Chapter 27
Eddie
The tires on the Mustang screamed as I slid to a stop outside the hotel where I’d dropped off Amy.
I leapt out of the car, Harry behind me.
There, outside the hotel, sitting down on the sidewalk with her back against the building.
Amy.
Surrounded by the same group of girls who had been squealing with delight not hours before.
Her head was on her chest, and the girl who I guessed was Keisha knelt beside her, with her arm round Amy’s shoulders.
‘She’s been sick,’ said Keisha, ‘but she still doesn’t look good.’
I knelt down, cupped her face in my hands and lifted Amy’s chin. Her eyes were half closed and her skin was hot to touch. The other girls outside were shivering in the cold. Vomit had flecked Amy’s dress.
‘What the hell happened?’ I asked.
A cacophony of high-pitched, panicked voices rang out all at once.
‘One at a time, ladies. It’s okay,’ said Harry.
‘We don’t know,’ said Keisha. ‘She was fine then she stumbled on the dance floor, and we sat down together and had some water. Then she got really drowsy, said she was feeling sick. I said I would call you and then we went outside. She vomited and now she’s barely conscious.
But I swear she didn’t have any alcohol. On my life, I swear to God, she—’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said, and bent down to my daughter.
‘Amy, can you hear me?’ I asked.
She groaned, leaned over and a little more sick came up.
That’s when I saw the flash.
I looked up.
A guy in a black coat was taking pictures with an expensive-looking camera.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ said Harry.
The guy let the camera drop from his face, smiled and then turned and ran.
‘What the hell was he doing taking pictures? Does he think we’ll sue or something?’ said Keisha.
‘What are you talking about? Do you know that guy?’ asked Harry.
‘He was working behind the bar earlier,’ said Keisha.
Harry and I exchanged a look.
‘Thank you, Keisha, we can take it from here. Harry, get the door. We’re going to the hospital.’
‘Dad, these clothes stink,’ said Amy.
She was lying in a hospital bed. I’d brought my gym bag from the trunk of the car. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a Black Key’s T-shirt. She had a butterfly needle on the back of her hand that was attacked to a saline drip that hung above the bed.
I patted her head with a damp towel, said, ‘They may stink, but they don’t have vomit on them.’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I can get the car cleaned. I can’t get a new daughter.’
The young doctor who had seen Amy earlier threw open the green curtain that surrounded the bed. He didn’t look that much older than Amy.
‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked.
‘I’m pretty mad and I think I might have had a mild heart attack,’ I said.
He looked at me.
Amy smiled, and laughed for the first time that night. I felt better as soon as I heard that laughter. It was one of the best sounds in the world.
‘Actually, I was asking your daughter,’ said the doc.
‘He knew that. He was just trying to make me laugh,’ said Amy. ‘I feel a lot better, thank you.’
‘Good, well, your vital signs are all improving. Heart rate is way down, your temperature returning to normal. How’s the stomach?’ he asked, and took a pen flashlight from his pocket. He checked Amy’s eyes.
‘Feels weird, and sore, but not like I want to be sick.’
‘Good,’ said the doc.
‘Was it the food?’ asked Amy.
The doc looked at me. I nodded.
‘Amy, do you know what a roofie is?’ asked the doc.
‘What? Rohypnol?’
‘Not exactly in this case. But something similar. Thankfully, your body rejected the drugs quickly. If you hadn’t vomited so quickly after drinking it, things might have been a lot worse.
You’ll have a headache soon, but we’re flushing your system and giving you everything that you need to make a full recovery.
By tomorrow morning you’ll be feeling a lot—’
‘What the fuck is going on?’ shouted Christine as she burst through the curtain. I stepped aside and she grabbed Amy in a hug. She had been crying on the way here, I could tell.
The doc said, ‘Your daughter had her drink spiked. She’s well on her way to recovery. Your husband did everything right and she—’
‘He’s not my husband,’ said Christine.
Right on cue, Kevin came by the bed, out of breath and flushed from running.
‘She’s going to be fine,’ I said, and patted his shoulder.
‘Thank you, Eddie,’ said Kevin, and joined Christine and Amy in a hug.
I looked up at the ceiling, blew out a breath. I had been panicking too. I had tried not to show it, for Amy’s sake, but now that the emergency had passed I felt my heart rate beginning to drop.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Denise.
What’s going on? Is Amy okay?
