The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella Read Online Free
Author: Steve Cavanagh
fast-food chain that sold ten-dollar hamburgers was opening up in place of Pete’s. Things change.
I took off my jacket, bought myself a butter pecan cone from the ice cream stall, and took a seat on a bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park. The dying sun wet my shirt, and I loosened my tie. There was only one thing on my mind—money. What information did Internal Affairs have, and how much would it cost?
One thing I knew for certain: The cops were keeping tabs on me. Somebody was looking for my name in the computer, in the custody records. If Marzone or one of his pals was responsible for that, well, Internal Affairs was also watching—they knew I was in the precinct tonight, they knew what car I drove, and they were careful to make the approach out of sight.
I took another bite from my cone as I had a terrible thought. What if it wasn’t Internal Affairs who wanted to meet me? What if Marzone was setting me up for something? As quick as the thought occurred to me, I dismissed it. If Marzone wanted to threaten me, he would do it straight up. No charade, no phone calls. He wasn’t that kind of operator.
A cherry-red Chevy pulled up under the old restaurant sign. Most senior IAB officers got to choose their own car, instead of the dross of Crown Vics in the pool. Perks of being in the rat house. One more reason to believe this was a genuine approach from Internal Affairs. The female driver got out, carrying a folded newspaper. Shades, long brown hair, blue jeans, and denim shirt to match. Her clothes looked tight on an athletic frame. A bulge on her left hip said she was carrying her police-issue Glock. She bought a cone and sat down beside me on the bench. No perfume. Just a clean smell, as if she’d just stepped out of a bath.
It was getting dark. Coming up on eight o’clock. I was tired and wanted to go home. The last of the ferry passengers gathered to my right, ready to board the vessel. I was about tospeak, but the woman cut me off. Her mouth hidden behind her newspaper, she said, “Keep your eyes on the ground. We’re being watched. If you look at me, or speak to me, you’ll likely take a bullet. If you want to know how it really went down for Chilli Hernandez, take the next ferry. It sails in seven minutes. Be quick, and you might just make it. Don’t stop for anyone. Go, right now.”
Chapter Four
I couldn’t move.
Legs frozen. My mouth filled with the last of the ice cream cone. Wiping my hands on a napkin, I made sure to keep my eyes low. Suddenly I didn’t have the will to stand. That small physical act seemed way beyond me, as if my legs were born two minutes ago. My throat clung to the ice cream cone, like it was constricting around it, getting ready to strangle me before I could get myself shot.
Hand on the armrest. Ready to move. Jell-O kneecaps and trembling fingers.
A wave of adrenaline took me to my feet, and I made for the ticket machine. The glass surrounding the vending machine was frosted, and I couldn’t check my tail. As I fed four one-dollar bills into the slot, I accessed the camera on my cell phone, flipped the camera view so that it displayed a mirror image. I slowly angled it around.
The camera gave me a pretty good rear view. Tourists in shorts and tees. Cyclists. Families. Construction workers digging up the sidewalk on the other side of Furman Street. Lifting my ticket, I turned and made for Pier 1. An old barge had been converted into a restaurant and bar, with live music every night. I passed it and picked up my pace. The ticket agents were waving passengers onto the East River Ferry. The engines were growing louder, revving up to begin their journey. One last check over my shoulder before I broke into a full sprint. I saw one man maybe fifty feet behind me, also jogging for the ferry. He wore navy pants, a gray shirt, and a light sports coat. As his pace increased, the wind blowing off the river blew open his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster for a handgun that sat
I took off my jacket, bought myself a butter pecan cone from the ice cream stall, and took a seat on a bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park. The dying sun wet my shirt, and I loosened my tie. There was only one thing on my mind—money. What information did Internal Affairs have, and how much would it cost?
One thing I knew for certain: The cops were keeping tabs on me. Somebody was looking for my name in the computer, in the custody records. If Marzone or one of his pals was responsible for that, well, Internal Affairs was also watching—they knew I was in the precinct tonight, they knew what car I drove, and they were careful to make the approach out of sight.
I took another bite from my cone as I had a terrible thought. What if it wasn’t Internal Affairs who wanted to meet me? What if Marzone was setting me up for something? As quick as the thought occurred to me, I dismissed it. If Marzone wanted to threaten me, he would do it straight up. No charade, no phone calls. He wasn’t that kind of operator.
A cherry-red Chevy pulled up under the old restaurant sign. Most senior IAB officers got to choose their own car, instead of the dross of Crown Vics in the pool. Perks of being in the rat house. One more reason to believe this was a genuine approach from Internal Affairs. The female driver got out, carrying a folded newspaper. Shades, long brown hair, blue jeans, and denim shirt to match. Her clothes looked tight on an athletic frame. A bulge on her left hip said she was carrying her police-issue Glock. She bought a cone and sat down beside me on the bench. No perfume. Just a clean smell, as if she’d just stepped out of a bath.
It was getting dark. Coming up on eight o’clock. I was tired and wanted to go home. The last of the ferry passengers gathered to my right, ready to board the vessel. I was about tospeak, but the woman cut me off. Her mouth hidden behind her newspaper, she said, “Keep your eyes on the ground. We’re being watched. If you look at me, or speak to me, you’ll likely take a bullet. If you want to know how it really went down for Chilli Hernandez, take the next ferry. It sails in seven minutes. Be quick, and you might just make it. Don’t stop for anyone. Go, right now.”
Chapter Four
I couldn’t move.
Legs frozen. My mouth filled with the last of the ice cream cone. Wiping my hands on a napkin, I made sure to keep my eyes low. Suddenly I didn’t have the will to stand. That small physical act seemed way beyond me, as if my legs were born two minutes ago. My throat clung to the ice cream cone, like it was constricting around it, getting ready to strangle me before I could get myself shot.
Hand on the armrest. Ready to move. Jell-O kneecaps and trembling fingers.
A wave of adrenaline took me to my feet, and I made for the ticket machine. The glass surrounding the vending machine was frosted, and I couldn’t check my tail. As I fed four one-dollar bills into the slot, I accessed the camera on my cell phone, flipped the camera view so that it displayed a mirror image. I slowly angled it around.
The camera gave me a pretty good rear view. Tourists in shorts and tees. Cyclists. Families. Construction workers digging up the sidewalk on the other side of Furman Street. Lifting my ticket, I turned and made for Pier 1. An old barge had been converted into a restaurant and bar, with live music every night. I passed it and picked up my pace. The ticket agents were waving passengers onto the East River Ferry. The engines were growing louder, revving up to begin their journey. One last check over my shoulder before I broke into a full sprint. I saw one man maybe fifty feet behind me, also jogging for the ferry. He wore navy pants, a gray shirt, and a light sports coat. As his pace increased, the wind blowing off the river blew open his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster for a handgun that sat
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