Chapter 14
Eddie
Not many people own houses in Manhattan.
Fewer own two.
Fewer still own a whole block.
Only one person lived in two townhouses, knocked together, on his very own block.
Flanked by the men in overcoats, I stood in a vast marble hallway that reminded me of City Hall.
A collection of Fabergé eggs sat on a hall table, casually, no security glass surrounding them.
Above them, I was pretty sure sat a Jackson Pollock painting that stretched high above onto what would have been the second floor, if they hadn’t taken this ceiling away to create an entrance to drop the jaw of any billionaire.
Right there, just on that one wall, with those eggs and that painting, was more money than I’d ever seen in my life.
An archway below the winding marble staircase led into a secluded garden.
A door opened upstairs, and a man stepped onto the landing and started walking down the staircase.
He made the guys standing beside me look small.
A huge man, with a jaw like a wash basin, legs that were the size of my torso and pale arms impossibly swollen with muscle and decorated with what looked like military tattoos.
He wore black pants and a black tee. Tight hair in a buzzcut.
Graying at the temples. His skin was waxy, and white. Like a marble statue.
A handgun was visible on a quick-release holster on his hip.
Only when he was halfway down the stairs did I notice the little guy behind him.
The small man wore the same outfit, but on him it looked like he was modelling babywear.
The skin on his shaven head was mottled with age, and the hairs on his arms were thick and white, making him look like he’d reached both hands deep into a cotton candy machine.
He held a thick cigar in his hand, smoke swirling around his face, and his lips were worm-like and slightly purple.
He wore sunglasses in thick black frames, his skin was tanned and I got the impression this was a permanent effect, which he topped up via weekends in the Caribbean.
The big guy said, ‘Did you search him?’ in an accent that I couldn’t immediately place.
The two guys in overcoats looked at each other, shrugged. The blond said, ‘The guy’s a lawyer. He ain’t gonna be carrying.’
The big guy tutted, looked at me and said, ‘Hands up.’
That’s when I recognized the South African accent. I raised my arms, stood still as he searched me. Sweeping my legs, arms, torso. He took my phone out of my pocket, switched it off, said, ‘You’ll get this back later.’
The small man said, ‘Julian Vanderpool,’ in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘let’s talk.’
No handshake. No smile. All business.
He set off through the archway beneath the stairs to the garden.
I followed, the big guy stalking behind me.
It was then I realized this wasn’t an outdoor garden.
It had a glass ceiling, and a temperature control to keep the exotic plants and tropical trees in good health.
I could feel the wave of heat as soon as I saw the glass above me.
Julian folded himself into a rattan chair, crossed his legs and gestured that I should take the chair opposite. I sat down, watched him take off his sunglasses and place them on a table.
His eyes were hard to look at. The irises were strangely blue.
The color of a Scandinavian lake in summer.
What made them strange was that the irises were not surrounded by the usual white fibrous tissue.
Instead, it was red. As if every capillary had burst. Staring into his eyes was like looking at two sapphires resting in bowls of blood.
When he placed the cigar between his lips and smoked, it almost looked like he had three burning eyes.
‘You’ve got promise, Flynn. I’ve followed your cases.
You’re good on your feet. You know how to work-over a witness and talk to a jury.
I like that. The only thing holding you back is that conscience of yours.
That’s weakness. If you were serious about your career, you’d have some heavyweight clients.
I can make that happen – oil companies, pharmaceuticals, politicians – I can open the right doors for you, Flynn. ’
‘No, thanks,’ I said.
His lips drew back over a row of small, rounded teeth, in what I guessed was a smile.
‘Moral pride is this country’s great sickness,’ he said.
‘My conscience is my greatest weapon. It stops me from representing oil companies, big pharma and politicians.’
‘Then consider this as your wake-up call. Your real client in this case is me.’
‘Like I said, I don’t represent the guilty.’
He threw his head back and laughed.
‘You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid. I’m going to put up Vanessa’s bail through a shell company. She’ll be out on the street today and I’ll make sure her trial happens in record time. You just be ready.’
‘I didn’t know you controlled the courts as well as the media.’
‘You’d be a fool if you underestimated my sphere of influence. Let’s be clear: my son is running for office. He is my priority. In an ideal world, I’d like his wife cleared, clean and fast. I want this shit gone in three months, tops.’
