by Andy Straka
A Witness Above
ANDY STRAKA
ISBN 978-0-9841317-4-7
Copyright © Andy Straka. 2010
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either arc the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design e-book edition: Mayapriya Long, Bookwrights
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Also by Andy Straka
A Killing Sky
Cold Quarry
Record Of Wrongs
Kitty Hitter
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
William Hoffman, Virginia novelist and farmer, says you don't write books—you grow them. I have found his words to be true, even for a first-timer's little detective story. I've also found trusted readers can provide soaking rain and abundant sunshine when needed, and I owe many thanks to the friends and colleagues who supported me in the creation of this book.
Frank McCraw and Ellen Whitener suffered through whole drafts or early chapters, as did fellow authors and writers Deborah Prum, Ken Elzinga, Mike and Sarah Dowling, Lucy Russell, Jennifer Elvgren, and Kate Hamilton. Jane Rafal pointed me in the right direction. Bob Brackett helped with some of the forensics. Police chaplain John Kuebler provided great insight into the psychology of officer shootings and their aftermath. Jon Davey gave valuable input about legal issues. I also appreciate the early assistance of the British School of Falconry in Manchester, VT, and the Falconry and Raptor Education foundation of White Sulphur Springs, WV, for allowing me to spend time with their falconers. Thank you to Lee Chichester for her insights into hawk husbandry. Thank you to special friends Dr. Randy and Carolyn Bond, Birch Martin, Dr. Bill and Cam Hammill. Bro and Dr. JoAnn Pinkerton, Michael and Meggan McPadden, and screenwriter, novelist, and buddy Michael Martin for all their prayers and support. I am particularly grateful to falconers extraordinaire, Mark and Lorrie Westman, who read the manuscript and provided crucial technical input; grateful as well to a wonderful agent, Sheree Bykofsky, who not only lent her insight to the writing but encouraged me through an important revision. Finally, my editor, Joe Pittman, and his assistant Annette Riffle, deserve commendation for making this a much better work in the end.
I wish to dedicate this book to my family: to twin brother, John, for his early encouragement of my stories; to Chris and Kelci for loving and believing in their dad; and most of all, to Bonnie, whose love, vision, and devotion, not to mention superhuman grammatical expertise, sustains me.
Our soul is escaped as a bird
out of the snare of the fowlers:
the snare is broken,
and we are escaped.
PSALM 124:7
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prolouge
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Prologue
Either homeboy had wigged out on us or forgotten his blue-faced, oyster shell Rolex. Better yet, rather than finger one of his own for murder, he had decided he preferred to perpetuate his still young life.
The snow could have been confetti the way it swirled in the glow from the streetlights and skittered across the hood of the unmarked. I blew on my frozen hands to stave off the numbness. Toronto, on the passenger side, nursed a tepid foam cup. We both stared down the street at the upper-floor windows of a darkened two-family, its sagging porch clashing badly with the well-tended look-alikes on either side. The block was out of our jurisdiction, off North Avenue in New Rochelle. Son of Sam territory from a decade before, a mixed commercial and residential neighborhood, tony section of Pelham a few hundred yards over the hill.
“It's getting colder. You wanna call it a night?”
Jake Toronto looked more like a club bouncer than a detective. Short but linebacker broad, his ample shoulders shaped his turtleneck beneath an unbuttoned Knicks jacket. Narrow cheekbones looked out of proportion to the rest of him: a Roman nose, close-cropped black hair, and deep-set eyes. An aura of menace mixed with Old Spice seemed to surround him. He left you with the impression something boiled just beneath the surface with which you would not wish to contend.
I didn't answer.
“Game's on from L.A.,” he said. “I could still catch the second half.”
I still didn't answer.
We had been chasing down leads about a series of drive-bys, thought to be gang-related, one of which had, perhaps mistakenly, taken out a popular Bronx school principal and her son. The young man we were supposed to be meeting called himself Jazz, although his real name was Jesse. He lived in the house with his mother and was supposed to know one of the shooters. We had already rung the bell and peeked through the curtains. Twice.
“C'mon, Frank. You think these guys keep day-timers? This kid ain't gonna drop no dime tonight.”
“What about the mother? She said they'd both be here.”
“The sister's probably out smoking juju somewhere, doesn't even know what year it is.”
“Maybe.” But I kept staring at the house. Toronto's instincts had proven accurate on more than one occasion, but sometimes if you pushed a little harder, stayed a little longer, and asked a little more … “Let's give it five more minutes.”
He sighed and leaned forward with his hands cupped around his coffee as if in prayer.
