While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2)

by David DeLee

He gave her a look like are-you-kidding. “Ever draw your gun while at IA?”

  “Dykeman was a cop. I could have just as easily been working that case from an IA angle as homicide,” she argued.

  “Whalen bent over backwards to give you a slot…”

  He let the statement hang.

  “I spoke with the captain,” she said. “He supported my decision.”

  “What was he going to do? Fight Sparks to keep you?”

  Spenser Greene, known to almost everyone as Sparks, was a captain in the Internal Affairs Bureau and Levy’s commanding officer. As captain of an IA unit, Sparks reported directly to the Deputy Commissioner of Internal Affairs. He was one step away from the PC’s inner circle. That made the short man a very powerful person in the NYPD hierarchy.

  “Whalen burned up a lot of political capital to get you assigned to us. He wasn’t going to torch what he had left fighting Sparks to keep you.”

  She pushed her plate away. “He told you that?”

  Flynn ate the last piece of his waffle, dripping with syrup and egg yolk. “He didn’t have to. I’ve been a cop long enough to know how the politics works.”

  He was coming up on twenty years, the point where his pension would kick in and he could start thinking about retiring. Or stay on and essentially work for half pay. Levy had about half that length of service in.

  “I…I didn’t know.”

  Flynn pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off two twenties and a five. He dropped the money on the table and stood up. “That’s why you should have talked to me first. I could have told you.”

  He looked toward the kitchen behind the counter and called out. “It was great. Thanks.”

  A big-bellied chef in a greasy white apron waved a spatula at him. From the waitress, Flynn ordered a couple of hot coffees to go.

  At the door, before they left, Levy said, “I didn’t tell you because—” She pulled her trench coat on and cinched the belt around her thin waist. “—I was afraid you’d talk me out of it.”

  He held the door open. “I would have tried.”

  He’d parked their unmarked Dodge Charger at the corner. They waited as lukewarm air blasted through the vents, fogging the windshield. At first making it impossible to see out of before it slowly cleared. When he could see, he pulled out into traffic.

  The windshield wipers slapped with an intermittent thud as they drove east in the misty rain the few blocks from the diner to the Office of the City Medical Examiner’s Office on First Avenue. Once more engulfed in awkward silence and with the taste of Belgium waffles, bacon, and warm maple syrup fresh on his taste buds, Flynn sipped his takeout coffee, drove, and dreaded the task at hand. One of the hardest parts of doing homicide work was dealing with the close friends and families of the victims. The pain these people went through was beyond heart-wrenching. It was made that much worse when it was the grief of a parent facing the death of a child.

  Often, the families, the friends, they looked to the cops for answers. To give them closure, some measure of relief, and so often they got neither. But when the victim was dead because of a cop...at the hands of a cop. What comfort could he and Levy offer this parent?

  Suddenly the coffee he’d been enjoying soured his stomach, leaving a bitter, hard taste in his mouth.

  Office of the Chief Medical Examiner

  520 First Avenue

  Midtown East, Manhattan

  Monday, November 27th 10:25 a.m.

  HE DROPPED THE HALF-FILLED coffee cup back into the cup holder and turned onto 13th Street where he miraculously found a curbside parking spot. He eased the unmarked car into the space. Not that anyone would mistake the battered, midnight blue Charger with the cage between the seats and the whip antenna as anything but a cop car, Flynn put the NYPD placard on his dashboard anyway.

  The corner building was surrounded on both sides by construction scaffolding that cast the sidewalk in shadow and chilled the already crisp fall air. Left-over rain sluiced from the barriers like water falls. Cars honked and rushed by faster than could be considered safe. Tires whooshed through the puddle-filled roads and banged over loose, steaming manhole covers.

  The sidewalk traffic was no better.

  Choked with pedestrians, self-important people hurrying along like ants, most of them with their faces buried in whatever latest version of smartphone, iPhone, cell phone, tablet they owned. The crowds of people rushed to get under the protection from the rain the scaffold provided while inconsiderately shaking off rain-slicked coats and umbrellas regardless of who was in range. No less than seven people bumped into them on the short half-block walk around the corner and to the front entrance of the building. Only a handful of them mumbled apologies as they bounced off him or Levy, weaved to one side or the other, continuing on their way.

