The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella (15 page)

If Boles opened his mouth any wider, he’d be in danger of swallowing the camera.

I got up and pulled open the door to the hallway.

“Wait. The trust fund, who’s the beneficiary?”

“Chilli Hernandez Junior,” I said.

Chapter Thirty-One

Seven minutes. That’s how long the call lasted. Boles laid it on nice and thick for the commissioner.
This is a Rodney King moment and you can make it disappear . . . It’s worse than two cops killing a man—we’ve got a senior, high-ranking officer recording the goddamn murder with his thumb up his ass. There’s no coming back from that . . . They sued for thirteen million; we’re settling for ten . . . I’m saving the department three million dollars, and I’m saving your career
.

I told Maria that Johnson’s testimony would forever be on record and that even if we’d won the case, there would be no exoneration for Chilli. This was better than a judgment from the jury that Chilli had been unlawfully killed. This settlement ensured a declaration of his innocence. She nodded and told me that was what she’d really wanted all along. The news of the baby had changed her, calmed that anger. I knew she would always carry the loss of her husband, but for now there was the promise only a baby can bring: new life. She hugged me and hugged Jack.

“It’s over,” she said.

Vinnie was on board, too. Boles announced in court that the police department had reached a confidential settlement. Judge Winter looked relieved.

Jack took Maria out of court, surrounded by press, cameras, and newly converted supporters of Chilli Hernandez, who no longer looked like a violent ex-con now that his wife’s lawsuit had been successful.

I hung back on the courthouse steps, leaning on a pillar and watching the circus of lights and microphones below—and in the center of all that attention, Maria, silent and strong while Jack’s mouth worked like a pump handle.

“You’re a dead man.”

It was only a whisper, but loud enough for me to hear. Marzone and Roark didn’t even look at me as they pushed past reporters and made their way to the street. Two of their fellow Morgue Squad colleagues waited for them in a tan Chevy. They were the two men who’d tried to grab me at the Wall Street Ferry terminal.

A third man got out of the Chevy as Roark and Marzone approached the car. He was young, the guy who’d chased me along the pier the day before.

Roark and Marzone got into the car. The young cop stood on the sidewalk and closed the car door.

I caught the scent of something familiar, something greasy mingled with the sweet smell of a burning Marlboro.

The tan Chevy pulled out into a quiet lane. The traffic was light, post-lunch hour, and the car drove two hundred yards up the deserted street, pulled up to a stoplight, then leapt ten feet in the air as an explosion ripped the hood off the car, tore the chassis in two, and sent a hot mass of screaming metal into the headlines. Thankfully, there were no pedestrians around the car, no other vehicles close to it. Panic and smoke. I tumbled down the courthouse steps and found Maria lying on her back, Jack cradling her.

I looked them both over. Jack had blood in his hair, but he seemed okay. At first glance, Maria was unhurt but breathing hard. Her sister crawled toward her, a little shaken, but there were no injuries that I could see.

“It’s okay, Maria. You’re okay. Everything’s fine. Just breathe. Take a deep—”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” said Maria, panicked.

I couldn’t speak. I felt numb. A dark stain was spreading over her dress, from below her stomach. The hem of her dress had ridden up, and I saw blood on the inside of her thigh.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

A female uniformed cop pushed me out of the way and knelt beside Maria.

“It’s okay. Paramedics are on their way. Look at me. Don’t look down. Everything’s gonna be fine,” said the cop.

I pushed through the milling crowd toward the street. My vision swam, and a throbbing pain started up in my head. Burning gasoline trickled across the asphalt, tracing a flaming web from the torn inferno of flesh and metal. The gas tank had already gone up. Alarms of all kinds rang out in the street from cars and stores.

“Oh my God.”

I turned to hear who had spoken and found a female reporter crouched over the dead body of the young cop who’d let Marzone and Roark into the Chevy. His throat was sliced open in a ragged tear. It could’ve been shrapnel from the explosion. Or it could have been done with a hunting knife in the same second that everyone ducked and prayed for their lives when the Chevy went up in a ball of flame.

Beside the cop’s head was a still lit, half-smoked cigarette.

A Marlboro. The cigarette lay beside the faint, white cross drawn in chalk.

