by Joseph Flynn
The Hangman’s Companion
by
Joseph Flynn
Praise for Joseph Flynn’s novels
“Flynn is an excellent storyteller.” — Booklist
“Flynn keeps the pages turning.” — Houston Chronicle
“Flynn propels his plot with potent but flexible force.” — Publishers Weekly
Digger
“A mystery cloaked as cleverly as (and perhaps better than) any John Grisham work.” — Denver Post
“Surefooted, suspenseful and in its breathless final moments unexpectedly heartbreaking.” — Booklist
“An exciting, gritty, emotional page-turner.”— Robert K. Tannenbaum, New York Times Bestselling Author of True Justice
The Next President
“The Next President bears favorable comparison to such classics as The Best Man, Advise and Consent and The Manchurian Candidate.” — Booklist
“A thriller fast enough to read in one sitting.” — Rocky Mountain News
The President’s Henchman
“Marvelously entertaining.” — ForeWord Magazine
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Copyright Information
Chapter 1 — Sunday, May 17
Chapter 2 — Sunday, May 31
Chapter 3 — Monday, June 1
Chapter 4 — Tuesday, June 2
Chapter 5 — Wednesday, June 3
Chapter 6 — Thursday, June 4
Chapter 7 — Friday, June 5
Chapter 8 — Saturday, June 6
Chapter 9 — Sunday, June 7
Epilogue — June 8-14
About the Author
The Hangman’s Companion
Joseph Flynn
Stray Dog Press, Inc.
Springfield, IL
2010
Dedication
For my Godparents,
William and Virginia Flynn,
and for my aunt Ruth Leroux and
in memory of Chef Paul Leroux
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Caitie and Catherine
for the words and the pictures.
Also by Joseph Flynn
The Concrete Inquisition
Digger
The Next President
Hot Type
Farewell Performance
Gasoline, Texas
The President’s Henchman [a Jim McGill Novel]
Round Robin
Blood Street Punx
Nailed
One False Step
Still Coming
The K Street Killer [a Jim McGill Novel]
Copyright
The Hangman’s Companion
by
Joseph Flynn
Stray Dog Press, Inc.
Springfield, IL
2010
Published by Stray Dog Press, Inc.
Springfield, IL 62704, U.S.A.
Copyright © Stray Dog Press, Inc., 2010
All rights reserved
Visit the author’s web site: www.josephflynn.com
Flynn, Joseph
The Hangman’s Companion / Joseph Flynn
160,296 words eBook
ISBN 978-0-9764170-9-5
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by an means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book design by Aha! Designs
Illustration by Catherine C. Flynn
Chapter 1
Pont d’Iéna, Paris — Sunday, May 17th
1
The fight under the bridge at the foot of the Eiffel Tower turned deadly when the Frenchman kicked the urn out of the American’s grasp. The pewter vessel shot into the air and smashed against a bridge support, leaving a dark stain there and scattering the remainder of the ashes of the American’s late wife into the Seine.
The Frenchman, Thierry Duchamp, an elite athlete, twenty-eight years old, was more than a little drunk and had been having a heated argument with a shapely blonde. Her makeup was smeared and she all but spilled out of her crimson silk blouse. The American, Glen Kinnard, forty-nine, a retired cop with a long list of excessive force complaints, had been standing on the walkway under the bridge. He’d been agonizing over whether to honor his wife’s last request, when the noisy French couple made their stumbling approach.
Kinnard was bone tired after a long, turbulent flight from Chicago. He’d had to stand in a block-long line to clear customs. Then he had to make several detours to exit Charles de Gaulle Airport because of some sort of minor terrorist scare. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and he was jet-lagged to hell and back.
On top of all that, he wasn’t a patient guy even when he was fresh.
The only thing that had kept him from telling the raucous couple to show a little respect and shut the fuck up was that the French had been surprisingly kind to him since he’d arrived.
It had started off with the taxi driver leaning against his cab at the airport. He was a tough-faced little mutt, looked like he had a glass eye, was smoking a butt that smelled like he’d fished it out of a toilet. But he saw the pain on Kinnard’s face, took note of the urn the ex-cop had taken out of his suitcase. Saw how Kinnard cradled the urn like a baby. He nailed the situation at a glance.
Someone near and dear had died.
He held the door open for Kinnard like he was driving a limo not a cab. He tucked his fare’s suitcase into the trunk, and slid behind the wheel. Looking over his shoulder at Kinnard, he even spoke English after a fashion.
“My regrets, m’sieur,” the cabbie said. “Where may I deliver you?”
Kinnard gave the guy the name of the hotel where his daughter had booked a room for him. “The Hotel Saint Jacques.” He provided the address on the Rue de Rivoli.
“I know this place. We travel with all haste.”
