Eddie Flynn 03-The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  My eyes closed, my teeth ground together and not for the first time that night, I wished I hadn’t picked up the damn phone. What Howell was proposing was way off the reservation. The FBI and the NYPD were all over this. It didn’t matter if he saved his daughter, the feds wouldn’t see it that way. What Howell was about to do was highly illegal, and would end with him getting arrested and sued for ten million.

  For what seemed like minutes on end, I explored every inch of Howell’s face. Behind the pain, there was determination.

  I had a duty to go out into the lounge and tell the first cop I saw exactly what Howell had just told me. It was the only exception to attorney client privilege: if a client tells you they are about to commit a crime that could put someone in danger, you must break confidentiality and report it. On my first day as a lawyer I’d taken an oath to the court and the Constitution in front of Judge Harry Ford. As I spoke that oath for the first and last time, I saw Harry’s beaming smile. He was proud of me. I owed him a debt that I could never repay. With Howell’s proposal if I kept my mouth shut I was an accessory before the fact and I was breaking my oath. I would be disbarred and sent to jail for ten years. What he asked me to do essentially required me to commit professional suicide. There was no amount of money that could persuade me to say yes.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Howell had played a dangerous game, hiring me. But he’d called it right. If it was my daughter, Amy, I would kill, lie, cheat, steal, and then do life in prison for it if it meant taking her home in one piece. And I did a lot of those things when Amy had been taken by the Russian mob a few years before. I got her back and I’d relied on people to help me. Howell knew what he was doing. He’d been in the hostage game for ten years, he was a talented negotiator and his company was world renowned for getting people back alive from kidnappers in Afghanistan, Central America, China, Brazil and a half dozen other places whose black market economies thrived on ransom money.

  If anyone could do this, it was Howell.

  I asked myself, after I’d told him I would do it, why the hell I’d agreed. It didn’t take much time to analyze that decision. I would do whatever it took. And if Caroline came back safe and sound, then whatever happened after that didn’t matter – it would be worth it. But I wasn’t doing this for Howell alone. I was doing it for the little girl in the photograph with the badges on her jacket.

  As soon as I’d said yes, Howell stood and shook my hand.

  “Thank you. Father to father. Really, thank you,” said Howell.

  I nodded.

  He released his grip and disappeared through a door in the back of the study. I turned and stretched my back. I felt tired but adrenaline was keeping me going. I wouldn’t change places with Howell for all the world and I felt for him. Anything I could do to ease that burden, I would do in a heartbeat.

  Even though I’d said I would help him, a growing sense of unease took hold in my gut. Taking an insurance bondsman hostage was risky. So much could go wrong. What if he fought back? What if he got hurt? What if he got out of the office and tipped off the law? And then there was private security to consider. Nobody travels on their own with ten million. If the bondsman came with guards then they might have to be dealt with too. They would be armed.

  Shit.

  “Welcome to the team,” said McAuley.

  I turned around and shook his hand too. He was much smaller than Howell, about the same age, but there was something else about McAuley that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I could get a pretty good read on most people – you have to when you’re a grifter. There was a smile that wasn’t really a smile.

  “Mr Howell has just gone to get a few things together. We’re glad you’re on board, but we don’t want you to worry. None of this is going to come back on you. We’re going to need you when Mr Howell is arrested. And just so we’re clear – it was my idea to hold back until the retainer was signed. Mr Howell wanted to be upfront from the start. I persuaded him otherwise. So don’t judge him,” he said.

  “I’ve got to say though,” he continued, “I wasn’t convinced Mr Howell had chosen the right man. I thought you’d go running to the feds. My bad. That’s why he runs the show.”

  “Have you known him long?”

  “A very long time. We’ve saved each other’s lives more times than either of us can count. I normally run the drops and Mr … well, Lenny, backs me up. So yeah, he’s more than a business partner. I owe him. Say, Marlon, will you go and get Mrs Howell?”

  The big man left through the door I came in.

  When the oak frame shuddered from the door closing shut again, I saw McAuley’s mask slip. The pretense of the smile fell away, his face hardened and he gave me a once-over.

  “This whole thing stands on a knife edge. I need to know, can we rely on you?”

  McAuley was close buddies with Howell which meant he was probably very close to the family. He looked exhausted, excited and nervous about the drop. And the nineteen days that Caroline had been gone would’ve taken their toll on him too. Even in this great old study, the stress was still cloying the air around us, just as it had filled the entire house with the same smothering, mortal intensity.

  “I won’t let you down,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve taken her?”

  McAuley pursed his lips, and stared just over my shoulder while he debated what to say.

  “No. He didn’t give a name. He just sent a photo. We don’t know who it is, but all things considered, I’d say it’s something personal. I’ve done this for a long time. Over the years I’ve dealt with Somali pirates, Al Qaeda, even a few of the South American cartels. It’s hard to explain; sometimes you just get a feeling – and then you know.”

  “Know what?”

  “You know that whoever it is you’re dealing with is fully prepared to kill their hostage.”

