Eddie Flynn 02-The Plea

by Steve Cavanagh

  ‘Anything so far?’ said a voice.

  The searcher closed the file cabinet drawer and opened the one below it.

  ‘Nothing relevant to the target,’ said the man as he selected a file, opened it, and began reading with this flashlight.

  Target.

  That word, like a shock wave, sent boiling adrenaline through my veins. My neck muscles tightened, and my breath quickened.

  They hadn’t seen me.

  I had two good options: slide out of there, get my car, drive like crazy all night, and then call the cops from the next state. Option number two was to leave, forget the car, jump into the first cab I saw, and head to Judge Harry Ford’s apartment on the Upper East Side and drop a dime to the cops from the safety of Harry’s couch.

  Both choices were sound; both were smart; both carried minimal risk.

  But that wasn’t me.

  I got up without a sound, rolled my neck, tucked my right fist under my chin, and charged the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The man who stood at the door began to turn as I broke into a run. At first he was startled by the sudden, heavy footfalls. When he saw me, his mouth opened, sucking in a huge gulp of air, and his eyes opened wide as his survival instincts hit him before his training. First came shock, and then came the reaction. Even before he could call out, I could see the mental conditioning struggling to take over the panic as his right hand began to fumble toward the gun strapped to his side.

  He was too late.

  I didn’t want to kill the guy. Someone once told me it was unprofessional to kill a man without knowing exactly who they were. Ordinarily, if I’d hit him in the face or the head, there was a fifty-fifty chance that the blow would prove fatal, either from the force of the brass knuckles cracking his head and causing massive hemorrhaging or from the poor guy breaking his own skull when his unconscious body hit the deck. My momentum easily added an extra thirty or forty pounds of impact pressure to the punch. At that kind of speed, the odds of fatal damage increased, and if I made it a head shot, I would likely put this guy’s lights out permanently.

  All I needed to do was disable the man.

  He was right-handed.

  At the last second I lowered my right fist and adjusted my aim.

  The punch hit him bone-deep, right biceps, and the fingers of his hand instantly opened and then relaxed; it was just like cutting down a power line – pulverizing a big muscle like that would mean the man’s arm would be dead and lifeless for hours. My momentum took me past the guy just as the first scream left his throat.

  His partner dropped the files he’d been reading and swung the flashlight at me. This man was left-handed, and I met his swing. The two and a half pounds of Cleveland brass wrapped around my left fist met the flashlight and cut it in two. The bulb exploded, and the light died in a shower of sparks. At the point of explosion, the man’s face became momentarily illuminated, and I saw his mouth open, eyes flash wide as shock tore across his face. Only it wasn’t shock. I must have caught part of his hand with the brass knuckles. In the half-light from the streetlamps, I watched the man fall to his knees, cupping his broken fingers.

  ‘Eddie, stop!’ said a voice from the dark.

  The lamp on my desk went on.

  ‘Ferrar, Weinstein, stand down,’ said the man sitting behind my desk. I’d first met him around six months ago. This was the guy I’d saved when we’d both had a run-in with the Russian Mafia – Special Agent Bill Kennedy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was addressing the men I’d assaulted, both of whom were on their knees. The one with a buzz cut gritted his teeth against the pain of his ruined fingers. The other, larger man in the leather jacket rolled around on the floor, holding his arm with his gun still safely holstered.

  Kennedy was the last person I’d expected to find in my office. He leaned back in my chair and placed his legs across the desk before crossing his feet. He looked at his men, then looked at me like I’d broken something belonging to him. The navy blue pants of his suit rode up a little, enough for me so see his black silk socks and the backup piece strapped to his left ankle – a Ruger LCP.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘What the hell is this?’ I said.

  ‘Take it easy. You just assaulted two federal agents. Jesus, Eddie, those are my guys.’