The cabbie wasn’t kidding; he put the pedal down. Slalomed through traffic like a pro. Still had time to glance in the mirror at the urn Kinnard held close.
The American knew just what the driver was wondering: Who’d kicked?
Kinnard surprised himself by answering the unspoken question. “My wife. She asked me to bring her home.”
“Elle était française?” the driver asked.
“Yeah,” Kinnard said. “Born right here in Paris.”
The driver turned the meter off. Said the ride was on him.
Kinnard nodded his thanks. He looked out the window at the city and told the man, “The shame of it is I never got to see the place with her.”
When they arrived at the hotel, the driver hopped out, retrieved Kinnard’s bag and had a quick conversation with the doorman, who held the door for Kinnard, and then passed the word to the young woman working behind the front desk. She, in turn, spoke to a guy in a sharp suit.
If he’d had the energy, Kinnard would have been embarrassed.
He wasn’t looking to come off as some Weepy Willie.
“Your name, m’sieur?” the young woman asked.
He gave it, watched her find it on a list in front of her. She turned to look at the guy in the suit and pointed the tip of her pen to a space on what Kinnard took to be a diagram
of the rooms in the hotel. The guy in the suit nodded. She turned to Kinnard.
“We are sorry to say, m’sieur, all the rooms of the type you requested have been filled; we will have to offer you a suite, at no additional charge, if that is satisfactory.”
Kinnard knew they were kidding him, but he played along, grateful.
“That’ll be great,” he said.
He signed the register and the young woman gave him her card. “If there is anything we can do to make your stay more…consoling, please let me know.”
Kinnard looked at the card. The young woman’s name was Emilie. Same as his daughter.
“Merci,” he said.
2
The suite was cozy by American standards but stylish down to the smallest detail. Suzanne would have loved the place. He would have loved to see the smile on her face had they stepped through the door together. But he had always been too busy being a cop to go to Paris, and when he hadn’t been busy they’d gone places he wanted to go, Vegas or Miami. Suzi knew better than to push too hard to try to change his mind. He’d raised his hand to her often enough.
Once too often finally…and she’d divorced him.
His daughter had cheered her mother’s long overdue departure.
He’d never expected to hear from Suzanne again. Certainly not after five years without a word. He almost didn’t recognize her voice when she called. Her accent seemed to have faded, become more American, and she sounded old. Good reason for that. She told him she was dying, and would like to see him once more before she went.
The last thing Suzi was looking for was a reconciliation. She was thinking of Emilie. She didn’t want their daughter to be left without a parent when she died. She pleaded with Kinnard to find a way to make peace with Emilie.
At the age of twenty-four, though, Emilie considered herself to be her own woman, and the last person she wanted back in her life was the prick of a father who had made her mother’s life hell. If giving him another chance was what Maman was asking, then she was asking too much. She told Suzanne so to her face, with Kinnard in the room.
He saw the fear in his daughter’s eyes. She thought he might go off on her, knock her around good, though he never had, not in his worst days. When her father failed to meet Emilie’s expectation of brutality, she voiced a new suspicion.
The sonofabitch was after her mother’s money. After leaving Kinnard, Suzanne had started a small, successful travel agency. Emilie was her strong right hand. The business was going to her.
Kinnard turned to Suzi and asked, “Em’s your sole heir, right?
From her bed, Suzanne nodded.
“So let’s put the money question to rest,” he said. “Sign everything you have over to her right now. I’ll cover all your expenses, medical and otherwise. You need to see a doctor, I’ll take you. You need anything, I’ll get it for you. Help any damn way I can.”
Emilie had no doubt Kinnard would keep his word. To spite her.
Suzanne, though, was moved to tears. She put a hand over her mouth. She knew what she looked like. The chemo and the radiation had ravaged her. Her attempts to make herself presentable before her ex-husband arrived had only made her weep.
The damage the cancer had done to Suzanne almost made Kinnard sob, too. All the more so because it made him think of how he’d once marred her beauty. If another man had inflicted such hurt on her, he would have…
He would have to take care of her as best he could because there was no way to get revenge on a fatal illness. Thing was, as haggard and drawn as Suzanne looked, he could look past the present moment and still see her as beautiful. Her eyes were as blue as ever, and the irrepressible spirit that lay behind them was untouched by the cancer.
Suzanne wanted Emilie to have her father in her life. If that required her to forgive Kinnard for all he’d done to her, and do so in Emilie’s presence, she would do it gladly.
She extended her hand to Kinnard.
“Be at peace with me,” she said.
He took her hand, and now he couldn’t keep his eyes from glistening with tears.
Seeing her parents look lovingly at each other made Emilie gag.
She stormed out, telling her mother to sell the business and give the money to charity.