  From his jacket pocket he produced his phone, and after a couple of swipes of his finger across the device, he flipped it around. It was Caroline Howell all right. I’d seen maybe three different photographs of her in the papers. This was her. She was bound hand and foot, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a white sweater – just like the description. Her leather jacket was missing though. I thought she was asleep. He swiped the screen and said, “This is the other photo.”

  I guessed that the first photo being taken had woken her up. In this shot, she was awake and the look on her face was pure terror; her eyes were wet and frozen in panic. Her face dirty with tears and I saw dried blood on her wrists where she’d struggled against the cable ties. I studied the background in the photo; it was the same as the first. It had been taken on a camera with a flash – the area surrounding Caroline was black and the only thing visible was the concrete floor. Wherever she was, it was a large dark room, maybe a basement or an abandoned building.

  “When Susan arrives …”

  The door behind me opened, strangling the words in McAuley’s throat.

  In the doorway stood Susan Howell. Her face looked slightly vacant – like she’d been anaesthetized to get herself though this. I could smell the anesthetic on her breath – gin. Lots of it.

  “Thank you, Marlon,” she said and dismissed him by running a hand down his back. Her hand lingered – finding the contours of his muscled back with her fingers. I didn’t like it. It was a display of affection and control. Marlon walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Susan Howell said nothing to me. She simply raised her eyebrows at McAuley.

  “He’s gonna defend Lenny,” said McAuley.

  Without another word she folded her long legs into an armchair and rested her chin on a delicate hand. People react to extreme stress in different ways. Some crumble, some power through it with sheer will and others go a little nuts. I thought Susan Howell was in the latter category. Either that, or she just didn’t give a shit about her stepdaughter. I decided to give her t
he benefit of the doubt.

  “Why the difference in the ransom amounts?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Best guess is the kidnapper is playing with us. But he also wants the fake drop to look real. We’ll be giving the feds two million. That should be enough to throw them off the scent,” said McAuley.

  Lenny came out of the back room, into the office, carrying a roll-on briefcase in one hand and a stack of cash in the other. He put the case on the desk, opened it and put six stacks into the case before closing it up. The case was large enough to hold ten times that amount of cash.

  McAuley bent down and retrieved a small black bag from below a chair. He kneeled, opened the bag, and spread out a mini-assault rifle, magazines, a gag, cable ties and more equipment.

  That vague sense of unease quickly turned into a lead weight in my stomach. This wasn’t going to work out. I stared again at the briefcase on Lenny’s desk. It was big, cumbersome. Not easy to haul around if he needed to move fast.

  “Why the big case for that amount of cash?” I said.

  Lenny looked at the briefcase and said, “This is a bulletproof, bomb-proof case that the insurance company uses. The insurers are my clients. I’ve had to use their cases in the past to transport ransom, so I bought one. I need the feds to see the same briefcase coming out of my office as the one that went in. This has to look real.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. Susan Howell looked up at me from the armchair, a worried look on her face. I felt McAuley’s hand on my back.

  “Susan is going to help smooth things over with the feds. Make sure they don’t come in here. I can handle the bondsman’s security detail,” said McAuley, lifting up his jacket to reveal a pistol strapped to his waist.

  Howell poured himself another shot, threw it back and shook himself. He was fighting the adrenaline. The more I thought about this, the more certain I became that the plan would fail. And if it went south, Caroline would end up dead.

  I thought about that afternoon in the bar, when I was just a kid, sitting on a bar stool beside Lenny Howell, watching his hands move the cards.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said.

  McAuley looked at the ground, his lips tightening. Howell shook his head, poured another drink and said, “It has to. There’s no other way.”

  “Yes there is. Taking the insurance bondsman hostage is just far too risky. It won’t work. And it means even if you get Caroline back, no matter what I do you’ll probably go to jail,” I said.

  “If I get her back then I’ll live with that,” said Howell.

  “What if there was another way? A way to get the money, lead the feds on their wild goose chase and not hurt anyone?” I said.

  McAuley and Howell exchanged glances.

  “How?” said Lenny.

  I walked back to the desk, put my hand on the briefcase and said, “Three-card monte.”

  August 2001

  Upstate New York

  Julie Rosen felt uncomfortable sitting on Rebecca’s couch. She’d worn the same jeans for about a week, including one night when she’d slept rough. If her pants left a stain on the floral patterned couch there would be hell to pay.

  Rebecca returned from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “Grab a coaster,” said Rebecca.

  From a box on the table, Julie selected two coasters and laid them out. They were cork coasters with pictures of puppies on the laminated veneers. The mugs were placed carefully, and Rebecca took time to turn the handle of Julie’s mug so that it faced her.

  “How are you feeling?” said Rebecca.

  The sun felt hot on the back of Julie’s neck; the heat coming through the sash window was somehow intensified.

  “I’m okay. Taking one day at a time, you know how it is,” said Julie.

  Rebecca nodded. Julie knew Rebecca didn’t have the first clue about what it was like to go through drug detox. The shivering pains that seemed to spread over your body, the rattling of your teeth so loud you can’t sleep, and the sweats that always seem to be the precursor to vivid, strange, dark hallucinations.