The wind picked up. A wheezing sound vibrated through the glass and for a moment I thought I heard another noise, distant and indistinct. I looked at Toronto, who remained still, his eyes focused on the house down the street. A minute later, the radio suddenly squawked.
“N-Y-P-D, New Rochelle.”
“What now?” Toronto rolled his eyes then buried his face in his hands. Normally, we might not have taken the time to inform the locals of our presence, but we had suffered a little incident out on the Island the month before and didn't want a repeat performance. I picked up the mike.
“Go ahead.”
“Officer needs assistance. Three blocks east of your location. Shots fired!”
The line of expletives from Toronto was a mile long, but I was too busy re-starting
the car and jerking it into an improvised three-point turn to pay attention to what he said.
“Copy, New Rochelle. We're on our way.”
The engine growled. I got the beacon out and attached it to the roof. Toronto's talk morphed into stony silence. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed him check his weapon and, with his other hand, pulverize what was left of his empty cup.
We passed through two intersections with their signals glowing red, but luckily no cross traffic. Ninety seconds later we screeched to a halt in front of a New Rochelle cruiser double-parked outside a vacant brick apartment house that appeared to be under renovation. The driver's side door of the patrol car hung open and an officer crouched behind the fender, his weapon pointed at the building.
Two large Dumpsters, filled with construction debris, stood between the empty structure and the street. The power appeared to have been cut off to the area—the lighting was no good. But it was good enough to make out the officer's partner lying on the pavement in a growing pool of blood.
A couple more rounds went off and the patrolman behind the fender returned fire into the dark. Ducking low, I followed Toronto out his protected side. We shuffled over to the officer.
“Pavlicek and Toronto, NYPD. What do you got?”
“Shooter's in the building. Looks like two of ‘em. I couldn't tell for sure.”
“What happened?”
His look stayed fixed on the building. “We saw a deal going down. Chased ‘em down the street into here. They took out my partner.”
He was a Frigidaire of a man, older than either Jake or I—clearly no rookie. For a patrol officer he didn't look to be in the best of shape. His coat was unbuttoned.
Steam flared from his nostrils. His jaw was rigid and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, almost seemed to be fighting back tears.
Jake and I made our way over to the prostrate figure. “Jesus,” Jake said under his breath. The downed officer's name badge read: Singer. He had taken a shot or two to the face and appeared to have stopped breathing. One of us would need to start CPR, not that it looked like it would do much good. Plus, we had the immediate threat from across the street. Sirens could be heard in the distance, and it would be at least a couple more minutes before their arrival.
The building had gone quiet now. Maybe the shooters were reassessing their odds.
I scrambled back to the other officer. “What kind of firepower we up against?”
His name was Cahill, according to the tag. He breathed heavily, sweat dripping from his nose despite the cold, and kept his weapon pointed at the dark.
“Fuckers got automatics,” he said. His own gun was a Glock. “I picked up this little number myself. Backup to the mags they give us. ‘Bout goddamned time someone evened up the odds out here.”
I couldn't have agreed more. A guy like him, working dogwatch, needed to protect himself. I had made the switch to a semiautomatic myself, not wanting to wait for official sanction. Toronto still preferred his monster .45—if it came down to it, he'd need only one clear shot to put somebody down.
I hoped it wouldn't have to come to that, but we were living every cop's nightmare: An officer wounded. Hostile armed suspects. In the dark.
Toronto took up position at the back of the cruiser while I moved around behind the unmarked. The sirens in the distance grew a little louder. We could wait it out until help arrived—we still weren't really sure what we were up against—but Singer's life was clearly ebbing away.
Another burst of shots pop-pop-popped from the building. Several cut branches in the tree limbs hanging overhead.
“You're outgunned now,” I shouted toward the building. “Let's not make this any worse than it already is.”
Silence.
“Drop your weapons and come out with your hands where we can see them.”
Still nothing.
I thought I saw a shadow of movement between the Dumpsters. Then, at the side of the building, where the light was a little better, two figures turned and started to run.
I had the better angle. “Stop where you are and put your hands in the air!”
They kept going. I fired a warning round over their heads. One of the figures ignored the shot and darted into the shadows, but the other one stopped without raising his hands—he kept them at his side as he turned to face us. There was something dark and metallic in one of them—it looked just like one of our Glocks; not surprising since the gangs had them before we did.
“Drop the weapon!” I said.
Toronto was moving into position beside me. Cahill took another shot at the still-fleeing suspect but missed.
“I said, drop the weapon!”