  Flynn had lived his whole live in the city and he loved it, with the sort of unconditional love most New Yorkers had for it. The bad with the good.

  He pulled the aluminum frame glass door open and ushered Levy inside. His forehead furrowed with annoyance as he gave the hustling New Yorkers a final, disapproving glare before stepping into the quiet relief of the lobby.

  They showed their badges to the security guard on duty behind the reception desk and were directed to an office down the hall. Flynn ran a hand through his gray hair, shaking off the misty rain.

  Three elevators lined one wall. They passed a group of people clustered around the doors. An elevator arrived with a ping. Several people streamed out of the car before those crowding the hallway shuffled in. The door to the room the guard had indicated was to their left, past the elevators. It was closed, but through a glass side panel covered with thin-slated Venetian blinds Flynn could see several people inside.

  “They’re already here,” he said to Levy, and knocked. He went in without waiting for an answer.

  The room was a small waiting area with institutional chairs interspersed with faux wood side tables against three walls. There were small green potted plants on the tables and a larger fern stood in one corner. Flynn couldn’t tell if they were real or fake. The walls were painted lime green and a TV hung from a bracket in the corner. It was turned off.

  Seated in one of the chairs was a large, African American woman in a flower dress. She wore a past-its-prime, beige, three-quarter length coat open over it. She held a small black purse on her lap, clutching it with both hands, as if for dear life. Her eyes swam with tears that had not yet fallen.

  Next to her stood a young, thin black man, his hair shaved to a scrim. There was a design of some kind cut into the hair around one ear. It reminded Flynn of crop circles cut in in a cornfield. This had to be Trey Beach, DeShawn’s older brother. He had his arm supportively draped across his mother’s shoulders. He wore oversized cargo pants that were frayed on the bottom where his brand new sneakers walked on the back of them. His dark hoodie was zipped up to his throat, but the hood was down.

  Flynn guessed him to be in his late teens. He kept a wary eye on the young man’s one hand, concealed in his hoodie’s pocket, keeping in mind the building’s front entrance wasn’t protected by a metal detector.

  With them was a young white man in a white lab coat. He sat on the edge of the chair next to Mrs. Beach, holding a clipboard with several forms clipped to it. He turned as Flynn and Levy entered the room.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Flynn said before the young man could protest. “I’m Detective Flynn. This is my partner Detective Levy.”

  The guy in the lab coat stood up and shook their hands. “I’m Jay, with the Identification staff. We just finished going over the paperwork.” He waved the clipboard in the air to prove it.

  “Mrs. Beach, I’m sorry for your loss,” Flynn said.

  She looked at Flynn with wet but defiant eyes. “Ain’t no need to be sorry for me. There’s been a mistake. Whoever you got here? It ain’t my boy. It ain’t DeShawn.”

  “I don’t understand.” Flynn looked to Jay. “She wasn’t able to
make the ID?”

  “Oh, we haven’t gotten to that yet. Like I said, just finished the paperwork.” Again he waved the clipboard, reminding Flynn.

  Jay set the clipboard down on the chair behind him, exchanging it for a computer tablet. He tapped the surface and zipped through a few screens. When he had settled on the one he wanted, he said, “Mrs. Beach, I understand this may be upsetting for you, but New York State requires we get an independent identification.”

  Eleanor Beach stood up and gestured for him to give her the pad. “Let me just see that, young man. It ain’t my DeShawn, I’m telling you.” With thick hands that didn’t appear to shy away from hard work, she took the pad and turned it so she could see the photo displayed.

  On the screen was a headshot of a young black man with a short scrim of black hair, like his brother. He lay on a steel table with a white sheet pulled up to his chest. His brown skin had taken on a gray tinge. His eyes were closed. He did not bear the telltale Y-incision of an autopsy yet. That was scheduled for later in the day.