  The agent who’d held the flashlight got up slowly, his index finger pointing in an unnatural direction. Baring his teeth, he snapped the digit back into place. I hadn’t broken anything. Just dislocated his finger. His pal looked a lot worse. He was pale and sweaty. Both agents made their way to the couch on the opposite side of the room from the file cabinets.

  ‘They’ll be okay,’ I said. ‘They might have to wipe their asses with their other hands for a week or so, but they’ll live. Can’t say the same for you unless you tell me what you’re doing breaking into my office. Oh, and by the way, it’s not assault if you’re defending your person or property from a trespasser. Thought they might’ve taught you that in Quantico. You got a warrant?’

  I slipped off the brass and let each piece fall onto a stack of documents on my desk. Kennedy shifted his feet to the floor, picked up a set, and slipped them on one hand, feeling the lethal weight against his knuckles.

  He drew the brass from his fingers, let it fall onto the pile of pages on my desk, and said, ‘Brass knuckles, Eddie?’

  ‘Paperweights,’ I said. ‘Where’s your warrant?’

  Before he answered, he began to scratch at the back of his hand. That told me all I needed to know; Kennedy worried a lot and took out his anxiety on his body. The skin around both of his thumbnails appeared swollen and red, where he’d worked at his cuticles with his teeth and nails. He hadn’t shaved, and he looked as though he could use a shower, a haircut, and a good night’s sleep. His normally brilliant white shirt had faded to the same color as the bags under his eyes, and the skin on his forty-year-old face had thinned. From the inch of room around his collar, I guessed he’d lost a lot of weight.

  When I’d first met Kennedy, I’d been representing the head of the Russian mob, Olek Volchek. The trial went south, big-time. Volchek had taken my ten-year-old daughter, Amy, hostage and threatened to kill her. In the five months that had passed since that trial, I’d tried to forget those desperate hours. But I couldn’t. I remembered it all – my agony at the thought of someone hurting her, taking her young life, and that it would be all my fault. The mere thought of it made my hands sweat.

  Kennedy had almost died, but I’d managed to get him to a medic before it was too late. His wounds had healed well, and he’d even helped smooth things out for me when the dust settled on the Volchek case. A lot of what I did over the course of those two days was highly illegal. Kennedy had made it all go away. But in reality, he didn’t know the half of what I’d done, and I hoped he never would.

  After he’d recovered from the shooting, he’d invited me and my family to a New Year’s party at his place. My wife, Christine, had said she didn’t want to go; things had been bad between us for a while. I’d been thrown out of our house, deservedly, about eighteen months ago, because I’d spent more time in bars, night courts, and drunk tanks than I had at home. I’d gotten clean and things had calmed between Christine and me, until the Volchek case.

  Christine thought I’d put Amy in danger – that our daughter had been taken because of me. She was right. But in the past few weeks her anger had begun to fade. I’d been able to see Amy more often, and last Wednesday when I dropped her off, Christine had invited me inside. We’d split a bottle of wine and even laughed a little. Of course, I messed up when I tried to kiss her on the doorstep before I left. She’d turned away and placed a hand on my chest; it was too soon. I’d thought, on the drive back to my office, that someday it would be okay. Someday I might get my girls back. I thought about them every hour of every day.

  I had gone to Kennedy’s party alone, drank Dr Peppers, ate pork and salt beef, and left early. Defense attorneys don’t usually m
ix well with the law-enforcement crowd, con men even less so. But I actually kind of liked Kennedy. For all his worrying and pigheadedness, he was a straight-up, conscientious agent with a good track record, and he’d put all of that on the line for me. I saw that stone-faced morality in his gaze as he sat on the other side of my desk, in my chair, chewing over my question. In the end I decided to answer it myself.

  ‘You don’t have a warrant, do you?’

  ‘All I can say for now is that this little party is for your benefit.’

  Scanning the office, I saw four hefty-looking metal suitcases stacked in the corner and, beside them, what looked like sound equipment.

  ‘Did I interrupt band practice?’ I said.

