by David DeLee
“That was it?” Flynn asked.
“Truth.”
“You’re sure?”
Cruz gave Levy a hateful stare. “What’d I just say? Yeah, I’m sure.”
“That’s too bad,” Calderon said. “Cause I’m feeling like you’re not being completely honest with us, JD.”
“Man, I’m telling you everything.” He looked at Calderon. “You know me, dawg. I ain’t down with no cop killing shit. Not less it was like self-defense. Only other thing I can tell you is one dude called the other dude Howzer.”
“Howzer,” Calderon said. “What’s that, like a nickname?”
“I don’t know. That’s what he said, ‘Yo, Howzer, check this out.’”
Cruz stared down at his hands stacked on the table. Flynn couldn’t be sure but from the way the kid covered them—one hand over the other—it looked like he’d done it to keep them from shaking. Flynn got it. As tough as these gang kids were, even they didn’t want to go down for killing a cop. That was heat nobody wanted.
“There was one other thing,” Cruz said as if just realizing it. “The dude called Howzer. When we got to Atlantic, he asked me where’s there a party store.”
“Party store?” Calderon frowned. “What’d he want, balloons or something?”
Cruz shrugged. “And the other one got all pissed off when the doors wouldn’t open right away. He banged on ’em, yelling, ‘What’s wrong with this motherfucking doorwall.’”
“Doorwall?” Calderon asked. “Whoever heard of doorwalls?”
“I dunno,” Cruz said, “But had me and Dragon laughing our motherfucking asses off.”
Flynn didn’t know either, but something about it nagged at him. He’d heard the phrase before, somewhere, he knew it, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it. What made it worse was the cold dread he felt that it could be important. Very important.
Katz’s Delicatessen
East Houston Street
Lower East Side, Manhattan
Tuesday, November 28th 2:05 p.m.
THEY’D MISSED LUNCH, SO returning from Brooklyn Flynn made a detour to Katz’s Delicatessen on East Houston Street at the corner of Ludlow. They picked up sandwiches—a hot corned beef for him and a turkey Swiss for her—and decided to eat before going back to the station.
They ate in the car parked next to the deli on Ludlow, a side street to East Houston. Flynn watched their back. His eyes constantly darted from the rearview mirror to the side mirror. Levy similarly studied every pedestrian that passed with a heightened sense of vigilance. When they’d partnered together the first time, they’d agreed to take every opportunity possible to stay out of the squad room.
For the first time, Levy questioned that decision now. After what happened to Olivarez and Cabot, the squad room would’ve been a more relaxing—and safer—dining location than sitting on a street corner and feeling like Bambi on the first day of deer season.
They ate and talked about what they’d learned, which wasn’t much.
“You believe Cruz when he says he doesn’t know the shooters?” Levy asked, eating a pickle.
“Guys like him aren’t exactly known for their credibility,” Flynn said between bites, “and admitting to three detectives you’re painting the town with a couple of cop killers certainly wouldn’t be in his best interest.”
“But you believed him anyway.”
He shrugged. “Until something tells me otherwise, sure.”
Levy frowned. “Doesn’t help much then.”
He finished his sandwich and balled up the waxy paper, dropping it into the paper sandwich bag. He slurped down the rest of his drink.
Calderon promised to keep digging, vowing to press his CIs and street contacts and would instruct patrol and other detectives in the precinct to do the same. He also offered to keep a loose surveillance on Juan Diego Cruz and his friend Dragon on the off chance Cruz did lie and knew where the shooters were hiding out. Maybe he would lead Calderon right to them.
Stranger things had happened. They’d parted, shaking hands. Calderon had promised to keep in touch.
“Still,” Flynn said. “They had to be in Brooklyn for a reason.”
“Maybe they know people there,” Levy suggested. “People willing to hide them.”
Good question. If the shooters were from out of town, why go to Brooklyn? After committing a double homicide, the smart move would be to get out of town fast. Did they think they could lose themselves in the crowded Brownsville neighborhood?
Flynn stared out the window. He didn’t respond.
Levy noticed his attention was drawn to two young men walking along the sidewalk. She feared he saw something threatening about them. If he did, she couldn’t figure out what it was. They were in their early twenties, wore hoodies under heavier coats—didn’t everyone these days—and one had a knotted wool hat pulled down over his ears. They each carried a paper grocery bag in one arm and a six pack of Miller High Life beer by the handles in the other.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What do you call a liquor store?” he asked, his gaze glued to the swinging six packs as the two young men walked by.
“Um, a liquor store. Is this a test?’
“What else?” he asked, looking at her.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Frustrated, he said, “What else would you call it. Not a wine store or a beer store. A spirit store?”
“No. Beer and wine are sold in grocery stores, not in liquor stores. You can buy beer in package stores, but not liquor. I don’t think.”
“That’s it.” Flynn smiled broadly. “Package stores.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our shooters. They weren’t looking for balloons or party supplies, they were looking for a liquor store.”
“How’d you come up with that?” she asked.
“Because where they’re from, they call liquor stores party stores.”
“I have never heard anyone—”
“I have.” Flynn fished his phone from his pocket.
“Where?” Levy challenged.