  The woman released the tablet and covered her open mouth with her hand. The device hit the tile floor with a shattering crash. It skipped away. White radial cracks spider-webbed across the image of DeShawn Beach on the screen.

  Eleanor Beach staggered back.

  She banged into the chair behind her, stumbled, and her legs buckled. She plopped heavily down into the chair. Trey tried to catch her but only managed to steady her fall. With both hands over her mouth now and her face twisted into an agonized mask of pain, the tears that had been welling up in her eyes now couldn’t be stopped from falling.

  Flynn and Levy took steps forward to help, but Trey threw his arm out in a blocking motion. “Get away! She don’t need no help from you two. You’ve done enough already.”

  Eleanor Beach rocked forward and backward, strangled sobs erupting from the back of her throat. Alternating between trying to comfort his mother and glaring harshly at them, Trey sneered with unconcealed contempt. “You motherfuckers killed my brother! You fucking killed him!”

  The accusation reverberated in the room, only to be drowned out by Eleanor Beach’s sobbing.

  As time passed and drew awkwardly silence, Jay retrieved his broken pad. He silently clicked it off while reticently keeping his eyes cast downward.

  Trey leaned over and hugged his mother’s head, soothingly repeating the phrase, “It’s gonna be okay, Momma. You’ll see.”

  Levy crossed the room and sat in the chair next to the woman. Trey stared angry daggers at her, but Levy ignored him. Reaching out, she cupped her hands around those of the grieving mother.

  “Mrs. Beach, I know this is a very difficult time for you. And I am so very sorry for your loss. But I want you to know, Detective Flynn and I, we’re here to find out exactly what happened to your son.”

  “You know what happened to him, you honky bitch,” Trey shouted, waving his hand the way someone would to slow down a speeding truck. “Y’all capped him for no good reason at all.”

  Mrs. Beach stood up fast and faced her son, so fast Trey backed up. Anger flashed in her grief stricken eyes. Her cheeks shiny wet from her tears. “I taught you better than to talk like that, boy. Keep it up, I’ll whip your ass till you can’t sit down for a week. You ain’t too big I can’t still do that. You hear me, boy?”

  “Yes, Momma, I hear you.”

  “Good.” She turned and faced Levy, who’d come slowly to her feet as well. “As for you, young lady. Don’t you come in here trying to run no line past me neither. I seen the news before them cops come to get me. I know it was a cop killed my boy. So don’t you come in here all sweet and sorrowful, like you care or nothing. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Levy nodded, taking the brunt of the woman’s verbal assault. When the woman was done, she said, “I understand you’re angry, ma’am. And you have every right to be. But I’m not here to run a line on you, regardless of what you might think. I’m here to find out the truth.”

  “Bullshit,” Trey shouted and then shrunk back from his mother’s gaze.

  Levy ignored Trey. “Ma’am, I’m with Internal Affairs. It’s my job to—”

  “Internal Affairs? You mean you admit that cop done wrong by shooting my boy?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m—”

  Flynn stepped forward. “We need to conduct a thorough investigation before we can determine culpability.”

  “So you’re saying it was DeShawn who was at fault.”

  “No,” Flynn said patiently. “I’m saying we need to gather all the facts. Once we’ve done that—”

  Trey made a dismissive noise. “You’ll blame it on my little brother. Y’all protect your own asses.”

  Levy said, “We need your cooperation. We want to get everyone’s side of the story.”

  “Ain’t no getting DeShawn’s side,” Trey said. “He’s dead.”

  They were going around in circles and getting nowhere.

  If given the chance, Flynn thought, they might be able to get some useful information from the mother, but not with Trey around. The young man was too angry, probably had a chip on his shoulder against the police long before this. And now the shooting, and their presence, certainly wasn’t fostering any positive feelings in that regard.

  Flynn tried a different tactic. “Trey, why don’t you and I see if we can find your mom some water, maybe a cup of coffee?”

  “Oh, naw, man. You ain’t separating us. I ain’t leaving my moms. Forget it.”