  ‘We were doing you a favor, sweeping your office for any listening devices.’

  ‘Listening devices? In the future, don’t do me any favors without asking me first. Out of interest, did you find any?’

  ‘No. You’re clean,’ he said, standing and stretching his back. ‘You always carry paperweights around?’

  ‘Office supplies come in handy from time to time. Why didn’t you call and tell me you were coming?’

  ‘There wasn’t time. Sorry.’

  ‘What do you mean there wasn’t time? I heard your buddy over there mention the word “target,” so I want to know what you’re really doing here.’

  Before Kennedy could answer, I heard footsteps. The door to my back office opened, and a small man who looked like he was in his fifties, with a gray beard and black-rimmed glasses, stepped into the room. He wore a long black overcoat that stopped at his ankles. Blue shirt, dark pants, graying curly hair swept back over a thin, tanned face.

  ‘Protection,’ said the small man, answering the question I’d directed at Kennedy.

  He stood with his arms buried in his pockets, confident and in charge. He walked casually past Kennedy and sat his butt down on my desk before smiling at me.

  ‘Mr Flynn, my name is Lester Dell. I’m not FBI. I’m with another agency. The Bureau are here because they’re part of a joint task force that I’m heading up. We have a job for you,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘Great. So what are you? DEA? ATF? The cable guy?’

  ‘Oh, I work for the agency that doesn’t officially carry out operations on US soil. That’s why the FBI and the Treasury Department are handling all the manpower. As far as the State Department is concerned, I’m here as a consultant,’ he said, and as he smiled, the brown skin above his beard developed deep lines that tapered toward his eyes. Lines that didn’t quite seem a natural fit for his face, as if smiling were an unusual thing to do. His accent seemed a little off, because his pronunciation was so precise and clean.

  I didn’t need to ask where he worked – the smile said it all. He told me anyway. ‘Unofficially, Mr Flynn, this is my operation. And I can tell you’ve already guessed who I work for. You’re correct – I work for the CIA.’

  I nodded. Clocked Kennedy. He was watching me closely – judging my reactions carefully.

  ‘We’re tight for time, so you’ll forgive me if I’m brief and to the point. We’re here to take precautions. To make sure no one but us will hear this conversation. I have a proposition for you. In fact, I have a case for you,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t do government work. That goes double for the kind of governments that break into my office.’

  ‘Oh? I thought you might welcome some paid employment. I see you’ve got a sofa bed in back, clothes, TV, a toothbrush in the bathroom, and a stack of paperbacks. But I don’t need to make any assumptions from this: I know all about you. Every little thing. You’re broke. You’re living in your office. In fact, you have twelve hundred dollars in your checking account, your office account is thirty grand in the red, and the work is slow.’

  I hit Kennedy with a look. He folded his arms and nodded at Dell, telling me I should listen.

  ‘Mr Flynn, here’s my situation. I’ve spent five years investigating a group of very bad individuals. To be plain about it, I’ve come up empty-handed. I got nothing. Until yesterday, when all my prayers were answered. It turns out that a friend of those bad individuals got arrested for doing a very bad thing. He will be tried and convicted; it’s an open-and-shut case. I’m hoping this man might be persuaded to make a deal with me, one where he gets to walk out of jail while he’s still young and I get to arrest his friends in exchange. Problem is, this man’s lawyers don’t quite see it that way. I want you to take over his case. I want you to represent this guy, and I want you to persuade him to cut a deal. It’s in his best interests, and yours.’

  Checking his watch, he said, ‘You have forty-eight hours, precisely, to get yourself hired by your new client, force him to plead guilty, and we’ll make him a deal. If you do this, the federal government will do two things for you.’

  From his coat he produced a hip flask, cranked it open, and poured a measure into the empty coffee cup sitting on my desk. He didn’t ask if I wanted any, just poured and handed me the mug. He sipped lightly from the flask, then continued.