I hadn’t had time to talk to Denise. Neither, I thought, had Harry.
Another text. This time she had sent me a link.
I clicked on it.
The link took me to X.
A photo of Amy, lying on the sidewalk outside the hotel, vomiting. And me kneeling beside her. But this wasn’t just a photo.
It was the picture from an article. I read the headline.
Famous Manhattan Lawyer’s Daughter Caught in Drug and Alcohol Disaster
I clicked on it.
The article was from a gossip Substack and it referenced numerous posts on X, Facebook and Instagram from what looked like a mixture of bot accounts and social-media trolls.
There were hundreds of posts, all with that same picture.
And something else.
A link to another gossip column.
LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER. BOOZY NY ELITE LAWYER EDDIE FLYNN COMES TO THE AID OF HIS DRUNKEN DAUGHTER IN ILLEGAL NIGHT OF DEBAUCHED DRINKING!
This was from the Daily Post.
An online news site.
Owned by Julian Vanderpool.
‘I’m just going to text Keisha—’ said Amy.
I snatched the phone out of her hand.
‘Dad?’
‘Eddie? What the hell?’ cried Christine.
‘Don’t let her see your phone,’ I said as I ran out of the ward. Harry was standing in the hallway outside. His face contorted in disgust as he stared at his phone. His head shot up when he heard me running toward him.
Denise must have sent him the same message.
‘Thanks, Harry. I’m sorry. Ask Denise to pick you up,’ I said as I ran past him.
‘Eddie! Eddie! Don’t do it! Stop!’
He kept calling out, even as I ran past the bank of elevators and took the stairs, fast as I could, down two flights and then out the side doors to my car.
By the time I pulled up on the corner, the brakes were burning and beginning to fail on the Mustang. And there was a terrible smell from the clutch. I think I might have burned it out snatching fourth gear from first after that last set of lights.
I got out, popped the trunk, took a straight tire iron from the hidden well beneath the trunk floor and slid it up inside the sleeve of my jacket. I held the steel head in my palm, closed the trunk and turned the corner.
The two guys who I’d first seen accompanying Voss stood either side of the front door. They were wearing the same black overcoats. The same black luxury SUV was parked in front of them at the curb.
The blond guy with the scar running through his hair was closest to me. I was coming up on his left side, and kept close to the building to block the view of his pal. The blond guy heard my footsteps, turned toward me.
For a moment, he was confused.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. He hadn’t been asked to come get me. This was a picture that really didn’t make any sense.
His stance widened and he spun toward me as I sprinted the last ten feet and dropped my right shoulder so it hit him square in the chest, full speed. A hundred and eight-five pounds of pissed-off father knocked the wind straight out of him.
He went down hard, and it was lucky for me he was so solid because I just bounced off and didn’t go down with him. His buddy, the stocky body builder with a bad steroid rash got his hands up, ready to fight.
I opened my left land.
Let gravity fill it with the handle of my tire iron.
His eyes widened as I swung it up, over my head, and he raised his arms to block it as I stepped forward.
I swung down hard, and at a sharp angle.
I didn’t want to kill him.
But when the tire iron hit his right knee he probably wished he was dead.
He went down screaming.
His buddy rolled around on the ground, clutching his chest where I’d put my shoulder into his sternum. He was panting, trying to get air. I rolled him into the recovery position, stood and threw the tire iron straight through the driver’s window of the SUV. The hazard lights and alarm flared.
Then I pushed the front door open and stepped inside.
Another set of double doors stood four feet in front of me. This was an inner hallway and on my left was a security panel with a digital keypad and a large green button marked ALARM beside it.
I smacked the alarm button and pushed open the double doors.
As the alarm rang out through the house, I found myself in the marble hallway I’d been in some weeks ago.
Corridor to my left. Another to my right.
A hallway dead ahead that led to the conservatory and a staircase sweeping up beside.
Fabergé eggs and art that cost more than most Manhattan apartments.
Cupping my hands in front of me, I stared straight ahead and stood very still.
Footsteps to my left. Coming up fast. I turned casually and saw another security guy, dressed all in black.
Younger than the others. He saw me standing in the hall, casually, and slowed as he approached.
He stood in front of me in a wide stance, hands ready in case he needed to tackle me.
There are various types of intruders. A man in a nice suit and tie standing still in a hallway doesn’t fit the bill.
Before he could speak, I said, ‘Something’s burning.’
‘Burning?’
