Page 64 of Witness 8

She ran the faucet, fast.

Loud.

She slipped off her backpack.

Took an apron from it and slipped it over her head.

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying, Ruby. This is really confusing,’ said Esther, shaking her head.

Ruby took the five-pound hammer from the backpack and then set the bag on the floor.

She stepped closer to Esther, who had her elbows on the table. Her back to Ruby.

Raising her arms, Ruby swung the hammer high above her head.

‘I don’t know if I should trust you . . .’ said Esther.

Ruby took another step toward her.

‘I saw you, one day, talking to the picture in Alison’s house. The one with the cardinal. You were . . . whispering . . . to it. You want it, don’t you? I see you. You want the life my daughter enjoys – the money. But you’re not like us, Ruby. You can never be one of us. If you say my daughter or son-in-law are being manipulated – I don’t believe you. I want proof.’

Esther angled her body, to look behind.

Ruby took another step. She was close now. Just two feet away. Esther must’ve sensed her approach.

She froze as she saw Ruby with the hammer.

‘I wasn’t whispering to it. I was listening. He tells me things, the red priest. He’s very bad, you see. Mostly, I just do what I’m told . . .’

Esther tried to get up, but her legs caught beneath the table and it lifted an inch off the ground before she lost her balance. She fell back on the seat, then tried to stand and twist out of the chair, desperate to move, to get away.

As the hammer hit the back of Esther’s skull, Ruby continued to talk.

‘He told me I had to kill you. This isn’t my fault. This is your fault. You could’ve really messed things up for me.’

She raised the hammer. Let it swing down again.

The left rear chair leg buckled with the force of Esther’s body being pummeled. The chair collapsed, sending Esther to the floor.

She was already dead.

24

Mr. Christmas

At eight thirty, on a hot Tuesday morning, Mr. Christmas sat behind the wheel of his black Lincoln Continental and watched Eddie Flynn and Harry Ford enter the lobby of the Cardozo Hotel. This was his first time seeing Flynn in the flesh. Up until now he had studied photographs only – pictures taken by newspaper photographers. He had seen pictures of Flynn, his partner Kate Brooks, mentor Harry Ford and their detective, Bloch. Today, he hoped to get a flavor of the real people.

He had researched his target. It didn’t matter that Mr. Christmas was paid for his craft – ending a life was never merely business, particularly for his victims.

Murder was always personal.

The more he delved into Flynn and his history, the more intriguing the man had become. There were even odd parallels to Mr. Christmas’s own life. Flynn was a man with a foot in two worlds. He was, by all accounts, a gifted trial lawyer. His past, however, was much more interesting. The son of a small-time grifter, Flynn had followed that same path, but excelled as a con artist. His quick wit and cunning allowed him to build his own reputation in the criminal underworld with the moniker Eddie Fly. Like so many brought up underprivileged with a criminal parent, he practically inherited a life of crime. His childhood friend Jimmy Fellini, whom he’d met in Mickey Hooley’s Boxing Club, was now head of the Italian crime families in New York.Everything pointed to Flynn making a mistake and ending up serving a nickel in one of the state’s less salubrious prisons. But something had happened before his luck ran out.

Flynn had turned away from being a con artist and went back to school. Passed the bar exam and clerked for the man who was now his best friend – former Judge Harry Ford. This was a turning point in Flynn’s life, and the reasons behind it were not clear for Mr. Christmas. Most of the men in his line of work just focused on finding a target. That was not enough for him. Their location was important, but knowing who they were, how they behave and how they react to certain situations was essential. It was, to him, the difference between knowing where one can find a piano, and being able to sit down at the instrument and play Chopin.

He wondered what Flynn was doing. Judging by the news articles he could find, Flynn was in the middle of a major case, defending brain surgeon John Jackson in a murder trial. The victim was a minor celebrity and aging Manhattan socialite. That bought the case some column inches, as did the location of the murder – West 74thStreet – a notably high-end neighborhood in a city full of high-end neighborhoods. Interestingly, Jackson’s mother-in-law had been found murdered just a few days ago, and a young woman arrested. There was much more going on than appeared on its surface.

Perhaps Flynn was meeting a witness. The Cardozo Hotel has an exclusive club for dining and drinks, frequented by bankers, business types, lawyers and general high rollers. The cost of membership ensured only the very rich and elite were allowed to join. Flynn wasn’t in that class, but he had been to see the concierge and booked a room for the night.