While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2)

by David DeLee

  “Where in the hell’s the ME?” Shymanski asked. “CSU?”

  He wanted his people taken care of, removed from the circus.

  “On their way,” Lovato said. “But they’re caught up in traffic, being rerouted around trouble spots because of the protests.”

  “Protests, my ass,” Shymanski said. He pointed at the cruiser. “This is retaliation for what happened the other night. For our guy taking out one of theirs.”

  “One of theirs?” Levy said.

  “Nigger thugs,” Shymanski spat. “Fucking animals.”

  “Okay, Stan,” Flynn said. “We need officers to secure the scene and as many as you can spare to canvass the area. Look for anybody who might have seen anything, heard anything. Start with the people milling around.”

  Shymanski nodded. “We’re stretched thin because of this rioting shit, but fuck that. I’ll call every last officer back off every last line. Let the animals burn the city to the ground, I don’t give a fuck. You’ll get what you need, Flynn. Count on it.”

  As Shymanski started to move away, he looked back at Cabot. “Wonder if they even stopped to notice Cabot was black. That they were killing one of their own.”

  Levy watched him push back through the crowd. “Flynn, we can’t let him. That guy, he’s…”

  Lovato stepped over. “I’ll stay with him, keep him in line.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Flynn said.

  “Lovato,” Levy said before he walked off. “Have the canvas start knocking on doors there.” She pointed at the row of apartments across the street. Many of the windows were bright with light and had shadows moving back and forth, people watching the commotion down below. “Maybe someone up there saw something and will be willing to tell us.”

  “On it,” Lovato said.

  Flynn put a hand on Toro’s shoulder. “Danny, pull the footage from all the traffic cams from around here and see if any of the businesses have security cameras.”

  “The park’s got cameras, too,” Levy added. “They might have an angle that caught something.”

  Flynn nodded. He returned his attention to the patrol car.

  “Anyone check the dashcam or body cameras?”

  Toro shook his head. “Had ’em off. It was their fucking meal break, man.”

  Here were two men who simply wanted to do their part to make the world a little bit safer, a little bit better. Men who’d taken a break and were enjoying a meal, probably laughing, entertaining each other with old war stories or teasing each other or talking about their families or friends. Maybe making plans for the coming week or weekend.

  The thought of that ripped at Flynn’s heart.

  His ability to compartmentalize this one, to hold onto his objectivity, was going to be difficult at best. He knew it, could feel it in his gut.

  “Flynn. Flynn? Frank.”

  Hearing his name shook him from his thoughts. It was Levy. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Before she could respond, Shymanski called to them from the park entrance. Waving. “Detectives! Get over here. You need to hear this.”

  He stood talking with an Asian patrolman, where hastily strung yellow crime scene tape hung from the wrought iron bars of the park fence. When they joined him, Shymanski said, “This is patrolman Yamato. He spoke with an elderly couple who were coming out of the park. They told him they saw everything.”

  “Where are they?”

  Yamato pointed toward the park entrance.

  There Flynn saw a thin, elderly woman in a gray and black three-quarter length coat. She sat on a bench with an Asian man wearing a brown corduroy coat hovering over her, holding her hand in his. He patted it. They both wore black leather gloves. He had on an old, brown, corduroy newsboy hat.

  A uniform cop sat beside the woman, writing notes into his memo book.

  “My partner’s getting their details,” Yamato said.

  “What did they see?” Levy asked.

  “They were just completing their stroll through the park, like they do every night. They heard gunshots and the sound of breaking glass.”

  “How many?”

  “The lady, she can’t tell,” Yamato said. “Too scared or whatever. But the old man, he’s ex-military, served in ’Nam. He’s sure it was five shots. Fast. First one, then three more in quick succession. A pause, and then one more. In the middle of it all he heard the sound of glass shattering. He moved his wife behind the tree there,” Yamato pointed to the thick oak that had grown close to the wrought iron fence and was large enough to provide them proper cover. “They saw two men. One on either side of the RMP.”