‘Yeah.’
He dropped his hands, said, ‘What’s burning?’
‘Your balls.’
I took one step forward and planted my left foot, swung my right leg into a kick that would score a forty-yard field goal.
He was regretting that wide stance as he clutched his groin and dropped to the floor, mouth wide open, sucking in air, unable to scream.
I got down on one knee, as I heard someone else approaching on my right. I rolled the guy on the floor onto his side. To anyone who hadn’t seen me give him an almighty kick in the balls moments ago, it would look like I was trying to help the guy out.
‘What the hell happened?’ said a voice behind me.
He stepped in close, trying to look over my shoulder.
Whoever he was, he had a deep voice and I saw the toe of his military boot step in close to the body of his pal on the floor.
I got up fast, driving myself into a standing position, using all the power in my legs, and I turned and caught the new guy right under the chin with an uppercut.
He staggered back and I grabbed his tie with my left.
Hit him three hard shots with my right as his legs folded underneath him.
I didn’t need the third punch. He was out cold in two, but it was already on its way to his jaw.
I still had hold of his tie as he went down.
Didn’t want him to crack his skull on the marble floor.
Soon as he was safely on the ground, I let go of his tie and spun round.
Dekker was almost down the stairs. Behind him, tying off a silk dressing gown, was Julian Vanderpool.
‘What the fuck?’ said Dekker when he saw the two guys either side of me, one rolling around on the floor with his hands between his thighs, the other letting out a loud snore.
I ignored Dekker, looked right past him at Julian.
‘My daughter? You drugged my daughter?’ I asked, my right fist still clenched.
‘I didn’t drug anyone. I asked my guy for some pictures and a story, and that’s what I got. Good coverage, don’t you think?’
‘She’s only fifteen, you son of a—’
‘I just wanted to make sure you remembered who is in charge,’ said Julian.
‘The news cycle moves fast. Tomorrow the tabloids will be full of the story of Vanessa’s upcoming trial and a statement from Patrick confirming he’s filed for divorce.
We’re cutting Vanessa loose. If she tries to blame my son for the murder, I will crucify the both of you. Consider this a warning, Flynn.’
‘After what you did tonight, you’ve made up my mind.
You’re a tough old sick son of a bitch. I can’t hurt you.
Not directly. But I can hurt him. He’s the only thing you care about, and I’m going to make sure he suffers, and that isn’t a warning.
It’s a goddamn guaranteed golden ticket and I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka. ’
‘You busted into the wrong house,’ said Dekker.
‘I don’t walk into any place without knowing how to walk out again,’ I said.
‘You’re an intruder. We can shoot intruders,’ said Dekker.
‘Dekker, don’t kill him. Put one in his knee, for being a prick,’ said Julian.
The alarm belted off the walls.
I stood very still. Watched Dekker reach for his side arm.
Heard that click from the quick-release holster.
The gun was in his hand in a flash. He adjusted his aim, and I watched the barrel angle down.
He smiled, relishing the moment. He would enjoy the squeeze of the trigger, the kick from the gun, the crack of fire and the delicious moment of pain and ruin as the bullet found its target.
His smile broke as his gaze flicked over my shoulder.
‘NYPD! Drop the gun! Drop the gun!’
He instantly raised his hands, let the Glock fall to clatter on the steps.
‘Down! Get down!’ came the cry.
I turned slowly, my hands in the air.
Two uniformed cops with their guns drawn. One on me, one on Dekker.
I don’t walk into any place I don’t know how to walk out of.
In this case, I might have to be carried out in cuffs, but I knew the NYPD response times in this area, especially a personal alarm in the largest private home in Manhattan.
There’s nothing like a police escort when you need it.
I got onto my knees and stared at Julian.
Rage filled his bloodshot eyes.
I lay down, put my hands behind my back and quickly felt a knee in my spine, and heard the jangle of handcuffs.
‘Glad to see you, officers,’ I said. ‘I just heard the alarm, thought it was a fire and ran in to help. You know, it’s a real piece of luck you’re here. I was about to call you. Somebody stole a tire iron out of my car.
‘What the hell is going on?’ said one of the cops.
‘I got a permit for that piece,’ said Dekker.
Nobody explained the situation. Julian said nothing. He just glared at me.
‘This isn’t finished,’ he said.
The cop hauled me to my feet. I stared at Julian and said, ‘You got that right. I’m just getting started.’