Page 37 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

Logan

Logan entered the Wholefoods store, and took the escalator up one level to the Amazon lockers. He keyed in the PIN to the locker and retrieved his items, opened the packages and dropped the boxes in the recycling bin.

He placed the items in his backpack and returned to the street, stowing the bag in the trunk of his rental car before driving uptown.

The situation with Elly Parker had to be managed.

No loose ends.

Joe Novak, the homeless person who had helped Elly, was priority one.

He had spent every available minute searching for the man along street corners, in homeless and migrant encampments all over the city, and so far there was no sign of him.

Bloch and Lake, the investigators who worked for Flynn, were also looking for this man.

Logan was not a trained investigator. He was smart, but finding people who didn’t have an address was not something he had experienced.

It had felt hopeless, these past few days.

A day after Elly had been admitted to hospital, Logan had begun scouring that area of Manhattan, and when he didn’t spot the man he began to talk to other people who lived on the street, asking if they had seen him.

It would have been more useful to simply bang his head against a wall.

There are many mistakes and errors that can occur in planning a murder. Logan had covered most eventualities. Two elements had gone wrong in these murders.

Elly had survived.

And before she had gotten to the apartment she made contact, in Logan’s presence, with another human being: the homeless man whom she had given money.

He had seen Logan with Elly. After Elly managed to get out of his apartment before Logan could cut the cast off his leg, the homeless man had come to her aid.

Logan had made it down the stairs, and onto the street.

And he had seen the man leaning over Elly.

Asking other passers-by to call a paramedic.

Before Logan had turned and fled back upstairs to clear and clean the apartment, he had watched from the entrance to the building.

To this day, he didn’t know why, but Joe Novak had glanced up and seen Logan.

Not the genial, clumsy young man with the broken ankle and crutches.

The real Logan.

It was the last time Logan had seen Joe Novak. He had to leave the scene, clear the apartment. He would find the homeless man later.

But, so far, Logan had not laid eyes on him.

No one else in the city would remember Elly and Logan’s walk from Grand Central to his apartment. But this man, Novak, he would remember.

He had gone to extraordinary lengths to make the situation appear as a murder suicide to the police.

Elly surviving wasn’t a problem because no one would believe her.

But an independent witness corroborating Elly’s story about a man with a suitcase poisoning her, well, that changed things considerably.

He had to kill this man, Novak. Killing Elly would only raise suspicion.

Novak had to die, and because he lived in a different world his death could be explained by other means. The police weren’t looking for him, so his death could be because of a drug deal gone bad, a debt or a random encounter on the dark, dangerous streets of this city.

He drove around the city until it grew too dark to see the faces of those huddled on the sidewalks or doorways. Another day trawling the streets with nothing to show for it.

He wondered if Novak hadn’t gone into hiding. Perhaps something had happened to him.

His phone buzzed and he pulled over.

A text from Grace.

She enjoyed last night. Wanted to do it again.

She didn’t know yet, thought Logan. Grace hadn’t realized what he’d done.

She would find out, soon enough.

He drove to one of his apartments, the loft in Midtown.

Parked the car and took the elevator to the top.

Once inside, he told his home hub to play Beethoven.

While the music filled the sparse, industrial space, Logan went into the bedroom, laid out his clothes for the evening and the items he’d bought from Amazon.

A Wi-Fi blocker.

A radio jammer.

A large, soft make-up brush for applying foundation.

A small bottle of titanium dioxide powder.

A flashlight.

A powerful, tube-shaped magnet about six inches long.

A roll of trash bags.

A bottle of water.

Wet wipes.

And his lock picks.

Nothing here was illegal. It was all freely available to purchase from the world’s largest store. Apart from one item, of course.

A nine-millimeter Beretta. Just in case things went badly wrong.

Some years ago, Logan had arranged, through the dark web, to meet a man beneath a bridge in Brooklyn at three in the morning.

The man arrived in an old Cadillac, popped the lid of his trunk and showed Logan an array of handguns and small assault weapons.