  ‘First, we will pay you one hundred thousand dollars. Cash. Tax free. Not bad for a morning’s work. Second, and more important for you, do this for me and I won’t send your wife to a federal prison for the rest of her life.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Perched on my office desk, Dell took another sip from his hip flask. I ignored whatever liquor he’d poured into my coffee mug. He smiled again, unnaturally, and I let his words wash over me.

  Do this and we won’t send your wife to prison for the rest of her life.

  I saw Kennedy tense up. He knew the fate of the last group of hard cases who’d threatened my family, and Kennedy seemed just as surprised as I was.

  ‘Dell, tell him we’re the good guys here,’ said Kennedy.

  ‘I’m talking here, Bill,’ said Dell, never taking his fake smile from me.

  If Kennedy or Dell were expecting a show, I didn’t give it to them. Instead I leaned back in the chair normally reserved for my clients and folded my hands.

  ‘Dell, this is all very interesting, but my wife is as straight as they come. She doesn’t even jaywalk. If you think you have something on her? Fine, go ahead and use it and I’ll see you in court. In fact, she won’t need me. Christine is a far better lawyer than I am. That’s why she works at Harland and Sinton, and I … well, I work here. So, thanks for the offer. The money sounds great, but when it comes with a threat I lose interest. I don’t scare easy, Dell. Don’t forget to replace my dime on the way out,’ I said.

  The fake smile changed into a real one. At that moment he looked different. Charming. Despite what he said and how he came across, there was an unexpected warmth to the man. He exchanged a look with Kennedy, then bent low and retrieved a green file from a case beside him.

  ‘You think your wife is safe because she’s an attorney at Harland and Sinton?’ said Dell. ‘The irony is that your wife is in this situation because she’s an attorney at Harland and Sinton.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I brought something for you to see. Actually, you can keep it. I’ve got a copy. So does the federal prosecutor. With the documents in here, we can file thirty-eight RICO charges against your wife and seek a combined total of one hundred and fifteen years’ incarceration. Take a look for yourself.’

  The file contained three pages. Neither of them made much sense to me. The first was what looked like a share purchase agreement for a company I’d never heard of. Christine’s signature appeared as a witness to the agreement and sat beside that of the client, the share purchaser.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ I said.

  ‘Let me make it real simple. Your wife signed this document on her first day of employment at Harland and Sinton, Attorneys-at-Law. Every attorney at Harland and Sinton gets the same treatment their first day. You know what it’s like on your first day in a new office; you spend half the time trying to remember everyone’s name, where you’re supposed to sit, where your files are, and
trying to memorize all the damn new computer passwords you’ve just been handed. Around four thirty on your first day in Harland and Sinton, one of the senior partners will call you to his office. He’s just completed a share transfer agreement for a client. Due diligence has been done already, but he’s been called to an emergency meeting and the client has just arrived. The senior partner wants you to witness the document for him. All you have to do is watch the client sign the damn piece of paper and put your name beside it. That’s all. Happens all the time. In fact, all two hundred and twenty-three lawyers in there had the very same experience on their first day. But be under no illusions, Mr Flynn. In signing this document, your wife unwittingly became part of one of the largest financial frauds in American history.’

  ‘Harland and Sinton? Fraud? Pal, you’re badly mistaken. They’re one of the oldest and most respected firms in the city. No way are they up to anything illegal. Why would they? They’ve got more money than they know what to do with.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve got money, all right. Dirty money.’

  ‘You’ve got proof?’

  ‘Some, like the documents you just read. We don’t have it all. Not yet. That’s where you come in. See, Harland and Associates has had its financial ups and downs over the years, but that all changed in 1995 when Gerry Sinton came on board. The newly formed Harland and Sinton scaled down its client list to less than fifty and focused the practice on securities, tax, bonds, wealth management, and estates. Their profits went through the roof. Prior to Sinton coming on board, the firm was clean – and it’s still got the best reputation. It’s the perfect setup for their little operation.’