Page 62 of Two Kinds of Stranger

Only problem was the coffee spill on one of the tables.

And the drip. . .drip. . .drip. .. onto the floor.

Logan gritted his teeth, tried to ignore it.

Sound can evoke powerful memories. For some, it’s a song–usually from childhood. For Logan, that particular sound brought back memories that he would rather stayed buried.

His mind flashed on an image.

Red.

So much red.

He shook his head, tossed a napkin onto that table to stem the dripping and listened hard.

The coffee shop was busy, like everywhere in the city, so listening in was more difficult. They kept their voices low and their eyes on the street. Logan was good at listening–part of his job. The man sitting with Flynn was about five-ten, wearing a creased white shirt, open at the collar, and a black suit, which could have used a press and dry-clean. His hair was curly and kind of wild, and he had a large shopping bag at his feet.

Logan caught some of their conversation. Enough to discern their relationship. The man was a private investigator. They had been looking for security footage to corroborate Elly’s story. They had found none so far. Logan knew their search would find nothing. He had been careful. It was clear from their conversation they were also looking for someone. A witness. The homeless man. They had spoken to two men and gotten a name.

Joseph Novak.

They had tried the VA. They would keep looking.

The homeless man was still eluding Logan’s efforts to find him. He was the only living witness who could corroborate Elly’s story. It was essential that this man disappear, permanently.

Now Logan had a name to go with the face. Joseph Novak had helped a woman in the street, a stranger who was in trouble. Who was sick.

He would pay for that act of kindness with his life.

An NYPD patrol car pulled up outside the Starbucks and it drew the attention of Flynn and his companion.

Just before they had come into the coffee shop, Logan had watched Flynn cover the windshield of a Ford Taurus with flyers, and Lake had removed and discarded the vehicle plates.

Shortly after, a tow truck arrived.

Flynn was a serious player.

Smart. A risky move to pull, but one where the risk could be assessed and minimized.

Logan leaned back in his seat, took a sip of espresso and smiled.

In all these years, he had never felt in any real danger. With this project, Elly had survived. And she had asked a stranger for help–Eddie Flynn.

This man, Flynn, was a clear threat. He would have to be neutralized.

And now, having bought him a cup of coffee, Logan knew Flynn’s weakness.

And exactly how to exploit it.

He opened the browser on his phone, accessed the public-records website and typed in Flynn’s name, paying the search fee on the credit card he’d saved to his phone. First, he searched birth records. There were not many Flynns in the database, and only one equating to Flynn’s approximate age. He paid the fee for the birth record, made a mental note of Flynn’s date of birth and then paid for another search. He had needed Flynn’s date of birth for a criminal records check.

No results.

He typed in Flynn’s name and date of birth into a general public records database, and paid another ninety-five dollars for a search.

Flynn had been married. Christine White. Birth records flagged his name again as the father of Amy Flynn. The last entry was for a divorce. Christine White and Eddie Flynn had gone their separate ways just two years ago.

Logan searched under the name Christine White.