‘You got a magic wand I could borrow?’
Julian leaned forward, said, ‘I’ve got the media, two hundred and thirty billion dollars and a contacts list you wouldn’t believe. For now, you will proceed as instructed. If things change, your instructions will change.’
‘I only take instructions from clients.’
‘You’re not getting this, are you? Don’t worry.
You will. For now, you will defend Vanessa and you’ll do a good job.
If she gets convicted, so be it. I couldn’t give a fuck.
What I do care about is my son. The DA will go after her, but you, my friend, you’re going to keep my son’s name out of this courtroom and out of your mouth.
If you do what I tell you, I will make you a rich man.
If you accuse my son in order to get Vanessa acquitted, you’re walking into hell.
I have more money than God, but you know what I spend most of it on? ’
I said nothing, just stared at him.
‘Insurance. Bad things happen all the time. You, you’re my insurance policy. I look after my family, Flynn. Do you care about your family? Your daughter wants to go to college some day, right?’
My jaw clenched. My throat tightened.
He leaned forward, said, ‘I could get her into Harvard with one phone call, full scholarship. Or I could get her blacklisted from every decent college in the country. I can have the FBI, the IRS and the justice department investigate your friends, your ex-wife, your fuckin’ landlord, even the guy who delivers your mail – they can all be eating oatmeal in a federal penitentiary for a very long time.
You? I could have you on a plane to a fleapit max-security prison in Lagos in the morning.
Don’t you get it? Don’t you know who is in charge now?
All bets are off with this administration.
There are no laws, and there are no rules.
Not any more. Not for guys like me. In my time, I’ve brought down presidents, movie stars, princesses, prime ministers and governments.
You? You’re breakfast, Flynn. Now, get the fuck out of here and do your job. ’
I wanted to say something.
I’m good at comebacks. I don’t take threats well. I could be out of my seat with my fist in Julian Vanderpool’s scrawny throat before his gorilla could stop me.
But right then I didn’t. I let my fingertips curl into the palms of my hands, tightening into fists.
I turned and looked up at the big guy.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
He didn’t answer, instead unfolded his thick, tattooed arms and slid his thumbs behind the waist of his pants. Right hand inches from the pistol on his hip.
‘Are you still here?’ said Julian, the tan on his cheeks seeming to deepen, a vein growing in the side of his neck.
I sat there, didn’t move.
I relaxed my hands, spoke calmly, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
‘If Vanessa is innocent, I’ll help her. But not for you. If you know me, you’ll know I don’t respond well to threats. Especially threats to my friends and family. Let me do my work, keep the hell away from me and the people around me. Then we won’t have any problems.’
‘You really don’t get it. I’m your boss, your father, your savior and your executioner. I’m all things to you, Flynn. Now go.’
I didn’t move an inch.
Julian’s anger turned to surprise. He was a man who was used to people snapping to attention, and doing everything he said, immediately.
I leaned back in the seat.
Julian tutted, said, ‘Dekker, get him the fuck out of here.’
The gorilla stepped toward me, a mean look on his face.
He grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulled me up off my seat and turned, then shoved me toward the hallway.
I didn’t resist.
The blond guy and his pal waited in the lobby, sweating in their overcoats.
Just before we reached them, I felt the gorilla tensing his arm.
He pulled me back, then pushed me forward, almost punching the back of my neck, such was the power and speed of the movement.
I lost my footing, put my hands out as I fell and even though I got them beneath me, I still hit my head on the marble floor.
The overcoats grabbed me by the arms, and lifted me off the floor with ease, just as the first drops of blood from the cut on my right eyebrow fell over my shirt.
I heard my phone clattering on the floor.
They let me pick it up. Then they wheeled me around and toward the street, blood dripping into my eyes.
It was okay. The cut was worth it.
I’d gotten what I wanted. I’d pissed off Julian Vanderpool enough for him to call his bodyguard to get me removed.
The gorilla’s name was Dekker.
He was the second man in the photo Bloch had sent me. The big guy who had met Detective Larkin at the bagel shop and given him something in an oversized envelope.
I didn’t know who he was, or what his connection was with Larkin, but now I had his name.
There are layers of mystery in every murder. This one was thicker than most. There were a lot of things about this case that didn’t make sense. One thing I was sure of: nobody was telling me the truth.
It was time to start finding out what had really happened to Molly Green.