While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2)

by David DeLee

  But Flynn didn’t answer. He pulled out his cell phone and called out for Whalen at the same time.

  Whalen opened his office door and stuck his head out. “What’s all the yelling going on out here?”

  Flynn held up a finger as his call connected.

  Levy shrugged at the Captain’s inquiry.

  Flynn spoke into his phone. “Sergeant Hicks. This is Detective Flynn. That’s right, from this morning. You’re still at Block-by-Block... Good. Listen, I need to know if Sonny Tillman’s there… You’re sure?” He waited for confirmation from the cop who’d supervised the uniform support they’d had that morning.

  Everyone in the squad room stared at him, waiting, and half wondering if he’d lost his mind.

  “He’s not,” Flynn said into the phone. “Okay, this is important. If he shows up, detain him. Physically if you have to. I’ll explain when I get there. Deadly physical force if you have to, Hicks. He’s dangerous. I’m on my way.”

  Flynn disconnected the call and looked around at the faces staring at him. “Captain, we need to put a BOLO out on Sonny Tillman. He could be armed and he’s definitely dangerous.”

  “Tillman? The lawyer. What are you talking about, Flynn?”

  “We had it wrong. I had it wrong. It wasn’t Goodall who paid Walker and Haywood. Seize the Day. The shell company that was set up, it was set up by Tillman. Tillman hired Haywood and Walker. Goodall just confirmed it. He hired them specifically to kill cops.”

  125th Street Train Station

  101 East 125th Street

  East Harlem, Manhattan

  Friday, December 1st 1:47 p.m.

  BACK IN THEIR BATTERED unmarked car, Flynn and Levy were driving across town, going north up Sixth Avenue to Greenwich Village. There they picked up Greenwich Avenue and continued to Eighth Avenue before getting slowed down by traffic that ignored their lights and sirens.

  The day was clear and bright, a rarity in New York in the winter. The city had mostly dried out from the recent rains. Still it was cold. The car heater tried to battle back against the chill, and though it rattled and smelled a little like burning plastic, it mostly won the war.

  Flynn laid on the horn. “Sometimes I hate this city.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Levy said from the passenger seat, her laptop open on her lap.

  “No,” he admitted. “I just hate the traffic.” He gave the horn another blast. “Come on!”

  “Why do you think Tillman’s heading back to Block-by-Block?” Levy asked.

  “I don’t. I just figure it’s a place to start.”

  There’d been no sightings of Tillman from the BOLO so far. Along the way Levy had conducted a DMV database search and discovered Tillman owned two vehicles: a 2017 black Cadillac Escalade and a 2015 silver Lexus LS sedan. She added them to the BOLO and called it into Whalen back at the station. According to Goodall, Tillman kept the vehicles in a private garage near his apartment in Morningside Heights.

  Whalen sent patrolmen to the garage and to Tillman’s residence.

  Levy whistled. “Tillman’s place. He’s got a condo apartment on Riverside Drive. For one point two million dollars, you’d think you’d get more than two bedrooms and two full baths. It does have a view of both Riverside Park and the Hudson River.”

  “Less real estate marketing, more finding our perp.”

  “It’s a doorman building,” Levy said, making the point there’s someone there to talk to, to ask if Tillman’s there or had been recently. Her phone rang. “Captain.”

  She listened as Flynn squeezed their car through an impossibly narrow space between the stopped traffic and a line of parked cars. Levy winced as she listened to Whalen. Flynn managed to break through the traffic without destroying any cars as Levy disconnected the call.

  When she hung up, Flynn asked, “What?”

  “Patrol checked the garage. Both cars are there. Tillman hasn’t taken them out in weeks. Whalen just got the call from officers he sent to Riverside Drive. Tillman was there a little while ago. We just missed him. Prescott’s working on a warrant to search his place. The cops Whalen sent are sitting on it until the warrant gets there.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Flynn swerved around the tail end of a yellow cab and floored the gas. The tired engine roared and surged forward.

  Levy wondered if he was cursing the other drivers or the fact Tillman was in the wind.

  “No way he’s heading to Block-by-Block now,” Flynn said followed by another blast of the horn.

  Over the siren, Levy asked, “What did Goodall tell you back there?”

  “Seize the Day. It was set up by Tillman years ago. According to Goodall, it was meant to be a way to set aside money, essentially hide it and stockpile it, but have it immediately available, to use like some kind of legal defense fund.” Flynn swung around two slow moving sedans. “Money to be used to pay for lawyers, bail, other legal services for protesters arrested for demonstrating, loitering charges, unlawful assembly, that sort of thing, while making the funds untraceable.”

  “Why go to such lengths to hide it?”

  “Tillman told Teddy it would prevent any potentially embarrassing blowback on Block-by-Block and Goodall.”

  “Such as?”

  “Without making any admissions of guilt, Goodall told me the money was also used to pay for the legal defense of more serious charges, should they arise.”

  “For example, murdering police officers?”

