The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella

by Steve Cavanagh

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten after six, and I needed to call home. I picked up the receiver and was happy to hear a dial tone. At least the phone lines hadn’t been cut for nonpayment

  “Hi. It’s me. I should be back around seven thirty. Keep Amy up if you can. I’d like—”

  “She doesn’t want to see you,” said my wife, Christine. She sounded tired. Either physically, or maybe she was just tired of me.

  “What’ve I missed now?”

  “Her recital.”

  “Shit. I knew there was something else I had to do today. I’m sorry. I clean forgot about it. Was she upset?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Was she any good?”

  “Of course not. It was a bunch of fifth graders murdering ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ It was terrible. That’s not the point, Eddie.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll take her to the park over the weekend, and the movies. I’m leaving in—”

  The desk began to vibrate—a violent burr that I felt in my fingertips.

  “There’s a call on the office cell. I gotta go. Looks like I’ll be late. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you and Amy tomorrow. I promise. Don’t wait up.”

  Before I finished my sentence I knew that Christine was already hanging up the phone. The last few months had put a strain on an already fraught home life. Money was tight, Christine didn’t see much of me, and my nine-year-old daughter was beginning to wonder where the man in the wedding photo with her mom had gone. I would catch glimpses of Amy, early in the morning when she was eating her cereal or asleep in bed at night when I got home. I knew this had to stop sooner or later.

  Light from the screen display filled the drawer and spilled out into the room. The caller ID was withheld, which meant NYPD.

  “Halloran and Flynn, attorneys at law.”

  “It’s Bob at the Twenty-First. Patrol just hauled in one of your guys. He wants to talk to you.”

  I heard the receiver pass, and a different voice came on the line.

  “Eddie, it’s Marko. The cops just pulled some bullshit stop on me at—”

  “Marko, we’ve had this conversation before. We don’t talk on an open line. You know that. Don’t talk about the case until I get there. Answer the booking officer’s questions; they’re standard. Cooperate and be polite with him. Give them your name, address, date of birth, and next of kin. You’ll be asked questions about your mental and physical health, too. Answer them. Don’t say anything else—and don’t talk in holding. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Two

  The sight that greeted me at the front desk of the 21st Precinct had become all too familiar over the past couple of months. It was becoming painfully predictable. I’d get a call from a client or a desk sergeant telling me about an arrest, I’d jump in the car and race over there, park, and by the time I swung open the precinct doors, it was too damn late. The desk sergeants told me that the client had changed their mind and gotten themselves a new lawyer; my services were no longer required.

  Vinnie Federof had beaten me to it. The NYPD and Vinnie had declared war on Halloran and Flynn. It was the Irish way—you mess with us, we’ll bury you.

  This time I’d missed getting to the client before Vinnie by only a hair. Vinnie stood in one of his vile blue suits at the inquiry desk, signing the visitor’s book. He turned and smiled at me.

  “No hard feelings, Eddie,” said Vinnie.

  “None taken. I’ll see you in court in the morning.”

  Without another word, Vinnie bent down, retrieved his briefcase, and disappeared through the security door.

  There was nobody else in the office. I looked at the desk sergeant, and he looked away. Sergeant Bob Riley had been the one who’d called me an hour ago.

  “I know what’s going on here,” I said. “Marko is my client. What’s the deal with Federof? Who called him?”

  A shake of the head, and then the desk sergeant checked behind him to make sure no one was listening and said, “I didn’t call him, Eddie. Sorry. I’ve no clue.”

  “When you called me, did you put my name on the custody record?”

  Riley blinked, thinking about it. Then nodded.

  Somebody in the NYPD was keeping an eye on my clients and checking the custody records for my name. Soon as I appeared in the system, somebody in the NYPD leaned on my client, probably promised them to drop the charges for a citation or some other great deal if they went with a new lawyer—Vinnie Federof.

  I let the heavy precinct door slam shut on my way out. The closest parking spot I’d been able to get was more than two blocks away. I pulled up my collar and started walking.

