While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2)

by David DeLee

  Jerry ran after his partner.

  Flynn took his place kneeling beside Levy, who had propped herself up against the walk of the shop. “Well, that was fun.”

  She knotted her eyebrows, concern plain on her face. “Who’s hit?”

  “Lovato, but he’ll be fine.”

  “They get Walker?”

  “You could say that. Calderon had to take him out.”

  She glanced past him at Haywood face down on the ground. “That’s both of them.”

  Flynn followed her gaze. “Yeah.”

  He returned his attention to her. “How are you?”

  She had pulled the ballistic vest off. It lay in the dirt a few feet away. She brushed back her coat and pulled up her sweater. Her pale flawless skin was white and hadn’t started to bruise yet. It would.

  He pressed two fingers gently into her warm flesh. She winced. “You might have a bruised or cracked rib.”

  “That’s what the EMT said.”

  “You’ll need to get checked out.”

  She pulled her sweater down. “I’ll be fine.” She held her arm out. “Help me up.”

  Flynn pulled her to her feet. She winced loudly. “You’re getting checked out. No arguments.”

  A second ambulance pulled into the yard.

  “And there’s your ride now.”

  He held her by the arm as they made their way to the ambulance. More cops showed up. This time one of them was a sergeant. He began to bark orders to get the scene secured and set up a perimeter.

  “They’re both dead,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “They can’t tell us why they did it. Or why they killed Olivarez and Cabot.”

  “Nope. Doesn’t look like it,” Flynn said. “Guess we’ll never know.”

  Homicide Division – Squad Room

  7th Precinct – NYPD

  Lower East Side, Manhattan

  Thursday, November 30th 5:30 p.m.

  FRANK FLYNN SAT AT his desk in the squad room. The second shift was in full swing: phone calls were being made and received, conversations were going on, the printer spit out paper, fingers tapped keyboards, computers beeped, either being powered up or shut off, the TV was on in the corner, the volume low. All of it droned on like gnats buzzing around his ears.

  The day had been among the longest, most tedious of Flynn’s life, and a complete blur, having passed in an instant and now gone forever.

  At the scene, arriving detectives from the Twelve-Two had quickly separated everyone, making sure none of the cops had an opportunity to talk, to get their stories straight. It was proper procedure and the right call, but unnecessary. Toro’s shooting was clean. Flynn and Levy were witness to that. From what Lovato and Calderon told him about their shooting in the back alley, it had been an equally justified use of force. Lovato having a bullet in his shoulder made any claim the officers feared for their lives creditable, to say the very least.

  A shooting team would be formed, including someone from IAB. They’d run the investigation by the numbers, especially due to the current climate of police, media, and community relationships. But Flynn was confident of the outcome. Toro and Calderon would be easily cleared of any wrongdoing.

  The bigger problem would be the fallout from the failed raid. It would be immediate and fierce.

  Before the day had ended, Theodore Goodall had already taken to the airwaves calling the shootout an execution. A blatant example of police brutality and yet another example of the NYPD declaring open season on young men of color. Rioting had started in four of the five boroughs as soon as the news broke. Only Staten Island had been spared the latest round of violence and property damage. Clashes between civilians and police had resulted in injures and there were reports of gunfire, including an FDNY fire engine being riddled with bullets on its way to a warehouse fire in Jamaica, Queens.

  Whalen crossed the squad room heading straight to his office. “Flynn. Get in here.”

  Flynn groaned. He planted his hands on his desk, pushed his chair back, and dog-tired pulled himself to his feet. By the time he reached Whalen’s office, he was already in his chair behind his desk.

  “I want to hear from you. What happened out there?” Whalen asked as Flynn plopped wearily into one of the facing chairs.

  “Haywood drew on Levy,” Flynn said. “Fired. Toro took him down. It was clean shoot, boss. One-hundred percent legit.”

  “And Lovato and the other one?”