“Michigan.”
“Michigan?”
“Detroit, specifically. At least that’s where I heard it.” He searched through his list of contacts, found a number, and put the phone to his ear. When it connected, he said, “I need to speak with Detective Ben Gillot. This is Detective Frank Flynn. I’m with the NYPD. It’s urgent.”
He waited.
Levy asked, “Who’s Ben Gillot?”
“A Detroit detective I met a few years back when I attended some bullshit anti-terrorism seminar up there. A snooze fest put on by the FBI. Turned out to be a complete waste of time so I hung out in the hotel bar with Gillot and bunch of other cops. Good people.”
He held up a finger to Levy. “Ben? Frank Flynn. NYPD. We met…yeah, yeah. That’s right. You got a minute? Good. I’m going to put on speaker phone. I’m with my partner, Christine Levy.”
“Go ahead,” a deep, gruff voice said from the tiny speaker.
“Can you tell me what a party store is?”
“Is this a joke? If so, I’m too friggin’ busy—”
“No joke, Ben. Humor me.”
“It’s where you buy booze. So you can party. Why?”
Flynn ignored the question. “And a doorwall?”
“Now you’re just trying to make fun.”
“No. I’m serious. I’ll explain. Just tell me.”
“It’s what we backwater Michiganders call a sliding door. You know going into stores and shit. Go on, laugh.”
Flynn looked at Levy. She nodded. He was onto something.
“Or on trains?” he asked. “Subways, that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, sure. You done yanking my chain now?”
“I’m not laughing, Ben. Do you know if people anywhere else use those terms, too?”
There was a pause of dead air before Gillot’s gruff voice said, “I think they’re pretty unique t
o us, maybe you’d hear it in northern Ohio or Indiana. What’s this about?”
Flynn told him about Olivarez and Cabot and what they’d learned that morning from JD Cruz. “It’s a long shot, but I’m thinking our shooters maybe are from Detroit.”
“You say you’ve got video?”
“Yes,” Levy said. “Subway surveillance. It’s grainy but we’ve pulled some decent stills. It’s how our gang unit detective was able to ID Cruz as a person of interest.”
“But he claims he don’t know these guys, just happened to meet them that night?”
“Correct,” Flynn said.
“Send me what you’ve got,” Gillot said. “I’ll take a look and circulate it, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” He gave them his contact information. Levy wrote it down in her notebook with a promise to email everything to him when they returned to the precinct.
“Thanks, Ben,” Flynn said. “You’re ever in the Big Apple, drinks are on us.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Gillot hung up.
It was a long shot, but Levy smiled. It was a lead. One they didn’t have twenty minutes ago. And she’d take it.
Homicide Division – Squad Room
7th Precinct – NYPD
Lower East Side, Manhattan
Tuesday, November 28th 2:55 p.m.
AFTER FINISHING THEIR LATE lunch, Flynn and Levy returned to the Seventh. By the time they arrived, most of the day shift had gone for the day and the squad room was relatively quiet. Flynn dropped his jacket onto the back of his chair and tugged his weapon and holster from his belt, dropping them into the drawer of his desk. Levy did the same at her old desk.
When Levy first met Frank Flynn, she’d checked him out. He had nearly twenty years on the job, so a lot of history. After initially considering him a suspect in the shooting death of a cop, she’d learned he liked to fly solo. From what she’d learned, he froze partners out until they got so frustrated they requested transfers. He said it was because partners slowed him down. The real reason was he considered most of them incompetent. Equally worn down by the behavior, Captain Whalen let it go. Flynn had the top clearance rate in the squad, and in truth Whalen didn’t want to mess with a recipe that was working.
Until Levy came along.
Being IA, Whalen and Flynn didn’t have a choice but to put up with her. After an admittedly rough start—he’d considered her the prime suspect in the same murder case—circumstances put them together again in early March. This time Whalen refused to let Flynn say no to the partnership. He’d offered her a slot in his homicide division and she took it. He ignored what many saw as the sins of her past and brought her onboard based solely on her merit.
She’d enjoyed her eight months working at the Seventh. The stint in homicide was a great resume builder, and she’d felt the squad had accepted her, even Flynn.
For eight months they’d worked well together, Levy thought. Flynn had nearly twice the time in service that she had, and having never worked homicide before, she’d learned a lot from him. He was a damn good detective. He had an uncanny cop’s instinct. A quality someone either had or didn’t. Not something that could be taught, but she hoped would rub off.
Then Greene offered her a transfer back into IA and she’d accepted it. Her decision had nothing to do with Flynn. She felt she had no choice. Unfinished business, she’d told Flynn.
Forced out of the division under a cloud, the revelation of her prior employment within the adult entertainment industry had opened a floodgate of sexual harassment, cruel jokes, and juvenile behavior. It had been like the entire squad, all men, was made up of bullying twelve-year-olds. She’d gone back to prove something to them, and to herself.
Now, Levy sat down and was just pulling her chair up to her desk when Herb Foxman, a second shift detective, called out from across the squad room.