  What the hell did I expect? When you sue the NYPD, you can expect some payback. When I thought about the pressure, the lost clients, the sleepless nights, I asked myself, was the Hernandez case worth it?

  Yeah, it was.

  If we secured a verdict for Chilli’s widow, we could expect the damages to be in the millions; we’d sued for thirteen, but Chilli wasn’t exactly a shining pillar of society. He’d been in a neighborhood gang, the 47s, since his eighth birthday—hanging out on watch on top of a Dumpster. If he saw the cops, he’d holler and the corner men would split and dump their dope. Old and wise by the age of fifteen, he’d become a dealer, then a hitter. He’d graduated to soldier a year later, when he put three guys from a rival firm in the dirt with a baseball bat and a broken bottle of Sam Adams.

  No guns, though. That was Chilli’s thing. His father got caught with a hot piece used in half a dozen murders and did life for it. The son would not make his father’s mistake. Eventually Chilli got pinched on a manslaughter beef and did fifteen years. The word was Chilli took the hit on the manslaughter to protect a high-level member of the gang. On the inside, he did his job for the crew, running protection and hustling debts on the understanding that when he got out, he’d be clear and free of the 47s for life.

  Sure enough, a month after Chilli’s release, the 47s paid a visit to the Fortune Diner, where Chilli’s probation officer had set him up as a grill chef. His old friends told him that as long as the tattoo was on his forearm, he was their man. It was unfortunate for Chilli that the owner of the diner fired him for willful neglect of company property the same day. After the delegation from the 47s laid out their ultimatum, they watched as Chilli put his arm on the steel hot plate.

  He didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out. Just burned off the gang tat, scraped up his own skin with a spatula, and handed it to his old gang leader on a brioche roll. They left him alone after that. Any man who could withstand that kind of pain wasn’t worth the trouble. Cost Chilli a job and fifty bucks out of his paycheck because the hot plate had to be fired down, cooled, and cleaned. A lot of the diner’s customers ordered the cold egg salad that day.

  So what drove a guy like Chilli to stab a man to death a month later?

  The victim was Ed Genarro, a mid-level shipping union official. Stabbed to death by a Hispanic male outside the St. Regis Hotel. His wallet was missing. ATM records said Genarro had withdrawn two hundred dollars earlier that day. How much was left after a few cocktails in the Saint Regis? Probably a hundred, maybe more. People get killed for less in this city.

  The NYPD said they got an anonymous tip-off that Chilli was walking around with a knife, talking up the murder. When Detective Marzone and his partner stumbled upon Chilli’s car, they pulled him over; Chilli resisted and tried to stab Marzone in the face. Chilli Hernandez died of asphyxiation. Choked to death by Marzone in the struggle for the knife.

  I didn’t buy it. Any of it. Neither did Maria, Chilli’s wife. She told me as much eight months ago when she came to see me. Told me how her husband had changed. At first I didn’t believe her. Then the hot plate story checked out, and I became interested.

  Of course, I had to sell the case to Jack. Maria had no money, and we would have to foot the bill for the case on a wing and a prayer. If we won, we were made. On the other hand, a loss would put the fi
rm under. There was another possibility. Even if we proved Chilli was murdered by the NYPD, if the jury bought the city’s case that the deceased was a cold-blooded killer, they might reduce the damages significantly. This case put me, my partner, my family, everything on the table.

  When I got to my car, I swore.

  A yellow ticket on my windshield brought my thoughts firmly back to my financial reality. Last thing I needed was another parking ticket.

  Only, it wasn’t a parking ticket. It was a yellow Post-it note with a telephone number. Beneath the cell number, it read:

  “Call A.F. Group 54.”

  A.F. sounded like initials, but I didn’t know anyone with a name to match them. The second part of the message struck a chord. By the time I’d gotten into my car and started it, I’d remembered.

  Group 54 was the special investigation unit of IAB. The Internal Affairs Bureau for the New York City Police Department.