  “Calderon. He seems like solid police. Walker was scrambling over the fence, got hung up, Lovato and Calderon ordered him down. He opened up on them. Lovato took a bullet. Calderon took Walker out.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “No. Toro and I were securing the two salvage yard employees. Earl Finch, the owner, and some skell works for him named Maurice.”

  “They’ll corroborate Toro’s shoot?”

  Flynn shrugged. “If they tell the truth. Calderon had a uniform on the building roof across the street. He might have had an angle on what went down back there in addition to Lovato and Calderon’s statements.”

  “I’ve been on the horn with everyone from the PC to the head janitor at One PP. Everyone and their brother is demanding an explanation.”

  “Well, that’s it. Haywood opened fire immediately. No other way it could’ve gone after that.”

  “You can bet the media and the politicians won’t see it that way.”

  Flynn let that go. There wasn’t anything he could do to change that. And he was done worrying about what anyone else thought.

  Whalen had been at the hospital. “What’s the word on Lovato and Levy?” Flynn asked.

  “Lovato’s getting patched up. No permanent damage. A few days off, a session or two on a shrink’s couch, and he’ll be back in here, the same pain in the ass he was before. Levy was checked out and released.”

  “She went home?”

  Whalen shrugged. “It’s what I told her to do. Toro and Calderon are still getting the third degree from the shooting team. If it’s as clean as you say, Toro will be suspended for a few days, get mandatory counseling. You know the drill.”

  Flynn nodded. Been there. Done that.

  There was a knock on the door. Levy leaned against the open door jamb. She offered them a smile. Other than looking a little pale, she seemed good.

  Flynn jumped to his feet.

  She waved him away. “I’m good.” She winced as she eased into the spare chair. “You called it,” she said to Flynn. “Cracked a rib. It still stings.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Whalen said. “I told you to go home.”

  “I need to see this through to the end.”

  Flynn returned to his seat. “What end? It’s over. Haywood and Walker are dead. Detectives found the fleabag hotel they were staying at. They secured the room and have CSU tearing the place apart, but the detective I talked to said there’s nothing there. They’d cleared out.”

  “Guns recovered at the scene?” Whalen asked.

  “Haywood was carrying a .38 and Walker had a nine,” Flynn said. “There’s a rush on the ballistics, but it’ll still be a few days before we get results back. I’m sure they’ll match the slugs that killed Olivarez and Cabot.”

  “That all we’ve got tying them to it?”

  “Yup,” Flynn said. “If we could’ve taken one of them alive…”

  “They could have at least told us why,” Levy said.

  “Guess it just wasn’t in the cards.” Whalen nodded as if satisfied the case was closed. “That leaves Stokes. Where are we with that?”

  Levy spoke up. “We’re writing up the final reports now, but as it stands, with Kevin Wills recanting his witness testimony, we’ve got nothing to show Stokes acted improperly. The best that we can tell, the shooting was in accordance with all departmental guidelines. There’s no indication Stokes acted improperly.” She looked at Flynn who nodded. “It’s our recommendation Stokes be returned to active duty.”

&nbs
p; “What’s Gregg got to say about that?”

  “Haven’t told him yet. I’m scheduled to testify at the grand jury tomorrow,” Levy said. “I’ll tell him then. Should be fun.”

  “If he’ll even listen,” Flynn said. “Gregg’s got a hair up his butt over this one. I don’t think he’ll back down without a fight.”

  “He’ll back down,” Whalen said. “Gregg’s a political animal, the worst kind. Once he realizes he doesn’t have a ghost of a chance of winning this at trial, he’ll drop it like the hot potato it is.” Whalen sat back in his chair. It squeaked under the weight. “You two okay?”

  “Fine,” Flynn said, without sounding convincing at all. Something still didn’t sit well with him. He felt as if they were missing something important.

  Levy nodded. “Good. Sore, but good.”

  “Then take off,” Whalen said. “Get some rest. Both of you. It’s been a long week.”

