiding something. David and Langhiemer have history. I talked to him today, and he—” The words caught in my throat. I stood at the window, gazing through the blinds at the street below. A blue Chevy had parked thirty feet from my office. The driver’s window must’ve been open. I could see the wisps of smoke gently trailing above the roof of the car.
“We’ve got company,” I said.
“Who?” said Kennedy.
“I can’t see from here,” I said. The light from my desk lamp reflected onto the window, masking the view of the driver.
I heard Kennedy get up from his seat to come take a look. I turned and saw that he’d spotted the lamp’s reflection on the glass. He took two steps toward the desk. He was going to shut off the lamp so we could get a better view.
Something in the back of my mind began to grow. It wasn’t a theory, or a thought; it was deeper. A feeling of unease that was now exploding into panic.
“Don’t move. Wait!” I said.
Kennedy stopped in his tracks, his hand on my desk.
“Before Dell offered me the money yesterday, I was getting worried about how I was going to pay the electric bill.”
He looked puzzled.
“Don’t you get it? I’m pretty positive I didn’t leave that lamp on. Somebody’s been here.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Slowly, Kennedy brushed aside the loose pages on my desk to get a better view of the cable switch for the lamp. He picked up the cable from the desk. Carefully, he laid it back down. It was enough for me to see that somebody had tampered with the switch. A red wire led from directly underneath the switch to a freshly drilled hole in my desk.
Kennedy and I exchanged glances. Neither of us could breathe. Sweat broke out on our faces.
With the cable resting on the desk, the switch pointing upward, the wire was invisible. The hole in my desk was only a couple of millimeters wide. Just the right size for the wire. Pushing aside my desk chair with one hand, Kennedy got on his knees and took a small flashlight from his pocket. Twisting onto his back, he pushed himself under my desk like a mechanic sliding underneath a car.
“Eddie, come take a look. For God’s sake, move slowly and don’t touch anything.”
Gingerly, I lay down beside him and looked underneath. There were six two-liter plastic cola bottles taped to the reverse side of my desk. They sat way back, so my knees wouldn’t touch them if I sat down in my office chair. The red wire ran through the hole and was taped along the base of each bottle. Each bottle was filled with a cloudy liquid and what looked like foil lining the base.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch the lamp. We’re going to get up very slowly, grab your files, and get out.”
And we did. As Kennedy closed the door to my office, he breathed out and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead into his hair.
“It’s an acid bomb. The bottles are filled with hydrochloric acid. He added a trip to the cable switch on the lamp. If we’d turned off the lamp, the power would’ve fed into the red wire and heated the aluminum base of each bottle. Five, maybe ten seconds later, that desk would’ve been on the ceiling and your entire office would’ve become an acid shower. Ever see somebody drop baking soda into a bottle of cola? It’ll shoot fifty feet in the air. The acid in those bottles would’ve been superheated and a lot more powerful.”
“It’s the guy, the one I told you about.”
“I hear you. I had my suspicions about this guy soon as you mentioned him. This confirms it. We’ve got to take him out,” he said as he dialed on his cell phone.
While he waited for somebody to pick up his call, he said, “Officially, I’m not supposed to be here. I can get Ferrar and Weinstein, maybe. They’ll take a risk for me. The man in that car is waiting for you to turn off the lamp. He’s waiting to hear you scream.”
We sat in the dark lobby of my building. Kennedy had his Glock in one hand, his cell phone in the other. He was waiting for a call from Ferrar to tell him they were in position.
“The man with the tattoo on this throat, you know who he is and you’re not telling me,” I said.
“Nobody knows his real name. People call him El Grito—The Scream. He’s an interrogator, and a hit man for the Rosa Cartel: one of the largest in Mexico. They’re at war with the other cartels, but they’ve managed to hold the White Line—the route from Boca del Río right through the country, all the way to Tijuana. El Grito is one of the most feared men in Central America. In the Mexican drug wars, these guys need a reputation. They build their name on brutality and fear. El Grito likes to use acid and he never gags his victims—he likes to hear them scream. The acid bomb is his MO.”
“I don’t like this, Kennedy.”
“The cartel has a lot of money tied up with Harland and Sinton. I guess they’re here to help the firm with their little problem.”
“This gets better and better,” I said.
“Eddie, I’d no idea the cartel would become directly involved. The media is all over this thing, and that should be enough to keep them the hell away from it.”
“The guy who tried to knife David before Popo got in the way, he was Mexican. And Dell’s informant, Farooq, wasn’t he burned with acid?”
Kennedy looked at the floor and said, “It’s thin, but it fits. This guy is protecting the firm.”
His cell phone hummed. He listened and told whoever was on the other end of the line to be ready.
“We’re good to go. Ferrar and Weinstein drove past. It’s him, although he’s got somebody hunkered down in the passenger seat. Probably a shooter. My men are in the parking lot a hundred yards up the street. When he runs, they’ll block him. Stay here,” said Kennedy.
He drew his Glock, threw open the front door, and bolted to the left, gun in the air, hollering at El Grito to get out of the car.