  Chapter Three

  The phone call had been short.

  “Hey, I found a message on my car window. My name—”

  “Corner of Old Fulton Street and Water. Buy a cone from the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. Be there within the hour.” A female voice, low and fast.

  “Hang on. Who are you? What do you want?”

  “The widow of Chilli Hernandez is a nice lady. Soon she’ll have an extra mouth to feed. What we got could buy a lot of ice cream,” she said, and hung up.

  One Old Fulton Street used to be home to a great Italian restaurant. The sign over the corner door was an Italian chef holding a plate that bore the slogan PETE’S DOWNTOWN. It had been open since the early 1980s, and I’d been there with my parents a few times. In fact, the last dinner we’d eaten together was at Pete’s. My father had the vodka penne. I don’t remember what my mom ate, maybe the veal. I’d had a burger and a Brooklyn lager. Six months later, the illness that eventually took my father began to eat at his body.

  The recession had cut deep. Old Fulton Street was prime real estate with a killer view of the Brooklyn Bridge and a steady flow of tourists coming off the East River Ferry. This area of Brooklyn, which included the ferry and the park, got the name DUMBO: down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass. It was a quiet part of town, which had seen more life only in recent years, once the ferry service began to bring tourists and commuters into the area. Even so, Pete’s had been closed for a couple of years. Landlords got squeezed by the banks, so they squeezed their tenants. I’d heard that a high-class fast-food chain that sold ten-dollar hamburgers was opening up in place of Pete’s. Things change.

  I took off my jacket, bought myself a butter pecan cone from the ice cream stall, and took a seat on a bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park. The dying sun wet my shirt, and I loosened my tie. There was only one thing on my mind—money. What information did Internal Affairs have, and how much would it cost?

  One thing I knew for certain: The cops were keeping tabs on me. Somebody was looking for my name in the computer, in the custody records. If Marzone or one of his pals was responsible for that, well, Internal Affairs was also watching—they knew I was in the precinct tonight, they knew what car I drove, and they were careful to make the approach out of sight.

  I took another bite from my cone as I had a terrible thought. What if it wasn’t Internal Affairs who wanted to meet me? What if Marzone was setting me up for something? As quick as the thought occurred to me, I dismissed it. If Marzone wanted to threaten me, he would do it straight up. No charade, no phone calls. He wasn’t that kind of operator.

  A cherry-red Chevy pulled up under the old restaurant sign. Most senior IAB officers got to choose their own car, instead of the dross of Crown Vics in the pool. Perks of being in the rat house. One more reason to believe this was a genuine approach from Internal Affairs. The female driver got out, carrying a folded newspaper. Shades, long brown hair, blue jeans, and denim shirt to match. Her clothes looked tight on an athletic frame. A bulge on her left hip said she was carrying her police-issue Glock. She bought a cone and sat down beside me on the bench. No perfume. Just a clean smell, as if she’d just stepped out of a bath.

  It was getting dark. Coming up on eight o’clock. I was tired and wanted to go home. The last of the ferry passengers gathered to my right, ready to board the vessel. I was about to speak, but the woman cut me off. Her mouth hidden behind her newspaper, she said, “Keep your eyes on the ground. We’re being watched. If you look at me, or speak to me, you’ll likely take a bullet. If you want to know how it really went down for Chilli Hernandez, take the next ferry. It sails in seven minutes. Be quick, and you might just make it. Don’t stop for anyone. Go, right now.”

  Chapter Four

  I couldn’t move.

  Legs frozen. My mouth filled with the last of the ice cream cone. Wiping my hands on a napkin, I made sure to keep my eyes low. Suddenly I didn’t have the will to stand. That small physical act seemed way beyond me, as if my legs were born two minutes ago. My throat clung to the ice cream cone, like it was constricting around it, getting ready to strangle me before I could get myself shot.

  Hand on the armrest. Ready to move. Jell-O kneecaps and trembling fingers.