They were ex-military hardware that had fallen off a cargo plane and miraculously lost their serial numbers when they landed.

Logan had chosen the Beretta, one extra magazine and a box of ammo.

He had yet to use the weapon, but he kept it well maintained and knew how to use it.

He exercised: pull-ups and push-ups, crunches and squats.

It had cost a quarter million dollars to install in his bathroom, but the plunge pool was Logan’s happy place.

He kept the temperature low – ice-bath low – and stayed in t hree minutes, until his hands began to shake.

Then he got out and into a hot shower. He scrubbed every inch of his body with a hard brush and soap to remove as much dead skin as possible.

When he was done, he stood in front of the mirror.

He didn’t look like a man, he thought.

His skin was red from the heat of the shower and the body scrub. He could have been a demon, born from flame.

He put on skintight Lycra leggings, and the same style long-sleeve shirt. This would cut down on the DNA from sweat that went into the black combat pants and black sweater. He would dispose of all his clothing afterwards, of course, but it paid to be careful.

He put on black socks and molded, flat-soled moccasins, the kind of footwear that leaves only a blank, foot-shaped print in soft earth.

No tread. Before he put on his balaclava, he rolled it up so it looked like a beanie, then placed it on his head.

Slowly, he packed his backpack, careful to make sure he had everything he needed.

It was time.

Logan parked a mile away from the home of Kevin Pollock and Christine White.

Past midnight.

While he waited, he roleplayed what he was about to do, and all the possible things that might go wrong.

Coming up on three thirty in the morning, the perfect time, he drove closer to the house and parked one street over, behind the property.

This was a main route into town, and the only thing on this street was a gas station two hundred yards away and a strip mall in the other direction, which was dark and long closed for the night.

A tall, thick hedge separated this street from the rear of Christine’s property, and, if his estimations from Google Earth were correct, he was parked precisely behind her backyard.

Logan plugged the Wi-Fi blocker into the twelve-volt port in the car using an adaptor.

The radio jammer had a USB, which he plugged into the socket beside the twelve-volt.

He turned the key to bring the battery to life, but didn’t ignite the engine, then hit the Wi-Fi icon on his phone and searched for nearby networks.

A couple of available networks showed up. One caught his interest.

The White House.

He smiled at that one, then touched the display to join. The phone display read internet available then asked him for a network key.

He switched on the radio jammer and the Wi-Fi blocker, waited for the lights on the displays to turn green and then checked the White House Wi-Fi network. The information below the network had changed.

No internet available.

He plugged wired earphones into his phone, and checked the app that accessed the FM tuner built into the device.

No signal.

Logan got out of the car, pulled the balaclava over his face and approached the tall hedges. Hunkering down, he spread the lower branches apart, closed his eyes and forced his way through.

On the other side, he found himself at the rear of the White property, in their backyard. The pristine lawn glistened in the moonlight, damp with dew. He hopped the fence separating the enclosed yard and approached the side of the house.

A double-glazed side window, closed and locked, had a decal with the name of the home-security system affixed to the glass.

Logan checked his phone.

No Wi-Fi, no radio signal.

Everyone likes to feel safe in their home. No one wants to have their walls and floors ripped up by security engineers laying cable and wiring to connect all of the motion sensors.

Wi-Fi and radio-signal security systems don’t need any of that intrusive work. They take a little more technical equipment than a pair of wire cutters, but they can be bypassed just as easily.

Logan put away his phone, pulled on his gloves and took the magnet out of the backpack.

He placed it over the window, in the exact position that corresponded with the lock mechanism, felt the pull of the magnet grabbing the lock, and then slid the magnet to his right and listened for the click of the mechanism unlocking.

He threw open the window, and climbed inside silently. No alarms. No sound.

The house was dark and silent.

He found himself in a hallway separating the rear lounge area from the kitchen.

He made his way to the kitchen, softly, silently, and clicked on his flashlight.

The lockbox containing Kevin’s pistol was high on a shelf that sat above a small kitchen dining table.

He reached for the lockbox. It had a nine-digit keypad.