Instantly I heard an engine fire up, then gunshots. Two different sets of gunfire. The high crack of Kennedy’s Glock and the thunderous answer from a shotgun. I peered out my front door. Kennedy was pinned down behind his car, and El Grito was pulling out to pass Kennedy’s car. I saw the passenger window of El Grito’s vehicle coming down. He was going to stop and take out Kennedy on the way.
I pulled open my mailbox, lifted one set of brass knuckles, and dove into the street. El Grito’s dark sedan leveled at Kennedy’s car, and I saw a sawed-off shotgun in El Grito’s hand, pointed out the passenger window. The shotgun sat over the head of somebody hiding in the passenger seat of the sedan. I hurled the brass as hard as I could. I was only twenty feet away, so it was an easy shot. The knuckles smacked off the windshield, leaving a huge crack.
El Grito hit the gas, his car fired past Kennedy, and I was already pumping my legs up the steps to my front door. I ran inside and slammed the door, but before it shut, it bucked back with a sharp clang and caught me on the forehead, knocking me to the floor. The steel-back plate on the front door was bent and misshapen where it had stopped the shotgun blast. I tore open the door and saw Kennedy standing in the middle of the street, firing into the back of the sedan as it sped away. The back window exploded, but the sedan only sped up, hurtling toward the SUV with Ferrar at the wheel. They’d waited in the parking lot that serviced the restaurants and now they were right across the narrow one-way street. The sedan mounted the curb and was going to slip past.
I took off and caught up with Kennedy as we both bolted up the street.
“He’s not going to make it,” said Kennedy.
The sedan must’ve hit fifty miles an hour as it sheared through the gap between the SUV on the left and the black railings on the right, taking the front bumper off the feds’ vehicle. A shower of sparks flew into the air from the sedan’s right side, and the passenger door fell to the sidewalk.
As the SUV reversed to pursue its quarry, Kennedy and I caught up with it. We leaped into the backseat, and Kennedy roared, “Go, go, go!”
Ferrar hit the gas, and Weinstein leaned out the passenger window in front of me with his weapon drawn.
The sedan was almost at the intersection with Eighth Avenue. He didn’t slow down. Instead he accelerated, and I saw El Grito lean to his right, toward the passenger side.
Just before he hit the intersection, a body fell out of the passenger side. It hit a parked car and bounced back, tumbling toward the SUV. This block of West Forty-sixth Street was narrow, and with cars parked on either side, the only way to continue the chase was to drive over the person who’d been thrown from El Grito’s car.
My head hit the passenger seat in front of me as Ferrar stood on the brakes. We piled out of the car and watched El Grito drive away. Ferrar got on the radio, but we all knew it was pointless. We’d lost him.
The body on the road had come to a stop. I joined Kennedy as he stood over it. You could tell from the way the body had limply rolled across the street that it was dead.
Kennedy stood over the mess. Green padded jacket. Light sandy hair. I joined the fed and stared at the dead man. It was Gill, Harland and Sinton’s head of security.
His clothes were ripped, probably from the fall from the moving car. But that wasn’t what had killed him. There was no skin on his right hand. I could see white patches of bone and sinew, but there was no flesh. His throat was gone, as well as most of his lower jaw.
Kennedy was still catching his breath as he spoke.
“He’s been tortured. Then made to drink the acid that dissolved his hand. We can be sure of one thing—whatever El Grito wanted to know, Gill told him.”
He turned to Weinstein and said, “Call it in. We’ll need the bomb squad for the office, too. I’ll be back. I need to give Eddie a ride.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Kennedy parked his car outside David’s building. He’d called Dell, told him about El Grito and Gill. He left out the part about helping me. Said he’d come by when I found the bomb under my desk. According to Dell, the Rosa Cartel was by far the biggest client of the firm. Almost six of the eight billion in the accounts belonged to the cartel. They wanted to make sure it was safe, and that meant warning Sinton about what would happen if it went missing. It didn’t change Dell’s plan; he just told Kennedy to be careful.
We got out of Kennedy’s car and entered David’s world.
The lobby of Central Park Eleven looked like a lobby from a billionaire’s wet dream. Marble floors, antique furniture, oak-paneled private library just to the left of reception, exotic plants that spilled equally unusual scents, piped classical music—Chopin. The receptionist probably made more money in tips in a week than I made in a year. She was tall and blond with a warm face the same color as honeyed milk. Her nails were insanely red, to match lips that sat on her face like twin Ferraris on a Gold Coast beach.
To the left of reception the elevator bank was protected by four security guards. They all looked familiar, as if I’d seen them before on the security footage. Each one weighed two twenty-five to two fifty, with very little fat. They were tanned, with basketballs for shoulders and no necks. Their heads were shaved close, their uniforms a perfectly pressed light blue. Glocks sat on their hips along with radios and cell phones. I guessed they were either ex-cops or ex-army. They certainly all looked as though they could stand around all day with hands on their hips like monoliths of security.