Emilie might have been able to maintain her anger if Suzanne hadn’t confounded her doctors’ predictions. They’d given her a month to live, two at the most. But she hung on for a year. It was a hellish year, but Kinnard never wavered in his commitment. Emilie tried to keep her contempt for Kinnard stoked, accusing him of being too damn late in trying to act like a decent human being. But he’d shouldered most of the load Emilie had carried, giving her time to have a life of her own. He was there through the worst of it, times when Emilie had to leave her mother’s room because it hurt so bad to see how she was suffering.
None of Kinnard’s ministrations, though, got Emilie to discontinue her verbal abuse.
While he never said a harsh word to her.
Suzanne was the one who knocked Emilie for a loop.
She asked her daughter to be the maid of honor at her wedding.
Glen Kinnard and Suzanne LaBelle were married for the second time one week before the bride succumbed to her affliction. She lay in bed throughout the ceremony, but clearly responded, “I do,” when asked if she took this man…
Other than the judge her father secured to perform the ceremony, Emilie was the only witness present. She helped her mother place the ring on her father’s finger. She kissed both her parents when the exchange of vows was completed.
Suzanne asked only one thing of Emilie: “Be kind.”
Of her husband, she asked, “When I go, please take me home.”
3
Kinnard tried to sleep, laying fully clothed atop the comforter on the small French bed. But he had too many demons dancing in his head to get more than a few minutes of rest at any one time. Emilie, from the front desk, called to ask if he would like to have dinner in his room. She could have the hotel’s chef prepare almost anything he would like. He thanked her but declined the offer. He asked not to be disturbed before midday tomorrow.
At two a.m. he rolled off the bed, took a shower, and made a pot of coffee using the machine provided in the suite. He dressed in fresh clothes, dark shirt, pants, and windbreaker. Rubber soled shoes. Feeling the caffeine jolt of the coffee, he picked up the urn with Suzanne’s ashes from the table next to the bed and left the suite.
If there was anyone on duty at the front desk, that person was not at his post when Kinnard passed through the lobby. He had to open the door to the street for himself, just as he’d hoped he would. It was two-thirty now. Early Sunday morning. Still late Saturday night to any revelers making a last stop on their rounds.
Kinnard looked right and left along the length of the Rue du 29 Juillet, on which the hotel’s side entrance faced. No pedestrians were visible in either direction. He turned left and walked toward the Rue de Rivoli. He waited in the shadows at the corner of the block as a single car passed, neither the driver nor the passenger looking in his direction. He crossed the thoroughfare and entered the Tuileries Gardens.
It was only after he was well into the parklike setting and was walking in the shadows of a stand of trees that he thought he should have paused to read the signs at the gardens’ entrance. He might have learned if the place was off-limits overnight, the way many American parks were. He didn’t think there was much of a threat that terrorists would attempt to blow up the shrubbery. But the Louvre was just down the street. Even he hadn’t been able to miss the place on the taxi ride to the hotel. If some jihadi SOBs wanted to rub the infidels noses in how corrupt their culture was, they could hide out in the trees and start launching rockets or mortar rounds at the famous museum.
That possibility had to occur to the French cops, Kinnard thought.
Had to.
Made Kinnard glad he was wearing dark clothes and running shoes.
He might not have destructi
on in mind, but he was a man with a mission.
He moved deeper into the trees, picked up his pace.
He had deliberately failed to inquire if it was legal to dump someone’s ashes in the Seine. He didn’t want to know so he could claim ignorance, if worse came to worse. Of course, the river flowed 480 miles. He could have picked a quiet spot out in the countryside somewhere, deposited Suzanne’s ashes and no one would ever have been the wiser. But Suzanne had been a Parisienne and as far as Kinnard was concerned there was only one place to fulfill her wish.
Right where the Seine flowed past the Eiffel Tower.
4
The walkway under the Pont d’Iéna struck him as the perfect spot. The overarching bridge gave it a sense of privacy. A terrace of shallow steps led down to the water’s edge. A support pillar ten feet out in the river shielded him from the view of anyone on the opposite bank. All he had to do to honor Suzanne’s last wish was to crouch, perhaps kneel, open the urn and let the ashes swirl away with the current. They’d flow out from under the bridge right past the Eiffel Tower.
Only thing was, Kinnard just couldn’t let his wife’s remains go.
The last year he’d spent taking care of Suzanne had been the most meaningful of his life. He’d felt closer to her than when they had first started dating. It was the only time he’d ever cared about anyone without thinking about himself first. His selflessness had been apparent even to Emilie. In the minutes after Suzanne had passed, he’d thanked Em for playing along, pretending she’d reconciled with her father.
“I know giving me that kiss must have cost you,” he said.
She shrugged. “Just trying to do what Mom asked.”
“It’s all right now. She’s gone. You can stop acting like I’m not a total asshole.”