  Flynn nodded and caught Levy’s attention with his eyes. They were wasting their time and maybe making matters worse. Time to wrap it up. Levy got the message. She extracted a business card from the coat pocket of her trench coat and offered it to Eleanor Beach.

  “We really are trying to help. If you want to talk or think of anything that can help our investigation, give me a call. Day or night.”

  Hesitantly, the woman took it.

  She and Flynn moved for the door. Flynn opened it.

  Levy turned. “Again, we truly are sorry for your loss.”

  They left, leaving Jay to work out the details with Eleanor and her son of what was to happen next with DeShawn. In the hallway, Levy let out a held breath. “Well, that sucked.”

  “Yeah.”

  From the lobby, a commotion caught their attention.

  Flynn glanced toward the front of the building. Several security guards were blocking the entrance doors from the inside. Through the glass, Flynn saw a gathering of what appeared to be dozens of people, several of them with bulky cameras on their shoulders. Others with cell phones held high in the air. The guards were refusing them entry into the building.

  “The media’s here already,” Levy said.

  As they got closer, Flynn said, “And they’re not alone.”

  Office of the Chief Medical Examiner

  520 First Avenue

  Midtown East, Manhattan

  Monday, November 27th 10:45 a.m.

  FLYNN AND LEVY CAME up behind the security guards holding the doors shut against the crowd made up of media—with their cameras and their microphones and their bright, white lights—and a group of bystanders, an even mix of male and female, but predominately African American.

  At center stage of the commotion Flynn saw a familiar figure.

  At six-foot-six, the man stood taller than those around him. A former NBA basketball player but not a star, he only played part of one mediocre season with the 76ers before being permanently sidelined with an ankle injury, released not long after. The man had since become a vocal rising star on the civil rights stage, first in Philadelphia and more recently in New York City. His name was Theodore Goodall.

  “That didn’t take long,” Flynn said.

  One of the guards turned his head. With pleading eyes, he said, “What are we gonna do?”

  To Levy, Flynn said, “Call Whalen, but do it off the air. He’ll get the local precinct to send a couple of squad cars down to deal with the crowd.�
��

  She stepped away from the front doors and pulled her cell to make the call.

  Flynn wormed his way through the line of guards until he stood face-to-face with Theodore Goodall, but with a pane of glass between them. At six-feet tall, Flynn didn’t have to look up at most men, but as tall and lean as Goodall was, Flynn had to tilt his head up to look him in the eye. He held his gold shield up so the civil rights activist couldn’t miss it.

  “What’s this regarding, Mr. Goodall?”

  “You’re joking, Detective? Right?”

  “No, sir.” Flynn wore his badge on a chain around his neck. He let it drop into place. “Please state your business with the ME’s Office.”

  “We’re here about the unarmed black boy murdered by the police early this morning.” Behind him the crowd raised their voices, shouting in support. A few banged on the glass in the door, making it rattle in its frame. The media, with their cameras, were intermixed with the crowd, recording it all.

  “We’re here in solidarity to protest the unwarranted killing of yet another African American boy at the hands of a wanton and out-of-control police department.”

  “Your gathering is unlawful. You have no permit.”

  “A demonstration of non-violent civil disobedience.”

  “Tomato, tamato,” Flynn said.

  Goodall blinked his eyes in surprise. “I demand to speak with the boy’s mother.”

  Levy came up behind Flynn. She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned in, and whispered. “Backup’s on the way. Three minutes out.”

  Flynn nodded, keeping his attention on Goodall. “You’re not a family member.”

  “That ain’t no hospital in there. Ain’t no patient’s rights to be protected. I represent her.”

  “As what?” Flynn tried to keep the contempt from his voice.

  “I am her…” Goodall paused to search for the words. “A family spokesman.”

  “Does she know that?” Flynn challenged, knowing the man was full of shit.

  “Of course, she does, Detective. I demand—”

  The crowd behind him grew louder, angrier. Fists were being shaken in the air. The shouting was becoming uglier. Meanwhile the press was pushing their way closer, too. The bright camera lights were shining harshly through the glass into Flynn’s face.