Chapter Thirty-Two

At midnight, Vinnie finished throwing up for the third time. I heard him moaning, flushing the toilet, and then shuffling back into his lounge. The place was as garish as his wardrobe and just as expensive. His tan seemed to have faded over the past hour as the color drained from his face and never really returned. It was the car bombing that had brought Vinnie to me. He called me a half hour after the bombing and said he needed to talk; he needed protection, and he was scared. And it had only gotten worse as the evening progressed.

Jack had called from the hospital. Maria was in labor. They were monitoring the baby’s heart, and she may need a cesarean section. Jack would keep me posted. He said the NYPD had put a cop on the ward, just to make sure Maria was safe.

“Can you turn that off?” said Vinnie.

The TV was tuned to CNN, and a reporter stood outside the home of the second police officer to be gunned down in Bed-Stuy that night. The graphics banner running across the bottom of the screen read,
WAR ON THE NYPD
.

The hit man was cleaning house. He had no choice. Just like the Iceman—if something goes wrong, you erase everyone who could put you in a cell. And he needed that video. If the cops had the film and saw Marzone framing Chilli for murder, they might be inclined to look at the rest of Marzone’s cases. It wouldn’t take long to figure out that Marzone was framing people for certain murders. One step closer to the truth was a step too close for a professional hit man. Better that everyone was safely dead. It was risky, but nowhere near as dangerous as leaving one of Marzone’s crew alive. I wasn’t the only one who’d figured out the hit man’s plan. I followed Vinnie through the lounge, into the kitchen. He drained a glass of whiskey and opened the cupboard above his microwave. A bottle of
Advil slipped from Vinnie’s sweaty hands and spilled across the floor. He kicked the bottle and sent the rest of the pills scattering over the tiles.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said.

He nodded, wiped at his glistening forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, and stared at the mess on the kitchen floor. Like a lot of driven criminal lawyers, Vinnie lived alone. That life wasn’t conducive to marriage or even to the most basic of relationships. You were on 24-7. If you worked at it long enough, the good clients usually followed the good results. Only in Vinnie’s case, he preferred to deal with bad people—they paid better. But he ran the occupational hazard that those same bad people just might need to kill you someday.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” he said.

“No, but it’s your only shot at staying alive and out of jail,” I said.

“We’ve been through this a dozen times,” said McAllister. She was leaning on the doorframe. I hadn’t noticed her arrival and had no idea how long she’d been there. After Vinnie had called me, I’d set up a meet with McAllister, and Vinnie had told her everything. How he’d facilitated transactions over the years—money drops for a hit man. He said he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. These are not the kind of people you turn away—they always get what they want. The only question is how healthy you stay while you’re working for them. Vinnie was never explicitly told what was going on, but he pieced it together. And once you’re in with guys like that, there’s no way out.

“You want to go before the judge with conspiracy to murder? We made a deal, Mr. Federof. If you keep up your end of the bargain, you walk into Witness Protection. Do you need me to read over your immunity agreement?” said McAllister.

“No, no . . . It’s just . . . I didn’t know he’d go after everyone. I mean . . . those cops in Bed-Stuy never even met him.”

“Like I told you, he won’t harm you unless he’s sure he’s got the video. This man is thorough. For God’s sake, for years we didn’t even know he existed. Show him in, Eddie gives you the memory card, you load it into the camera. Select the video, then hand him the camera. Before he can press play, we’ll be all over him. Isn’t that right, boys?” said McAllister, looking over her shoulder. Three SWAT guys waved from the dining room.

She was trying to keep Vinnie under control, smiling, reassuring him. Her expression changed in an instant, and her head swiveled around as she reached for her earpiece.

“Car. One man. Pulled up at the corner and coming toward the house,” she said.

“I need my jacket,” said Vinnie.

“There’s no time,” said McAllister.

“I need it,” said Vinnie, rushing out of the kitchen.

I heard him bounding up the staircase. That sound somehow made me nervous for the first time that evening. We’d been waiting for hours. Watching the news roll in and knowing that this man was on his way here—with the same hot gun. McAllister asked me to be here, to steady Vinnie. She thought it would be more convincing if I was there to hand over the memory card. That suited me just fine; it meant that I didn’t have to invent an excuse so McAllister would let me be here.