  A wave of adrenaline took me to my feet, and I made for the ticket machine. The glass surrounding the vending machine was frosted, and I couldn’t check my tail. As I fed four one-dollar bills into the slot, I accessed the camera on my cell phone, flipped the camera view so that it displayed a mirror image. I slowly angled it around.

  The camera gave me a pretty good rear view. Tourists in shorts and tees. Cyclists. Families. Construction workers digging up the sidewalk on the other side of Furman Street. Lifting my ticket, I turned and made for Pier 1. An old barge had been converted into a restaurant and bar, with live music every night. I passed it and picked up my pace. The ticket agents were waving passengers onto the East River Ferry. The engines were growing louder, revving up to begin their journey. One last check over my shoulder before I broke into a full sprint. I saw one man maybe fifty feet behind me, also jogging for the ferry. He wore navy pants, a gray shirt, and a light sports coat. As his pace increased, the wind blowing off the river blew open his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster for a handgun that sat snugly beneath his left arm.

  I took off as fast as I could, waving to the deckhands to hold on. A single drumbeat of feet behind me, pounding the boardwalk. Their rhythm was quicker than mine and getting louder every second. He was gaining on me. My tie flipped around my neck as I hit full speed, my heels scattering over the boards just before I came to a halt in front of the deckhand.

  He waved me on, then closed the gate behind him. The interior cabin boasted huge windows for the perfect passenger view of the skyline. I leaned over a seat, panting like a dog, drenched in sweat, and watched the ticket agent hold up a hand against the man in the sports coat. He was slightly younger than me, maybe late twenties. He ignored the ticket agent, choosing to scan the cabin instead. Our eyes met. Instantly, he looked away, finding the water first, then the sky. Engines roared to life, and the ferry took off at cruising speed.

  If I had to guess, I’d say the man was a cop.

  The rest of the passengers were watching me. I turned and sat in my seat. Now I was properly covered in sweat. I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw a deckhand wearing a blue East River Ferry T-shirt. He gestured for me to approach him. Wiping sweat into my hair, I got up from the seat and nodded. He beckoned me out of the cabin. Beside the cabin doors was a set of steps leading to the open-top deck. A red and white painted chain blocked off the steps. The deckhand unhooked it and then relocked the chain as I made my way up the steps. The ferry lurched as it hit full speed, and if I hadn’t been hanging on to the railing, I would’ve fallen. I could smell the river, that mixed odor of freshness, salt, and sweet decay.

  The top deck was small, with only a handful of benches. A man in a gray raincoat stood at the end of the deck, the wind licking his hair. No one else up top. He turned as I approached. A slender man in his
fifties with sharp cheekbones and wild blue eyes. His hair had been blond, but up close I could see it was now a fawny-gray color. Black suit under the raincoat. The motion of the ferry made my stomach feel uneasy. He took the nearest seat, and I sat down beside him.

  When he spoke, I noticed his accent had a Southern edge to it. Not Deep South, but not far off it.

  “My name is Albert Frost. Good to meet you, Counselor,” he said, holding out a hand.

  I took it. The skin was hard but loose with age. This guy had worked for a living a long time ago. A pale strip on the middle finger of his left hand said he’d been married until very recently. The divot of white skin from the gold band that the wearer had rarely removed had not yet settled into its former smooth line. Maybe at his age it never would.

  “Sorry we had to meet here. I was expecting to sit down with you and enjoy a cone. But you came with a tail. We had to shake him before we spoke. In many ways, it’s a good thing somebody followed you here.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It means you and I are both pissing up the right tree.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He smiled, looked out over the water. The last of the day’s sun was licking the glass towers on Wall Street.

  “Sure you understand, smart fellah like you. And I’m here to fill in some blanks. See, I want to be friends. I want to help you out, and in return you’ll be real neighborly and do us a favor.”

  “What kind of favor do you want?”

  “Oh, we’ll get to that. Right now you’re the one who needs help.”

  “I’m just fine, thanks. I don’t need any help.”