Page 44 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)
Lake
Flynn had been right.
Goddamn it, thought Lake.
Flynn was always right.
The lady in the HOME-STAT office who Lake had talked to would not give out any information on the last known whereabouts for Joe Novak.
But the HOME-STAT survey-taker Lake found on the corner of East 13 th Street and Second Avenue, soaked to the skin in the heavy rain, was just the right kind of guy.
His coat sleeve was ripped and his boots were held together with tape.
He took the five hundred, made two phone calls and then told Lake to check East 20 th Street and Avenue C, in one of the tented villages beneath the FDR.
Within the hour, Lake had made it to the underpass, a concrete patch of shelter from the ribbon of blacktop that was the FDR overhead.
There were maybe forty people, some huddled around tents, some crowded around burning oil barrels for warmth.
It was a dismal sight. Lake parked his Pontiac Aztek across the street, flipped up the collar of his raincoat and got out of the car.
He didn’t lock it. No need. Only somebody with a wicked sense of humor would steal this car.
It was a bad car when it came out of the factory and twenty years and eighty thousand miles had not added to its charm.
Lake’s right foot went ankle deep in a puddle as he crossed the street. Didn’t matter. He had been out in this rain for an hour or more and his feet were already soaking with freezing rain.
As he made his way through the village of people, he felt an overwhelming sadness.
This wasn’t right. In one of the richest countries in the world, it was a disgrace that people didn’t have a home, or food, or healthcare as a basic right.
He passed a woman sitting outside a tent with a shawl around her head, leaving only her weathered face exposed.
The sun in the summer and the cold winter winds ate through people’s skin, aging them, and beating down more than just their bodies.
Sleeping on a sidewalk will damage your psyche just as much as your spine.
The hard streets of New York break your bones, your heart and your dreams.
‘Ma’am, my name is Gabriel Lake. I’m looking for a man named Joe Novak. He’s a veteran and he’s in trouble. I’m trying to get him some help,’ said Lake, holding out a five-dollar bill.
A hand shot out of the shawl, grabbed the cash. She beckoned for him to come closer.
‘He’s over there, standing around the fire with his pal, Romy,’ said the woman, and then a hacking cough cut off all further communication. But the arm did appear again, to point in the direction of the burning barrel.
There were four fire barrels going, but only one in the direction the woman had pointed. Lake thanked her, and made his way to the two guys standing around it, warming their hands with the flames, which licked orange and amber light into their faces.
They both looked suspicious of Lake. Both wore heavy overcoats.
Hard to tell in this light what color they were.
Both wore thick scarves wrapped round their necks and over their faces, to keep out the cold.
One wore an I NYC ball cap. The other, a beanie pulled tight over his ears.
They stood side by side and Lake could see their eyes narrowing and hardening as he approached.
It was the only part of their faces he could see.
‘Evening, my name is Gabriel Lake. I work for Eddie Flynn, the lawyer. You might have heard of him. He’s representing a young woman accused of murder.
I think one of you guys might have seen this young lady before.
Even helped her. Probably saved her life.
Someone tried to kill her and then framed her for murder.
The man I’m looking for can save her life again. This is Elly.’
He held up his phone, showing Elly’s profile picture from social media.
‘Which one of you guys is Joe Novak?’
They looked at each other for a moment. Something unspoken passed between them.
The man in the beanie hat asked, ‘Are you a cop?’
‘I used to be a fed. I spoke to a couple of your buddies, Pat and Sean. They said there was some other guy looking for you. Someone who was pretending to be a cop. It was Pat and Sean that gave me your name and told me to go look for you around the veteran’s center.’
The man in the beanie hat said, ‘I’m surprised at Pat. Sean, he was never good at keeping his mouth shut.’
‘So you’re Joseph Novak?’ said Lake.
‘I don’t want to talk here. I could use some coffee and a place to get warm.’
‘Sure,’ said Lake.
The man stepped away from the fire barrel, came round and fell into step beside Lake.
‘Is there somewhere around here you want to go? Or I could drive us somewhere?’ said Lake.
‘There’s an all-night diner two blocks away. You can drive. Get us out of this rain,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t mind the cold. It’s the rain that really beats me all to . . . ’
The sound of Joe’s voice drifted off for a second as Lake’s attention snapped away to something else.
He noticed a dark sedan coming through the traffic lights.
There was little traffic in this part of the city even at rush hour.
Less at this time of night in this weather.
The sedan was pointed right at them. It had its full beam headlights on, so it was impossible to see the license plate.
Lake tensed. Already cold and wet, an electric shiver started at the base of his spine and traveled up his back.
As the car turned left, maybe forty feet from them, Lake saw the passenger-side front window roll down.
The rain was unrelenting. The driver wouldn’t be buzzing down the window for fresh air.
Lake’s instincts took over.
He stepped in close to Joe, shoulder tackling him hard just as the driver popped off his first round. Lake could see the muzzle flash illuminating the interior of the car. It was impossible to make out the driver in the dark.
Five more flashes. Five cracks echoing through the air.
Lake landed on his left side, close to Joe’s feet.
The sedan sped away. Engine revving high.
Lake reached for his pistol, but his right arm screamed back at him.
He’d been hit, just below the elbow. He hadn’t even felt the round tear his flesh. Now, he gazed at the cuff of his shirt. It turned red as the blood running down his arm seeped through.
Lake turned and crawled over to Joe Novak, who lay on his left side.
Unmoving.
Lake rolled him over. It was too damn dark to see beneath the overpass.
‘Joe? Joe? Are you hit?’
Joe’s eyes were open. Unblinking.
Lake pulled the scarf away, saw a smear of blood on Joe’s lips.
With his left hand, he took out his pocket flashlight and turned it on Joe. Blood was pooling on his chest and throat. Lake wiped it away, looking for the wound, and found two at the top of his chest.
‘Joe? Joe?’
Blood was still pumping from the wounds. Lake took the scarf and did his best to staunch the bleed with one hand, while his fingers trembled and his own blood ran over the screen on his phone as he dialed 911.
The other man came running over. Knelt down beside Joe as Lake asked for a paramedic and police.
The other man cupped Joe’s face, said, ‘He’s dead. Oh my God, he’s dead.’
Lake took the scarf away, listened for a pulse, checked Joe’s breathing.
Nothing.
He started CPR. Told the man to put pressure on the wounds, but not to get in his way.
With every chest compression, Lake felt another jet of blood pumping from his arm. He felt faint and sick. Like he wanted to vomit. But he pushed through, counting off the compressions, then giving Joe mouth to mouth.
Minutes felt like hours. And there was no sign of the paramedics.
Lake’s vision blurred. He lost count of the chest compressions.
Gave mouth to mouth. Then pumped Joe’s chest again.
‘He’s dead,’ said the other homeless guy.
Lake could hear the sirens getting closer. Sweat and rain stung his eyes. His arm screamed and Lake told himself to stay with it. To keep going. To save this guy. Lake knew he wasn’t just trying to save one life – Elly Parker’s life was in the balance too.
Suddenly, Lake couldn’t hold himself upright. His vision clouded and he collapsed beside Joe. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes wouldn’t stay open.
Before the darkness took him, he heard the other homeless man in the cap say something weird. At first, he couldn’t understand it. It was such a strange thing to say.
‘It’s the kindness that kills you,’ said the homeless man.