  Just as the evidence suggested, Flynn thought. “We get a description?”

  “What you’d expect,” Yamato said. “Two male blacks. Eighteen to twenty-four years old. Average height and weight. Both wearing dark clothes, one in an Army field jacket the other in a black puffy coat.”

  “Down?”

  “Sounds like it. Oversized pants, sneakers, and hoodies under the coats with the hoods pulled up.”

  “Anything about the guns?”

  “There we got lucky,” Yamato said. “The old man saw what the guy who took out Olivarez carried. Said he saw it good in the streetlight. A Glock. He figured it was a 17 or 19 by the sound it made. Medium caliber.”

  “He could tell?”

  Yamato shrugged. “Says he’s a bit of a gun buff. Owns a Kimber .45 and shoots it a few times a year. He’s sure it’s a Glock and swears it sounded like a nine.”

  Flynn accepted what the witness had to say. Ballistics would tell them one way or another. So, they had a generic description and were looking for one of the most popular street guns in the city. Terrific.

  “Anything else?” Levy asked.

  “They said the perps beat it the hell out of here, took off running.”

  “Which direction?”

  “That way.” Yamato pointed northwest, but more specifically to the stairwell descending underground. “Down into the subway. My guess is they jumped the F train.”

  The F train originated in Jamaica Queens, ran through Manhattan, and terminated at Stillwell Avenue in Coney Island, Brooklyn, with numerous stops and transfers along the way.

  Flynn frowned. “Fucking great. They could be anywhere in the city by now.”

  Manhattan Criminal Court

  65 Centre Street

  Lower Manhattan

  Tuesday, November 28th 8:37 a.m.

  THE NEXT MORNING, FLYNN stood with his back to the wall of an already packed courtroom on the second floor. He’d managed to get four hours sleep, barely. His eyes were grainy and the two cups of Starbucks coffee he’d had hadn’t helped yet to make him feel human.

  The press was relegated to the back wall as well. Cameras set up on tripods, camera operators behind them, making minute adjustments. Other reporters held microphones high in the air or phones and other recording devices in the hopes of catching what was said at the front of the courtroom.

  A buzz of anticipation swept through the press pool.

  The Honorable Angela Harris presided over the room from the bench. Her black curly hair was as dark and flowing as her judicial robe. Known to be tough but fair, she also had a reputation for having a very low tolerance for shenanigans in her courtroom.

  The gallery consisted of six church-style wooden pews, split by the center aisle. They were filled to capacity with spectators. Some were police. Both in uniform and out, some were off-duty but there to show their support. Flynn knew a few of them. Behind the prosecution’s side of the well three rows were filled with mostly black and Hispanic men, but a few women, too. A lot of them looked like thugs who’d attempted to dress up and appear presentable, most of them failing. Mixed in on both sides of the aisle were quite a few concerned citizens of color. A few were dressed in sharp-looking suits—civic leaders, council persons, low-level politicians, and of course, Theodore Goodall and Sonny Tillman among them.

  Brooke Prescott stood at the
table for the prosecutor. She looked professional, wearing a gray skirt, jacket, and wide-collared peach blouse underneath. Her brown hair was tied in her customary single, thick braid draped over her shoulder. She shuffled papers on the table while waiting for Judge Harris to get started.

  Officer Ben Stokes wore a suit and stood with his back to Flynn and the others in the courtroom. He held his hands clasped in front. In respectful demur to the judge, his head was lowered, but not bowed. Next to him stood a short, stocky, bald man in a well-tailored suit. Flynn knew him. A pit bull defense attorney named Bullock. He’d been retained and paid for by the PBA, the Policemen’s Benevolent Association.

  “Are we ready?” Judge Harris asked.

  “The people are,” Prescott said.

  “As are we, Your Honor,” Bullock replied.

  A hush fell over the court.

  Flynn wasn’t quite sure what everyone expected. What was to come would take all of about ten minutes. The purpose of this initial appearance before the court was to formally read the charges against Ben Stokes and to determine if bail would be granted, and if so, in what amount.