He took a step into better light, a black teenager wearing a sweatsuit with high-top sneakers and down vest, wide-eyed in fear.
“Don't do it, my man,” Toronto muttered beneath his breath. “Don't do it.”
But his weapon arm rose, clearly pointing in our direction.
The strange thing was, the actual act of pulling the trigger felt no different than pumping rounds into targets on the range. Toronto and I had trained for a moment like this, been prepared for that horrible instant when a decision must be made—kill or be killed—but when the time actually arrived, the response was more knee-jerk than contemplative. We fired almost simultaneously. The teen slumped to the ground.
No time to think about what had happened. Officer Cahill was already out in front, hot-footing toward the downed shooter, a ballsy move since the kid was still armed.
“I'm on the runner,” I said to Jake. “You better start CPR.”
My best chance was to cut around the side of the building and try to head the kid off before he made it back to the avenue. I sprinted around the front and swam into darkness on the other side, tripping over a pile of torn insulation. One streetlight illuminated the fence at the back of the lot, which allowed me to catch a glimpse of him just as he hurdled the chain-link. This one looked to be bigger than his companion, probably faster, and he looked like he knew where he was going. I was in decent shape, but I would need every bit of stamina I owned to have any chance of running him down.
The supine image of Singer drove me—it could have just as easily been me lying there. I didn't care who the runner was, where he came from or who his parents were. I didn't think about what socioeconomic rung he or his family or friends were hung up on, or the prejudices, real and otherwise, mounted against him.
I was at the fence in a few seconds. On the other side a poorly-lit parking lot backed a small commercial building. There were houses lining the rest of the street, however, lights blazing in a few windows: people awakened, no doubt, by all the shooting, phoning 911 or just sitting tight waiting for something to happen, not wanting to get involved. The snow blew almost horizontally now, mixed with sleet that stung my face. The rest of me had gone numb.
I sprinted across the lot. Too slow. The shooter was maybe a hundred yards distant now, knifing between parked cars in front of a row of bungalows. My last glimpse of him came as he ducked between bushes across someone's back lawn. The place was almost totally dark; he could have gone any one of three different directions from in there.
Reaching the spot, I watched and waited a few minutes for any sign: footfalls, a clothesline rattling, a dog barking. Nothing. Within a quarter hour uniforms and cruisers would be crawling all over the area, beaming bright lanterns and interviewing neighbors, all to no avail.
Back by the Dumpsters, support had begun to arrive in force: three or four NRPD squad cars, an ambulance and paramedics leaping to the pavement. Jake, blood soaking his turtleneck, was still working on Singer with another officer assisting. Cahill limped toward me, looking anxious—for the first time I noticed he had been wounded in the leg.
“How's your partner?” I said.
“Don't know. It don't look good. Singer's got a …” He stared blankly into the sidewalk.
“I'm sorry.”
He didn't move for a few seconds. T
hen he looked up and refocused on me. “I don't know, but listen, detective, we got problems.”
“What do you mean?”
Another officer, a woman, tried to approach and enter the conversation. “Cat, we've—”
He waved her away. “Give us a second, will you?”
“But, Cat—”
“Give us a goddamned second!”
She stared at us then retreated to go help with Singer.
Cahill lowered his voice. “What I mean is, I know this kid you guys put down. He's from the neighborhood, only fourteen.”
I nodded, only half-listening.
“What I'm trying to say, this was a good kid … and … well …” He handed something to me. “This is what I found in his hand.” It looked like a piece of drainage pipe, the inside stuffed with nickel bags.
“Where's the Glock?” I said.
“What Glock?”
“The kid's.”
He shook his head. “No gun.”
My gut tightened. I stared at him. “But I saw him raise the weapon. Jake must have seen it too. We …”
He pursed his lips and shook his head again.
My head began to swirl and I closed my eyes. Why hadn't I listened to Toronto? Why did I always have to push things? Jake could have been watching his game right now, or maybe we could have stopped for pie and coffee at the Thruway Diner. Why hadn't I just taken us home?
“Hey, listen, detective—it's Pavlicek, right? You said your name was Pavlicek.”
I nodded dumbly. An ambulance was arriving now, siren screaming.
The big man's eyes blazed with a sudden intensity. “It may be too late for Singer, but you all saved my ass. I got a throw-down in the car. You fellas say the word and it's done.”
I continued to look at him, but my mind was reeling now, somewhere else, away from this madness, somewhere safe and warm. Down the block a TV van was already turning into view. There was a big empty billboard attached to a building on the corner with words that read: APPLE MACINTOSH. THINK DIFFERENT.