A knock on the door.

I checked the dining room and watched McAllister and her team lean the French doors almost closed. They were to wait in the backyard. I’d watched them making practice
runs for the past two hours. Three seconds for the lead SWAT member to get through the French doors, across the dining room, and aim his weapon into the kitchen.

The knock came again, harder this time.

Vinnie came down the stairs wearing his jacket. From the kitchen, I watched him make his way down the hall to the front door. Before he opened it, he stared back at me. His eyes were clear and strong. We’d discussed it before we went to the cops. Vinnie knew what had to be done.

“I don’t like to wait in the street, Vinnie,” said Zippo.

The front door swung fully open, and the hit man hesitated when he saw me standing in the kitchen.

“I thought it was just you and me,” he said.

“He brought the memory card. I think he wants you to know that he’s on the level and that you don’t need to worry about him. Or me, for that matter,” said Vinnie.

The man said nothing. He just pushed past Vinnie and closed the front door. Vinnie returned to the kitchen, but the hit man stayed still. Listening. Waiting. Slowly he came forward, checking the lounge, then the downstairs bathroom on the way to the kitchen. Vinnie began to speak, but he was silenced by a hand in the air. Zippo ducked into the dining room and gave it a quick look before returning to the kitchen.

“Anyone upstairs?” he said.

“No,” said Vinnie.

“If I hear anyone up there . . .”

“It’s just us,” I said.

He placed a stained finger to his lips and spent a long moment watching us, listening all the while. We stood quietly. After half a minute, he leaned against the kitchen counter, never taking his eyes from either of us.

“So where is it?” he said.

We looked at each other. I picked up a white envelope from the bench behind me. As I turned, Zippo peered over my shoulder, taking a long look out the back window. The lights were on in the kitchen, so he couldn’t see into the dark garden. Then I realized he was looking at my reflection in the window, making sure I wasn’t reaching for a piece.

Vinnie retrieved the camera from the counter and held it while I opened the envelope and plucked out the memory card. I handed it to Vinnie, who placed it in the camera and hit the power button.

“It takes a few seconds to load,” he said.

A glass ashtray sat beside Vinnie. He slid it across the counter to the hit man.

“It’s been one hell of a day. The video will just take a second to load,” said Vinnie, then placed his hand on the breast pocket of the jacket and pushed down hard, muffling the mike that McAllister had taped to his chest.

“Say, could I bum a cigarette?” said Vinnie.

“Why not?” said the hit man.

As his right hand moved toward his jacket, Vinnie let go of the mike and dove into his jacket. We both yelled, “GUN!” as Vinnie’s arm came up with a revolver. He started shooting before he’d aimed, and the first shot blew a hole in the polished aluminum refrigerator. The second shot threw the hit man backward, although I couldn’t see where he’d been hit; I was already diving for the floor.

Heavy feet in the dining room and an assault rifle appeared at the door. I covered my face and ducked. The noise of the damn thing made me scream out as the empty shell cases bounced along the kitchen tiles and came to rest next to the Advil pills.

“He’s down. He’s down,” said the SWAT commander.

McAllister launched herself into the room and stood over the hit man.

“Shit,” she said. “Vinnie, drop the gun.”

He let the piece fall from his fingers and followed it to the floor, where he covered his head.

Carefully, I got to my feet. Vinnie crouched in the corner of the kitchen, sobbing softly to himself. He’d done exactly as I’d told him. He knew it was the only way to protect himself. Even if the cops took the hit man alive, the first thing he would do would be to put out a hit on Vinnie, Jack, me, and Maria, for good measure. Guys on the inside can get a contract out in a day. There are well established channels for eliminating witnesses, and Sing Sing was the hotline. No, I knew this guy had to be put down, and Vinnie did, too.

“We needed him alive,” said McAllister.

I glanced at the dead man in Vinnie’s kitchen. One look said it all. Vinnie’s second shot had taken the guy in the leg, and the fire from the SWAT team had finished the job. The kitchen cupboards above the counter had a red tint to them. Darker material was spattered over the counter and wall.