  “You look so much healthier,” said Rebecca. “I’ve seen what drugs can do to people. Some of the customers I get … well, they’re practically skin and bone. They’re not even people any more.”

  Julie nodded and shifted forward on the couch, feeling even more uncomfortable. She’d heard Rebecca talk about her customers before and it always made her skin crawl. Rebecca worked as the county medical examiner and her customers were corpses.

  “I’ve seen burn victims, murder victims, just last week I …” Rebecca paused, her eyes searched the floor. It seemed to Julie like Rebecca was rooting her vision in the present, so that perhaps she wouldn’t catch a glimpse of whatever horror she was recalling.

  “… last week they brought in a baby. Just a few weeks old. Two police officers found it in a dumpster behind a tequila bar. You know, I almost felt relieved. Child born to a mother like that had no future anyway. That child wouldn’t have had a life. Not really. Baby was already an addict. Born into it. You are so lucky to be out of that now, Julie.”

  Julie took a sip of coffee, looked around the lounge at the soft furnishings, the paintings hung on the wall, and the cushions which had no doubt been selected to match the scenic artwork. It seemed strange to her for Rebecca to say such terrible things in a house like this one. Julie didn’t want to think about drugs, or addiction. She was trying to put that life behind her.

  “This is lovely,” Julie said, continuing to look around the room.

  “Thanks. It’s a big house for just the two of us,” said Rebecca.

  “I can imagine,” said Julie, not really being able to imagine it at all.

  They sat quietly, drinking their coffee, and easing the tension with quick, false smiles.

  “I know this is none of my business, but I wanted to know how you’re doing financially,” said Rebecca.

  Taken aback, Julie said, “Oh, well, I’m working part time. It’s just waitressing. Paint costs money, you know. I’m working on a few canvases at the moment, hopefully when they’re done I can sell a few.”

  “Great,” said Rebecca, behind glassy eyes.

  She continued, “It’s just, that, ahm, I think I can help you. You know, with money.”

  Carefully setting down her coffee on the coaster, Julie stood up and smoothed down her tee-shirt.

  “I don’t need your charity,” she said, and took a step toward the hall.

  “Wait, it’s not charity. I want to help. And … this is so hard … I think you can help me,” said Rebecca.

  Julie stopped, sighed, turned and said, “What can I do? You want to buy a painting, is that it?”

  “No, yes. Sorry, not exactly but a painting would be lovely,” said Rebecca, looking at the carpet, unable to meet Julie’s eyes.

  Julie realized Rebecca was crying. False tears – maybe.

  “What’s wrong?” said Julie.

  “I need you. I need your help. There’s no one else I can turn to. I’ll pay you. I promise. Ten thousand dollars, right now. Another ten when it’s done.”

  “What are you talking about? What are you asking me to do?”

  Rebecca stood and embraced Julie.

  “It has to be a secret. Just between us. Do you promise?”

  “I don’t know what you’re …”

  “Do you swear?” said Rebecca, a desperation creeping into her voice.

  “I promise. Just tell me what it is you want.”

  “You haven’t seen Scott lately? You’re not with him any more, are you?”

  Julie sighed, and lied, “No. I haven’t seen him. We’re not together.”

  Rebecca nodded, cupped Julie’s face and said, “Good, because no one can ever know. If anyone finds out, we’ll be ruined.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I made my way through the lounge, Marlon in tow, and he showed me to the small kitchen which sat directly off the north end of the room. I gu
essed this wasn’t the main kitchen, because there was no stove, but it was a pretty big kitchen by any standards. Just as when I’d first made my way through the room, the bustle seemed to dim especially for me. That was law enforcement for you, they wouldn’t trust a lawyer to walk on a carpet without trying to rip it up as he went along.

  “Just wait in here, Mr Flynn. I’ll bring your retainer fee right out,” said Marlon, loud enough for the senior feds and cops to hear. At least he didn’t mess up. He did what I told him to do.

  I took up a bar stool at the kitchen counter and helped myself to coffee. There were two SWAT guys in the kitchen, filling their water bottles. They soaked their bandanas, wrung out the excess water and then tied them over their scalps. It would get real hot in the back of the SWAT van when they were wearing full tactical gear.

  I could see most of the lounge from my seat. This kitchen was more of an extension of the lounge with a white tiled floor delineating the two areas. A dining table sat in the other corner. I needed to stay within earshot of the law. My attention was drawn there by a pair of raised voices. One was familiar, one was not.

  Agent Harper was arguing with a man in a gray suit, white shirt and red tie. An FBI badge hung around his neck on a chain. They stood apart from the little groups huddled around the computers, checking maps or making calls. Some of the cops and other agents were trying to listen to the argument, even as they pretended to go about planning for the drop-off.

  You’re making a mistake,” said Harper, “this is some crackpot who saw Howell on TV and either wants to make a quick buck or wants to get himself killed by the police. It’s got suicide by cop written all over it. And if I’m wrong about that, then you still shouldn’t go, because that can only mean it’s some kind of sick hoax.”