Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (22 page)

‘Yer crazy!' Bob said.

Flynn squeezed the trigger. There was a sudden flash of light, followed by a loud explosion which echoed round the empty warehouse, and then Bob crumpled and hit the floor.

Flynn watched him writhing in agony for two or three seconds before he said, ‘For God's sake, Bob, it's only your leg – I could have aimed at something
much
more painful. And you can't say I didn't warn you.' He turned his attention to Jake. ‘I've got that right, haven't I?' he asked. ‘You did kill the guards.'

‘Yeah,' Jake admitted shakily. ‘We killed 'em.'

‘Good boy,' Flynn said approvingly. ‘Now what I'm really interested in – as I said earlier – is who
paid you
to kill them. Actually, that's not true,' he corrected himself. ‘I already
know
who it was who paid you. What I need you to tell me is where he is now.'

‘He's . . . he's on Coney Island,' Jake said.

‘Don't lie to me,' Flynn said angrily. ‘He wouldn't have
dared
stay there – not after what he's done.'

‘I swear to yer—'

‘If I shoot you, it won't just be a leg wound, like I gave Bob,' Flynn threatened. ‘This time, I'll be aiming for your nuts.'

‘Please . . .!'

‘Tell me where the bastard is!'

The door to the warehouse suddenly crashed open, and standing there – silhouetted just as Bob and Jake had been earlier – were three men.

‘This is police business – keep away!' Flynn shouted.

But even as he was saying the words, there was a part of his brain which knew he was wasting his time.

The three men in the doorway opened fire almost simultaneously, their guns spitting flames into the darkness which was all that separated them from the oasis of light in which Bob and Jake were standing.

Three more shots followed in rapid succession.

And another three.

As the bullets slammed into him, Jake performed a grotesque dance of death in the flickering light of the lantern.

Flynn raised his own weapon to return the fire. But before he could get off even a single shot, a giant sledge hammer struck him in the chest, and he was suddenly flying backwards.

He must have blacked out – he had no idea for how long – but when he regained consciousness, there were four things he was immediately aware of.

The first – the most pressing – was the pain in his chest.

The second was the groans coming from either Bob or Jake – he didn't know which.

The third was the acrid smell of cordite, which filled the air and was almost choking him.

And the fourth was the sound of footsteps, as the men who had been standing in the doorway drew ever closer.

‘Mad Bob's still alive,' he heard one of the men say.

Yes, that was logical, Flynn's fevered mind thought irrelevantly. A man who was already lying on the ground had a much smaller chance of being hit by a fatal bullet than one who was presenting himself as an upright target.

‘Did yer hear what I said?' the assassin asked one of his companions. ‘Bob ain't dead.'

‘Well, yer can soon change that, can't yer?'

The part of Flynn's brain which was still working like a policeman's noted that, from their accents, they were probably from the Lower East Side, the natural training ground for this type of killing.

The closest man bent down – Flynn could just see him from the corner of his eye – placed his revolver against Bob's head, and pulled the trigger. Bob's legs kicked out convulsively – once – and then he was still.

Where's your gun? the policeman's brain screamed. You had it in your hand when you were shot – so it can't be far away now.

No, it couldn't be, could it, the rest of the brain agreed.

The pain, when he moved his arm, was almost unbearable, but by an effort of will he forced the arm to keep moving while the hand on the end of it groped on the dirt floor for his weapon.

Nothing to the right.

He would command the arm to undertake the epic journey to the left, he told himself, gritting his teeth.

Nothing to the left, either.

So that was it, then. The end of his mission – the end of his life!

‘What about the other guy?' the man who'd finished off Bob asked.

‘He ain't part of the deal.'

‘So do I put a bullet in him as well?'

‘Hell, I don't know – do what yer want.'

The first man looked down at Flynn. ‘Yer not part of the contract, so I guess this is yer lucky day, feller,' he said.

The three men turned and headed towards the door.

Left alone, Flynn wondered just how long it would take him to die.

NINETEEN

T
he bright morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the busy nurses, who were rushing up and down, in an almost angelic glow.

‘I'm not entirely happy about you talking to my patient, because he's still very weak,' the young doctor said, as he led Blackstone down the corridor.

‘But he
wants
to talk to me, doesn't he?' Blackstone countered.

‘Yes, indeed,' the doctor agreed. ‘He was most insistent on it. But if it seems to be too much of a strain on him—'

‘I'll leave immediately,' Blackstone promised.

They had passed a row of bustling public wards, and now entered an area of the hospital which seemed much more serene.

When they came to a halt in front of a door which looked as if it would be more at home in a medium-priced hotel than in a hospital, Blackstone said, with some surprise, ‘He's in a
private
room, is he?'

‘That is correct,' the doctor confirmed.

How the hell could Flynn afford a private room on
his
pay? Blackstone wondered.

He couldn't, unless, of course, he wasn't as straight as he pretended to be – unless he was just as corrupt as most of the other officers working for the NYPD.

‘He's not paying for the room himself,' said the doctor, as if reading the other man's mind.

‘No?'

‘No. While he was still in surgery, a messenger arrived with a plain envelope stuffed with cash and a note which said that Inspector Flynn was to be given the best care that money could buy. I suspect the anonymous donor was a concerned member of the public.'

Suspect what you like, Blackstone thought. I think I know
exactly
who the money came from.

The doctor opened the door, said, ‘Well, I've got a lot to do, so I'll leave you to it,' and was gone.

Flynn lay in the bed, looking very pale, and was swathed from neck to stomach in bandages.

‘Well, well, if it isn't the famous English detective,' he said weakly, by way of greeting.