“Flynn. Levy. You two better see this.” He stood under the TV hung from the ceiling in the corner. He aimed the remote toward it, turning up the volume. It was tuned to a popular local wannabe news show called Studio Live. They covered stories important to New York City, ran public interest pieces, interviewed local VIP and minor celebrities, and other slice-of-life stories. Occasionally they did hard hitting—or so they thought—journalism work with incendiary interviews and opinion pieces. For the past five years, the show had been hosted by a former beauty pageant, bottled-blonde named Kay Wilson who fancied herself the next Barbara Walters.
She wasn’t. And Studio Live was no 60 Minutes.
Flynn and Levy gathered around him, as did a few of the other curious detectives. They stood looking up at the screen.
Kay Wilson sat on a comfortable looking leather sofa facing the camera with her shapely legs crossed, her tight skirt riding too high up her thighs, and a big smile on her painted face. A fake backdrop of New York City filled the studio’s fake window behind the casual fake living room set up.
On the facing sofa sat Theodore Goodall in a brown, impeccably tailored suit with a yellow tie and yellow pocket square. He leaned in toward the host, his elbows planted on his knees and his hands clasped together, his fingers steepled and tapping his lips as Wilson gave a rather lengthy rundown of Goodall’s career, starting with his short time in the NBA and working through the various community and civil rights leadership positions he’d held in Philadelphia before make the move to New York City ten years ago.
Currently he was listed as CEO of a non-profit civil rights organization he’d founded called the Block-by-Block Crusade. Their motto: Taking back the city. One block at a time. Any way we can.
“Wonder what that suit cost him?” Foxman asked.
“What’s it matter? He didn’t pay for it,” another cop said. “Probably a write off expense from that sham—” He used air-quotes. “—movement of his.”
Flynn shushed them.
“You’ve been praised as a tireless fighter for civil rights. A champion for the poor and disenfranchised in our communities in matters such as racism and bigotry, voter rights, and most recently you’ve been raising the issue over the disproportionate number of young black men who seem to be targeted by the police and who are incarcerated at an alarming rate over white youths in the country.”
Goodall smiled, drinking in the accolades.
“But today, you’re here to discuss an even more alarming concern. You say you have important new information about the awful shooting death of DeShawn Beach. And that this important news could indicate a massive cover-up by the NYPD.”
“I do, Kay, and thank you for having me on the program again.”
“Always a pleasure,” she said. “So, this new information? Our viewers are dying to know what it is.”
“Well, as I’ve been saying all along, since the moment poor DeShawn Beach was mercilessly gunned down, it was clear the NYPD intended to drag their heels investigating this tragic murder. And we all know why that is, don’t we?”
Set up as a rhetorical question, the host remained silent, setting Goodall up for his moment to shine.
“It’s because one of their own is responsible.”
Hardly the bombshell anyone was expecting. Everyone knew by now it was an officer-involved shooting. Wilson coughed and tried to regain momentum. “To be fair,” Wilson said. “The case is only two days old and they’ve already arrested the officer involved.”
“Window dressing. A trick devised to appease an uninformed public.” Goodall scooted forward in his seat, his smile wide as he launched into his explanation. “I’ve seen this tactic used before. You see, Kay, they announce an arrest. Then the Commissioner and the Mayor and the DA go on TV and talk about how they are aggressively investigating the situation.” Goodall deepened his voice as he mimicked the Commissioner’s earlier statement. “Any misdeeds conducted by our officers will be thoroughly investigated by this department and any wrongdoing will be severely punished.”
Goodall sat back and put his arm along the back of his sofa, casual and conversational again. “Let
me ask you, Kay, when was the last time you heard of a police officer getting indicted, or better, convicted of taking the life of an unarmed black man?”
Wilson opened her mouth to respond, but whatever she was going to say was forever lost as Goodall steamrolled over her.
“The victims in two-thirds of all police shootings are black. Three-quarter of the cops doing the killing are white. You think that’s a coincidence?” Goodall continued talking, so he clearly wasn’t interested in hearing what Wilson thought at all. “Nearly a thousand people are killed by police each year in this country. Most of those murdered by the police are young men of color.”
“Murder’s a strong word,” Wilson said.
“I don’t think so,” Goodall countered. “Ask how many are arrested? Convicted? In twelve years only thirteen cops were convicted in police shootings in this country.”
“This guy’s pulling statistics out of his ass,” Foxman complained. “And this bimbo’s eating it up.”
“I’m not so sure,” Levy said. “The numbers sound right.”
“Interesting facts,” Wilson said. “But we’re a long way away from a conviction in this case.”
“You’re right about that,” Goodall said, “because we’ll never see one. You know how I know that?”
Wilson gave the camera a sly, out of the corner of her eye, look. Her expression said; here it comes. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Mr. Goodall. How do you know the police are not ever going to convict Officer Stokes?”
“Because of who the officers are they’ve put in charge of investigating this blatant abuse of police power.”
“Uh, oh,” Foxman said. His arms crossed over his chest, he twisted and looked over his shoulder at Flynn and Levy.
Flynn cursed.
“The officers?” Wilson asked, appearing confused. “What about them?”
“According to my sources, people within the department—”
“Who would talk to that son of a bitch?” one of the detectives asked.