  They returned to the squad room.

  Levy gingerly lowered herself into her chair. Flynn didn’t sit down.

  “You’re not calling it a day, are you?” he asked.

  She clutched her waist. “Thought I’d get started on some of the paperwork. You should take off though. Go.”

  He pulled open the top desk drawer and took out his backup piece, a small chrome-finish Smith & Wesson, five shot .38 revolver. His and Levy’s service weapons had been taken at the salvage yard even though neither had fired a shot. They’d be test fired and eliminated. Thus supporting their version of events.

  “I’m done,” he said. “I’ll pick it up in the morning.”

  “Remember, I’m in court first thing.”

  “Lucky you.” Flynn clipped the pancake holster and gun onto his belt. “Sure wish we knew why.”

  “Why what? Walker and Haywood?”

  “Yeah,” Flynn said. “What made them come down here from Detroit? Kicks? Were they just looking for trouble or…”

  “Or what?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You still think they might’ve been hired to actually kill cops.”

  “I don’t know,” Flynn admitted, feeling less sure of that than he had before. “I just wish we knew. It feels…unfinished, you know.”

  Levy nodded. “Guess it’ll be just one of those things.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” He knew she understood how he felt. Not every case wrapped up nice and neat. Like life, some were messy, some left as many questions unanswered as answered. This just might be one of those. Still, knowing that didn’t stop the nagging feeling he had. There was more to the story, and it wouldn’t sit well with him until he sorted it out.

  But not tonight. He raised a hand in a wave as he left. “See ya in the morning.”

  Homicide Division – Squad Room

  7th Precinct – NYPD

  Lower East Side, Manhattan

  Thursday, November 30th 6:30 p.m.

  AFTER FLYNN LEFT FOR the night, Levy sat and stared at the forms she’d printed out on her desk. She didn’t say anything to the others, but every breath brought with it a stabbing pain from her gut.

  Her thoughts turned to Ben Stokes. What had it been like, running, out of breath, wet and cold in a raging rain storm, in the middle of the dark night? To have followed DeShawn into the darkness, to have lost sight of him and then have him suddenly appear, arms raised, something shiny and metallic in his hand.

  Two and a half seconds, Stokes had said in the interview room. It only took two and a half seconds to turn his life completely upside down. She gingerly placed her hand on her bruised side and winced at even that gentle touch. Two and a half seconds and she’d almost died.

  She’d seen movement in the shadows inside the garage door. There had been a large drum with some kind of handle or pump on it. She heard the sound of a sneaker kick the drum. Soft. Barely heard. Then Haywood charged out into the sunlight. She saw the gun in his hand. Silver. She knew what it was now, but had she then? In that instant. She couldn’t be sure.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. She’d been too slow.

  Haywood had the gun aimed on her. He fired before she pulled the trigger.

  She’d hesitated and almost paid the ultimate price. If not for her vest. If not for Danny Toro. He’d acted professionally. His response had been timely. Because of him, Haywood was dead and she was still alive.

  Stokes had acted in a timely manner as well. She was sure of it now.

  “Poor son of a bitch.”

  Maybe Whalen and Flynn were right. Maybe she should call it a day. She leaned over—carefully—and pulled her bottom drawer open intending to grab her backup gun, a department approved 9mm Sig Sauer P239 with an eight-round single-stack magazine.

  Her desk phone rang. She debated not answering. But she did.

  “Levy,” she said, before adding, “Homicide.”

  “I’m looking for Detective Flynn. He around?” The voice was gruff.

  “He’s gone for the evening.” Levy wished she’d let it ring. “Can I leave him a message?”

  “Levy? That you? His partner?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Detective Gillot. From—”

  “Detroit, of course. What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I heard what went down out in Brooklyn. Everybody okay?”

  “One officer took a bullet, but he’s going to be fine.”

  “Thank God for that.” A pause, then he asked, “Walker and Haywood?”