  “He denies knowing anything about that. Of course. But said they would pick up the cost of defending simple assault, larceny, and or property damage charges. That sort of thing. We cross checked the legal defense fund with known arrestees this week and found payments made to dozens of them prior to their arrests this week. None as large as the payments to Haywood and Walker, but it supports the theory people were paid to do more than chant and carry signs.”

  “So they did pay people to do more than peacefully protest.” Levy sounded disappointed.

  Flynn held back his cynical told you so. “But Goodall draws the line on murder for hire.”

  “So he says. I find that hard to believe.”

  “Careful, Levy, you’re starting to sound as pessimistic as me.” Flynn said it with a smile.

  “I thought you were a realist, not a pessimist. Still, even I’m not that gullible.”

  “Goodall said he can prove it.” Flynn waved a hand in the air. “Something about password protocols and logging clipboards. Keystroke something or other will show he had nothing to do with the money transfers or that business’s operation. I left him talking to Harriman and his people to sort it out.”

  “TARU should be able to lend a hand,” Levy suggested. “That’s their wheelhouse.”

  “Whalen said something about getting someone on it already.”

  Levy’s phone rang. She checked the caller ID. “Speak of the devil.”

  She answered and listened for a second. “I’m putting you on speaker phone.” The phone beeped. To Flynn, she said, “There’s been a hit on the BOLO. Go ahead, Captain.”

  “A unit called in from the 125th Street train station reported seeing Tillman.”

  “They’re sure it’s Tillman?”

  “Yup. Said he recognized him from the TV. Saw him by Goodall’s side every time Teddy was on the news making speeches. Says he’d know the guy anywhere.”

  “Good enough for me,” Flynn said. “Tell him to surveil but do not engage. We’re ten minutes out.”

  “Responding units are setting up a one-block perimeter around the station.” Whalen disconnected the call.

  “Twenty minutes at best,” Levy said, referring to their response time.

  “Is that a challenge?” Flynn floored the accelerator.

  They’d been traveling north up 11th Avenue when Whalen called. Now Flynn hooked a tire screeching left onto 29th Street and jumped onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. The wide, four-lane road ran north along the banks of the Hudson River, up the west side of
Manhattan Island. It was the best way to avoid the city traffic.

  With lights and siren, they screamed up the left lane, speeding past the glass and steel of the Jacob Javits Convention Center, the Lincoln Tunnel, the docked Intrepid, the 79th Street boat basin, and finally cut through the lanes of midday traffic to the access ramp that took them to St. Clair Place behind the famed Cotton Club. St. Clair intersected with 125th Street. Driving east, they cut across town at what had to be a land speed record, Levy thought.

  Flynn slammed the car to a stop behind a parked yellow cab under the elevated station where 125th intersected with Park Avenue. Her nerves frazzled, Levy pulled her hands from the dashboard where her fingernails had dug crescent moon-shaped marks into the vinyl.

  “Jesus, Flynn.”

  He taped the clock in the dashboard. “Eleven minutes.”

  “That’s not ten,” she countered.

  “Rounds closer to ten than twenty.”

  She dismissed his argument. “Whatever.”

  Built in 1897, the station served all the northbound railroad lines. Should Tillman hop any train north, he could get off almost anywhere in Westchester, Putnam, or Dutchess counties in New York or reach Fairfield or New Haven counties in Connecticut.

  The main station entrance was across the street on his side. On Levy’s side there was a south facing flight of stairs. It led directly to the center aisle waiting platform overhead. A steady stream of pedestrians was coming down the stairs. A cop at the bottom directed them off to the side while preventing anyone else from going up.

  Another officer did the same at the main station entrance.

  Over the roof of the car, Flynn said, “We can’t let Tillman get on a train.” He waved at the south facing entrance. “Go.”

  Flynn ran across the street, dodging a speeding yellow cab. The horn blast he got reverberated twice as loud under the overhead platform. Flynn had his gold shield on a chain around his neck. He made sure the cop saw it.

  “Flynn. Homicide,” he said. “What’s the situation?”

  “We’ve got two uniforms inside the station. One’s keeping passengers from going up to the platform. The other is maintaining surveillance from the stairwell.”

  “Tillman’s still up there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Flynn clasped him on the shoulder and ran into the station.

  A crowd milled around the waiting area, some grumbling about not being allowed to go up to the platform. Sunlight streamed through the windows along the left side. The walls were solid oak tongue-and-grove paneling and the floor was textured quarry tile. A recent renovation.

  Flynn reached the second officer who was arguing with a large woman wearing a colorful dress and scarf of African design. With a thick accent she tried to explain why she could not miss her train.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the flustered officer said. “No one can go up there yet. There’s a problem with—” He saw Flynn approach.

  “What can you tell me?” Flynn asked, reaching them.

  The cop shrugged. “I’m just doing crowd control.” He jerked his thumb up the stairs. “Talk to King. He’s got eyes on your suspect.”

  To the woman, Flynn said, “Do as the officer tells you. It’s for your own safety.” Then he charged up the stairs.