‘You're lucky to be alive, you know,' Blackstone said. ‘It was a patrolman who'd heard the shooting who found you, and that was pure chance, because he shouldn't even have been in the area. The official line is that he was pursuing a suspect, but Alex Meade's theory is that he'd gone there to take advantage of the complementary service that the local whores feel obliged to provide for policemen.'

‘Piss on Meade's theory,' Flynn said, without rancour.

‘They took two bullets out of you, both of which came within half an inch of killing you,' Blackstone continued. ‘So, all in all, it really
does
look like it was your lucky day.'

‘The bastard who shot me said the same thing – and you're both wrong,' Flynn told him, wincing as he spoke. ‘If it
had
been my lucky day, I'd have been somewhere else when Bob and Jake got hit.'

‘The entire New York Police Department was told to look out for Tate and Thompson – so how is it that you're the one who found them?'

‘The cops in this city only do their job properly when there's something in it for them,' Flynn said. ‘Besides, the fact that the police were looking for them gave them a reason to hide – but I was offering them money, and that gave them a reason to come out.'

‘Do you want to start at the beginning?' Blackstone suggested.

‘Start
what
at the beginning?'

‘The story of how you became involved in all this.'

Flynn thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘Sure.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘My father came over to this country with nothing. He wanted to make a completely new start in the new world. He even changed his name from
Flynn
to
Fines
, because he thought that sounded better in business. Then, for the next twenty-five years, he worked like a dog, and at the end of that, he'd managed to get some capital behind him. Not a great deal, you understand, but enough.'

‘And he invested it with William Holt?' Blackstone guessed.

‘Indeed he did. And the day he learned he'd lost everything, he went out into the backyard and hanged himself. He didn't kill my mother, too, but he might as well have done, because she adored him, and six months later she was dead from grief herself.'

‘You were already a cop by then.'

‘Yes, I was – a sergeant.'

‘And you'd changed your name back to Flynn?'

‘The biggest mistake my father ever made was to trust William Holt,' Flynn said. ‘But the second biggest was to turn his back on his heritage. I'm
proud
to be Irish,' he added, defiantly.

‘And why wouldn't you be?' Blackstone asked. ‘I'm guessing that the day your father died, you made a promise to yourself.'

‘I did. I swore I'd get back at Holt for what he'd done to my father. I swore I'd build up a file on him that would send him to prison for the rest of his natural days. It became my sole purpose in life.'

‘You deliberately lost the evidence against Edward Knox, didn't you?'

‘Knox had tried to do something I didn't have the balls for myself – which was to kill Holt. It seemed to me that the least
I
could do for
him
was to make sure he didn't go to jail.'

‘And when Captain O'Shaugnessy wanted you posted away from Manhattan, you made sure you were sent to Coney Island – so you could continue your investigation?'

‘No,' Flynn said. ‘I got myself posted to Coney Island because I'm a dumb Mick – full of the romance of Ireland – who sometimes thinks he's living in the middle of a Gothic novel.'

‘You've lost me,' Blackstone confessed.

‘I wasn't making the case against Holt on
Coney Island
– I couldn't get near enough to him to do that. All the evidence I've built up has been collected in the city. But I
liked
living close to him, you see. I
liked
walking past that big house of his, and feeling the evil and greed emanating from the place.' Flynn grinned. ‘I
told
you I was a dumb Mick.'

‘How much evidence have you collected?'

‘More than enough to build up a watertight case against Holt. Fraud, bribery, theft, embezzlement, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice – it's all there in my dossier.'

‘And where is it now?'

‘I gave it to the District Attorney. He was over the moon about it. He's been polishing it up for the past month, and next week he was due to subpoena Holt to appear before the Grand Jury.'

‘Did Holt know that?'

Flynn snorted contemptuously. ‘The DA's office leaks like a sieve, so of course he knew.' He paused. ‘I can tell by the look on your face that you still don't understand.'

‘Understand what?'

‘That that subpoena is what this kidnapping was all about!'

‘You've lost me again.'

‘Holt knew that once he'd been arrested – once the cell door had closed behind him – they'd never let him out again. He had to disappear before that happened – and
that's
why he faked his own kidnapping.'

Jesus! Blackstone thought, how could the man be so right about so many things and yet put them all together and draw the totally wrong conclusion?

‘You've been through a hell of a time, and you're tired,' he said.

‘You don't believe me!' Flynn said, incredulously.

‘The best thing for you is to get some rest.'

‘You have to see that's what he's done,' Flynn said, frantic. ‘You have to understand that he's out there somewhere – laughing at us.'

‘Flynn got too close to it,' Blackstone said to Meade, as they shared a jug of beer in the nearest saloon to the hospital. ‘And when you get too close to a thing, you can see all the little details, but not the big picture.'

‘So you don't think there's any chance at all that he might be right, Sam?' Meade asked.

‘None,' Blackstone said firmly.

‘I don't think you should brush his ideas aside just like that,' Meade said hotly. ‘When a man nearly dies trying to prove a theory, that theory should be shown some respect.'

‘It was only yesterday that you were convinced it was Flynn himself who was behind the kidnapping,' Blackstone pointed out.

Meade looked down at the table. ‘Yeah, well, I was wrong,' he mumbled. His raised his head again, and looked Blackstone squarely in the eyes. ‘There was a part of me that always knew Flynn was a good cop,' he said. ‘There was a part of me which always suspected he was a better cop than
I
am.'

‘You kept that part of you well hidden,' Blackstone said.

‘And not just from you,' Meade conceded. ‘From myself, as well.' He paused again. ‘Do you know what it's like to have an influential father, Sam?'