Chapter 31 Eddie

31

Eddie

‘Could I have two organic eggs – poached – lightly toasted sourdough toast and a cup of hot water with a slice of organic lemon, please?'

The server squinted at Lake, pursed her lips together and gathered her thoughts before replying.

‘We don't do poached,' she said.

‘What about boiled?' asked Lake.

‘We got a grill and a hotplate. You can have scrambled, fried or raw, honey .'

The word honey came out of the waitress's mouth, for sure, but it sounded an awful lot like asshole .

‘For the sake of my sanity, he'll have fried eggs. I'll have the pancakes and lots of coffee, please, ma'am,' I said.

‘Same,' said Bloch.

The waitress gave me a nice smile, gathered our menus and disappeared with the order. We'd been up most of the night. I'd crashed at Bloch's place, found Lake there. They'd been spitballing and working all the angles. It was coming up on seven in the morning. I needed food, coffee, a shower and then it would be time to meet Kate after the mid-morning recess. She said she could handle the opening statement on her own. I wanted to be there, for support if for nothing else, but it was more important right now to try to figure out what the hell was really going on behind this case.

‘I can't get my head around all of this,' I said. ‘I get the feeling there's a whole other story going on that I can't see. We have two murders on or connected to this street. We have Margaret Blakemore, but there's no link to John beyond the murder weapon turning up in his home. Then Alison's mother, supposedly killed by their maid who got caught stealing and Esther reported her family to ICE. I know Kate thinks Althea planted the gun, but Althea has no connection to Blakemore.'

Lake said, ‘There's no connection between Althea and Bale, nor Ellis either.'

Bloch said, ‘I get that Althea had a motive to kill Esther Hanson, but why dump her apron, with her DNA and the victim's blood on it in the trash at the victim's home? That seems dumb to me. And yet there were no other forensics found in the house so far to link Althea to that address. Could be the same person who killed Blakemore? All I know is the killer wanted Althea arrested for murder,' said Bloch.

I leaned back in the booth, let that roll around in my head. The waitress brought coffee and Lake's hot water with lemon. I thanked her and she smiled at me then shot a dirty look at Lake as she left.

‘How would the killer know to pin the murder on Althea? How would they know Esther reported Althea's family to ICE?' I asked.

We sat there in silence for a moment.

‘What if Esther didn't report Althea's family to ICE? Those tip lines aren't like 911. The calls are not recorded. Tips can be anonymous. Why give a name at all?' I asked.

‘Okay,' said Lake, ‘so this perp kills Esther, for some reason we don't know, and frames Althea. That kind of MO fits with the Blakemore killing. Margaret was shot – okay, different method – but then our client was framed. There are some similarities.'

‘I'm with Bloch. I'm not sure it's the same person who killed both victims,' I said. ‘There's someone who is very smart, pulling a lot of levers here. Maybe we're wrong about everything. Maybe Kate is right. Maybe Althea is behind some of this and she's working with someone else. I just can't piece it all together . . .'

The waitress came over with our breakfast. We ate in silence. Bloch and I worked through the food. I ate without really tasting anything. I just needed the calories. Flipping over his eggs, Lake examined them, weighed his options and finally just ate his toast.

When I finished my plate, I asked for more coffee and looked out of the window. It was a Manhattan summer morning and the sun was never lazy in this town. It burned the sidewalks it could reach and boiled the sewers beneath. The people who flowed past the diner wore shades, caps and tees. But there was no escaping the heat in this city. Traffic rolled slow, hot tires greased the faded asphalt and the wind was taking the day off.

‘I wish Harry was here,' I said.

Bloch said nothing.

Lake said, ‘I'll check on him tonight.'

Bloch still said nothing, but I saw her shoulders fall when she heard Lake say he'd visit Harry.

‘It's not your fault, Bloch,' I said.

‘I never should've let you two leave the hotel,' she said. ‘It is my fault.'

‘How could it be? The whole reason this happened is because I threatened to expose a corrupt cop. I brought this pain down on all of us.'

‘But you did the right thing. I felt something that day outside the hotel. I didn't act on my instinct. Harry's gone because of me.'

‘He's not gone. He's still alive. He'll pull through . . .' My throat tightened, and I couldn't finish the sentence.

Taking in a huge breath, Bloch expanded her chest, held that air, then blew it out.

‘You know he stepped in front me,' I said. ‘Like he did when those bikers were outside the office. He took the bullet for me. Don't beat yourself up. This is all on me.'

The waitress brought over the check and I counted out some bills, waved away Lake's attempt to pay. Bloch couldn't speak. Didn't say much at the best of times, but she held her thoughts close. She had said too much already. Whatever pain she felt over Harry, she wanted to keep the rest inside.

Both of them left the diner. I sat there with my thoughts and a hot refill of coffee. My mind ablaze with guilt, theories and a terrible worry that the only man who would end up paying for these crimes would be the wrong one – our client John.

The sun moved behind a cloud and a man walked into the diner.

He wore a black suit, crisp white button-down shirt and black silk tie. In his right hand he carried a black fedora. I noticed him because of the sharp suit, and the fact that he didn't wait at the sign for a table. Instead, he made his way toward me as soon as he came in. When he reached my booth, he stopped. Looked at me.

No one was going to shoot me in a public diner. Even so, I had my right hand in my jacket pocket and my fingers threaded through my ceramic knuckles.

The man had pale skin, and pale eyes. They were a strange color, as if they'd once been a bright, saturated blue and they'd faded with time and light into pastel.

‘Mr. Flynn, I am extremely pleased to meet you,' said the man, but didn't offer a hand in greeting. ‘I would shake your hand, but I can see it's wrapped around a weapon in your pocket. Please don't be alarmed – you will have no need of it. Not at the moment, anyway.'

Without a word from me, he sat down across from me where Bloch and Lake had been just a few minutes before. His movements were smooth and controlled. He slid into the booth with all the grace of an old movie star.

‘I know you are busy, but you and I should talk. My name is Mr. Christmas. I don't want this to appear rude, but I have been planning to kill you . . .'