  Still, like the rest of the courtroom, Flynn found himself leaning forward to make sure he didn’t miss anything of what happened next.

  Judge Harris cleared her throat. “Mr. Stokes, the People are charging you with a single count of murder in the second degree.”

  That was an upgraded charge from the criminal negligent homicide Gregg had insisted Flynn initially charge Stokes with. Flynn squeezed his hands into fists—they stung from the cuts he’d received crawling through the broken car windows glass the night before.

  What was going on here?

  “Do you understand the charge against you?” the judge asked.

  Stokes at first didn’t move. Bullock nudged him with his elbow and Stokes slowly raised his head. “Yes, Your Honor. I’m not guilty.”

  The judge nodded. “Good to know, since that was going to be my next question. With that out of the way, what does counsel have to say on the matter of bail?”

  Brooke spoke up quickly. “The People request remand, Your Honor.”

  From the cops in the courtroom, a disgruntled buzz spread through the officers seated in solidary behind Ben Stokes.

  Harris cast the galley with a warning glance. “Of course, you do, Ms. Prescott. And the court appreciates your enthusiasm.” Harris shifted her gaze toward the defense table. “Anything you’d like to contribute, counselor?”

  “Officer Stokes is a decorated veteran of the New York City Police Department,” Bullock said. “He has strong ties to the community, a wife and child that depend on him.”

  “I’m not looking for a character assessment, Mr. Bullock. What does defense feel would be a fair bail amount under the circumstances?”

  Bullock appeared taken back by the question. Judges didn’t usually ask, they told. “If you’re asking, Your Honor, ROR.”

  That was met by a loud groan from the mostly black members filling the gallery. There was a stomping of feet and palms banging on the benches in front of them. Harris brought her gavel down with a resounding crack that sounded like a gunshot going over.

  Several people actually flinched.

  “Get it under control, people, or I’ll clear this courtroom.”

  A mutter of protest followed but even that died down when met with a stern, no-nonsense gaze from the judge. As for Stokes being released on his own recognizance on capital charges, that was never going to happen.

  “Nice try, counselor,” she said.

  Bullock gave the judge a you-can’t-blame-me-for-trying shrug. “You asked.”

  “How about we settle for one-hundred-thousand dollars, cash or bond, and call it a day.”

  That was met with loud groans of disapproval, peppered with boos and shaking fists, this time coming from the defense side of the gallery. Harris banged her gavel to regain control of her courtroom. “Last warning.”

  Brooke called out over the commotion. “The people request Mr. Stokes turn over his passport.”

  “Done.” A final bang of her gavel. “Bailiff we’ll take a ten-minute recess so you can clear my courtroom, then it’s on to the next case.”

  Harris stood up and disappeared through a door behind her bench.

  Flynn checked his watch. Not yet nine a.m. Arraignment Court would run until one in the afternoon. Harris faced another four hours of sitting on the bench doing this same thing over and over, a churning, never-ending, assembly line of miscreants moving along to the next stage in the vast criminal justice system.

  Two bailiffs approached Stokes and Bullock. They spirited the two of them toward a side entrance and out of the courtroom. Stokes would either be taken back to a cell or downstairs to process the bail application. Flynn was pretty sure the PBA would post the bond and Stokes would get to go home.

  Meanwhile, the crowd poured into the center aisle, neither side happy. Stern faces of color stared at mostly white faces of young police officers as the two sides merged in the aisle to file out. A few under-their-breath comments were passed, but neither group escalated the situation beyond that.

  As the crowd began to thin, Flynn made his way up the aisle against the flow of exiting spectators. To one side and walking sideways, he still got bumped and jostled. He pressed his hand against the service weapon on his hip as he moved his way slowly toward the front of the courtroom.

  Near the well of the courtroom Theodore Goodall concluded a conversation with another man and stepped into the aisle. He blocked Flynn’s progress. The two men faced each other, toe to toe. Goodall gave him an icy smile. “Here to gloat your man got out?”