He laid out some gear on the dining table. First, he peeled off a trash bag and opened it on the table. He put the lockbox inside, popped open the lid on the titanium dioxide powder and dipped the make-up brush inside. Carefully, gently, he brushed the keypad.

Titanium dioxide is found in a lot of products. Toothpaste, sunscreen and other cosmetics. In this powdered form, it was primarily used as dusting powder.

For fingerprints.

Shining his flashlight on the keypad, prints appeared on four of the numbered keys – 1, 5, 6, 7.

These were the four keys Kevin used to make up his combination.

By isolating those keys, he had just gone from a possible ten thousand different combinations, to sixty-five.

He didn’t have time to punch in sixty-five different combinations of those numbers.

He didn’t need to. Kevin would use a memorable combination.

Something he and his wife would easily remember.

Either Kevin’s date of birth, or Christine’s?

Logan thought back to the documents he had read, and in particular the supporting affidavit accompanying the motion to the court for the restraining order against Arthur Cross. This affidavit had given Kevin’s age. He was born in seventy-six.

Logan keyed in 1, 5, 7, 6.

Nothing.

He tried 5, 1, 7, 6.

The small green light on the keypad blinked. Kevin was born in seventy-six, the only thing he didn’t know was whether it was January or May.

Logan opened the lid, drew out the revolver. Checked the load.

He closed the lockbox, used the wet wipes to get rid of the dust, and then placed the lockbox back on the shelf, and the trash bag and wipes he returned to his backpack.

Not a sound in the house.

Logan walked upstairs, the revolver in his hand.

The first bedroom belonged to Amy. Her door was not fully shut.

He glanced down the hallway. The master bedroom at the end of the hall was closed.

Next to it was a dressing room. No more than a box room, it could perhaps have been used as a fourth bedroom, but it contained a make-up table and mirror, and his and hers closets.

He returned to Amy’s room and stood silently in the doorway.

Amy Flynn lay in bed. A soft, warm light glowed from a lamp on her nightstand. She lay on her side, facing the light.

Sound asleep.

Logan’s finger curled round the trigger of the revolver.

He felt the heat flood his cheeks, blood pumping through his adrenalized system, the excitement building, sweat soaking through his mask.

He slipped the bottle of water from the side pocket of his backpack.

An hour later, Logan pulled up outside the home of Arthur Cross.

He got out of the car, walked round to the trunk and paused to scan the street once again. He listened, hearing the sound of a car in the far distance. A light rain was falling. No lights were on in any of the windows of the neighborhood.

Arthur opened his front door, and beckoned Logan inside.

Logan placed his hand on the trunk of the car and smiled at Cross.

A white panel van sat in his driveway. Something Cross had discussed. He would use it to transport Amy Flynn to a quiet location.

Logan stepped away from the car and walked up the flagstone path to Arthur’s house.

‘Well?’ said Arthur, standing on his porch. He was different from the last time Logan had seen him. At first, he couldn’t quite work out what was different. His eyes were still black as a moonless night and his skin paper white.

But it was the still, almost deathly calm that was absent from Cross.

Sweat beaded his forehead. His leg shook. He was fidgeting.

Anxious with excitement.

‘Where is she? Is she in the trunk? Is she alive?’ he asked, all in one breath.

Logan stopped a few feet from Cross, smiled and said, ‘She’s alive.’

‘Did you have to kill the parents?’ asked Cross.

‘No, they’re still sleeping soundly in their beds, for all I know, so—’

‘Did anyone see you?’

Logan took a half-empty bottle of water from his jacket pocket. It was cold outside, but he was still a little dehydrated from his efforts. Adrenalin always made Logan sweat. He took a long drink, finishing the bottle.

‘No one saw me, but you didn’t let me finish. The parents are still asleep in their beds. So is Amy.’

‘What? Did something go wrong?’

‘I’m afraid, Arthur, everything went exactly as I’d planned.’

Logan calmly took Kevin’s revolver from his jacket pocket.

And shot Arthur Cross in the face.