  “Not so lucky. They’re both dead.”

  There was a pause before Gillot said, “Can’t say I’m broken up about that. The two of them were garbage from the get-go. Only a matter of time for ’em.”

  Levy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Was there something I can do for you, Detective? It’s been a long day.”

  “What? Yeah, sure, no. It’s me who’s got something for you. After my back and forth with Frank, I went ahead and requested a financial documents warrant for Haywood and Walker.” Over the line Levy heard a rustle of papers. “Anyway, it’s come through and I got a bunch of bank statements and credit card bills and whatnot here. Thought you all might still want it.”

  “Sure,” Levy said. “How do you have it? What format?”

  “It’s all electronic. Word docs and Excel spreadsheets. I can email you the files.”

  “That would be great.” Levy gave him her email information. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “My pleasure. Tell Frank to call me, would ya?”

  “Sure. Thanks again.” She was about to hang up.

  “And Detective Levy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad everyone’s okay. I really am.”

  “Us, too, Detective Gillot. Good night.”

  Levy pulled her gun and holster from her drawer and noticed the file underneath it. The one Chad had given her at dinner—had it just been last night—along with the flash drive. She hadn’t had a chance to look through it with everything that had happened.

  She pulled out her personal laptop and plugged the drive into the USB port. Not that she thought Chad’s disk would be corrupt or carry a virus, but she wasn’t taking any chances of accidently bring down the entire NYPD computerized infrastructure. It had been that kind of day.

  She brought up the contents of the drive.

  There were two file folder icons. She clicked on the one marked “background” and a list of fifteen sub-files appeared. She opened them one at a time and glanced quickly at the contents before moving on. They were all background material on Theodore Goodall, his non-profit organization Block-by-Block Crusade, the subsidiary companies associated with either Goodall personally or through Block-by-Block, and finally a large subset of articles and reports detailing Goodall’s personal life—three divorces, five children, seven alleged extra-marital affairs, homes owned and sold, his short-lived basketball career, including reams of social media posts and activities, along with newspaper reports detailing his many run-ins wit
h federal agencies like the IRS, the SEC, and even the FCC—a dispute over ownership and content dissemination from a public access cable TV show he ran at one time.

  There was a large file that covered his civil rights activism, details pertaining to his organized protests over the years, and an analysis of his potential political ambitions.

  Levy clicked open the second file.

  It bulged with financial records tied to each of Goodall’s businesses and his own personal finances, banking relationships, credit card and other loan records, mortgages, and investments.

  She whistled.

  Chad had said he’d only accessed publically available records. That this much information could be collected on a person from publically available sources was downright scary. Chad’s cursory look hadn’t discovered any obvious shenanigans—that would take more digging and access to more records. But, there were definitely some threads here they could pull.

  She jotted on a post-it note. FBI. IRS. SEC. FCC? Active investigations? Subpoenas.

  About to shut down her laptop—she didn’t have the mental capacity to delve into this level of detail tonight—she stopped when she heard her work computer ping.

  An incoming email to her NYPD account.

  She opened it up to find Detective Gillot had been true to his word. The email he sent had two attachments. His cover letter simply said: Hope this helps. B. Gillot.

  Levy opened the first attachment. It was monthly statements belonging to Tyrell Haywood from several banks and a company called U-Pay Checkout, an online payment system similar to PayPal. She found in the second attachment similar statements for Jayden Walker.

  She scrolled through the accounts, looking at the outgoing debits and incoming credits, her finger running down the list of institutions receiving payments or making deposits.

  She stopped. The name of a one organization caught her attention. “Son of a bitch.”

  Whalen strolled from his office, rolling down his rumbled sleeves and carrying his sport coat and a corduroy winter coat over his arm. “Levy, what are you still doing here?”

  “Captain. You need to see this.”

  He came over and looked over her shoulder at the computer screen. “What am I looking at?”