  “Way I see it, there’s no cause to celebrate. Situation like this, everyone loses.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “Meaning?”

  “DeShawn Beach lost his life. What’d your Officer Stokes lose? A home cooked meal? A good night’s sleep in his own bed? A chance to boff his old lady, maybe?”

  Flynn didn’t take the bait. “I suspect he’ll lose a lot more than that before this is all over.”

  Goodall moved in closer, invading Flynn’s personal space. “You can count on it if I have anything to say about it.”

  Flynn remained stock still. “Careful, Teddy. I could interpret that as a threat.”

  “Interpret away, Frank. But know this. We will have justice for DeShawn Beach.”

  Goodall stepped around him, and with Tillman in lock step behind him they made their way toward the courtroom exit. Flynn watched him go, seeing through the open doors into the hallway a group of reporters with mics and cameras at the ready. Goodall straightened his tie and made a beeline toward them.

  Flynn shook his head and resumed his trek toward the front, hoping he wasn’t too late, when someone snagged his arm, jerking him to a stop.

  A young man in faded denim blue jeans, he wore a gray sweat suit and a heavy, black leather jacket draped over his arm. He stared at Flynn. The man had short red hair and pasty-white skin. He looked Flynn up and down.

  “You Detective Flynn?” He made it sound like an accusation.

  “I am.”

  “The scumbag that arrested Stokes, right?”

  Flynn didn’t respond. Clearly the young man knew the answer to his own question.

  “Nice fucking job. You must be proud.”

  “You a cop?” Flynn asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Flynn clenched his teeth and stared hard into the young man’s eyes. He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. The kid was a good ten years younger than Flynn, but that didn’t worry him. Flynn had experience on his side, and his judgment wasn’t clouded by blind rage.

  “Let go of my arm.”

  “If I don’t?” the young cop asked.

  Flynn leaned in close and with his voice tight, he said, “I’ll break your arm off and shove it so far up your ass you’ll have to open your mouth to give someone the finger.”

  The redhead swallowed once and
released his grip.

  “Ask me, that little nigger prick got what he deserved.” He slammed his shoulder into Flynn as he started to walk away.

  Flynn hooked his arm and spun man back around. His feet kicked into the bench as Flynn shoved his forearm across the man’s chest, forcing him back, pressing him against the pew-like bench. “What’s your name, officer? What house you from? Tell me!”

  “Tell me how it feels to be traitor to your own kind?”

  “How’s it feel to be a racist piece of shirt?”

  “Frank. Frank!” Through the sound of his own pulse thumping in his ears Flynn heard Prescott calling his name. He felt her trying to pull him off the racist punk cop. He let her pull him back.

  Released, the off-duty cop straightened up and stepped out of Flynn’s reach. He smoothed his bunched-up sweatshirt. “Asshole.”

  Flynn took a menacing step toward him. “Get out of here.”

  Prescott held on to his arm.

  The cop scooted out of Flynn’s reach and rushed for the exit. He called out, “You’ll get yours. You’ll see!”

  “Not from you,” Flynn called back. “Coward.”

  Brooke Prescott returned to the prosecutor’s table and went back to scooping up papers and shoving them into a satchel. She appeared as angry as Flynn felt.

  He shoved through the low gate into the well.

  She glanced at him. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Nothing,” Flynn had already dismissed the altercation. “Just an asshole with a mouth bigger than his brains. Brooke, we need to talk.”

  “Not now, Frank. I’m late for another hearing.” She kept her attention on the papers that fought her efforts to jam them into her bag.

  “Brooke, this is a mistake. You guys are moving way too fast.”

  She stopped and met his gaze with a sigh. With a look around the courtroom, making sure no one was close enough to hear, she lowered her voice. “You think I don’t know that? Jesus, Frank.”

  “Why the upcharge to second degree? There’s not a shred of evidence against Stokes to support that.”

  “There’s the witness. Kevin Wills,” she said weakly.

  “What’s he got to say?”