  Near the top of the stairs he ran into Officer King who was staying low below platform level. As Flynn joined him, he said, “I’ve got eyes on your guy. He’s near the far end of the platform. But there are still people around. We’ve been clearing the south end. But we can’t do anything about the north end without alerting him.”

  “Okay,” Flynn said, formulating a plan. “I’ve got a female partner, black hair, she’s wearing a black trench coat. She’ll be coming from the south stairwell. I’ll engage Tillman. You guys get the rest of the civilians out of harm’s way.”

  King nodded. “You think he’s armed?”

  “Always assume they’re armed.” Flynn pulled his backup piece.

  King noted the chrome-finished revolver. “Old school.”

  “Not my first choice.” At King’s reaction to that, he said, “Long story.”

  Flynn climbed the rest of the stairs and made his way toward the north end, staying near the outside of the platform, using the center row of advertising billboards to keep Tillman from seeing him. As he crept closer, he passed several people on the east side of the platform. He tapped their shoulders and with his finger to his lips, raised his badge and nodded toward the stairwell, indicating they should go.

  One by one they quietly filed toward the stairs. Each looking more concerned than the last.

  Flynn sidled up next to the white station sign announcing it was the Harlem-125th Street station. He reached the end of the sign. He was out of cover.

  He peeked around the sign. “Shit.”

  Tillman stood at the end of the platform, close to the southbound side. Like a pirate at the end of the plank, he had nowhere to go. But that wasn’t what caused Flynn to curse. Tillman stood holding a young black woman against his chest, using her like a human shield. A small Heckler & Koch 9mm pressed to the side of her head.

  “Might as well come out, Detective,” Tillman said. “I know you’re there.”

  Flynn stepped out for his position. As he did, he saw Levy approaching along the south-bound side of the platform. In a proper two-handed grip, he kept his weapon trained on Tillman. From the corner of his eye he saw Levy was doing the same.

  “It’s over, Sonny.” Flynn continued to walk toward Tillman. He noticed a worn, brown leather satchel on the concrete platform at his feet.

  “Stay where you are.” Tillman tightened his grip across the woman’s chest.

  She appeared to be in her early twenties and wore distressed blue jeans, with a large tear in the knee and a smaller hole ripped in the opposite thigh. She had on heavy black boots and an open tan three-quarter length jacket, with a white sweatshirt underneath that had a picture of bananas on it. Her purse strap had fallen off her shoulder and now the bag hung low, slung from the fold at her elbow.

  She looked at Flynn with pleading eyes. “Help me! Please!”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Flynn said.

  “Back off, detectives,” Tillman said.

  Flynn glanced over and saw Levy was still slowly advancing, too. He held his hand up, stop sign fashion to Levy. He noticed, too, King had moved from his position on the steps, also approaching. His service weapon extended.

  “Sonny, it’s over,” Flynn repeated. “There’s no way out of this that’s good for you.”

  “No shit, Flynn.”

  “What I’m saying is, what’s bad now can be fixed. But you hurt that woman, that’s a whole other level of bad.”

  “Worse than being a cop killer, Flynn?” Tillman backpedaled two steps closer to the end of the platform. “That’s what you’re gonna pin on me. Go to prison for the rest of my life for arranging a hit on two NYPD cops.”

  “I’m saying there’s wiggle room in that one. Mitigating circumstances. Narratives that can be made. You’re a lawyer, man. You know that. There’s no such thing as a sure thing when it comes to law. What I’m saying is there’s a chance you come out of it okay.” Flynn took a step without Tillman saying anything. Maybe he didn’t notice. “But you shoot this girl, that’s cut and dry.”

  “No. Please!” The woman cried out.

  Tillman shook her to calm her down again. “I’ll put a bullet in you, bitch. Don’t fuck with me.”

  The distance to the ground from the platform was only about five feet. If Tillman were to jump, it would only be to escape. But to where? He had to know that with Flynn and Levy there, the place was surrounded. There’d be no escape.

  “Take it easy, Sonny,” Flynn called out. “Listen. You did what you did and you need to face that. Maybe you can sweet talk a deal, maybe not. But bad as that’s gonna be, what you decide to do next can only make it worse. You understand what I’m saying?”

  �
�Yeah.” Tillman looked unsure for the first time.

  Flynn took a step forward. He was getting through to him.

  In the distance, a south bound train was on the tracks, heading their way.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse. If the train pulled into the station and discharged unsuspecting passengers before Flynn could disarm Tillman, who knew what could happen then.

  “Lower the gun,” Flynn said, keeping an eye on the approaching train. “Let the woman go. The rest…we’ll deal with.”

  “Please.” This time she turned her gaze to Tillman. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Please.”

  He looked down at her. His expression took on one of great sadness.

  The train was seconds from reaching the platform. Tillman hadn’t seemed to notice. As Flynn kept the lawyer’s attention, Levy and King had steadily advanced, moved closer.

  “Is this why you did it?” Flynn asked. “To terrify young, innocent women?”

  “No,” Tillman said. “Of course not.”

  Tillman hesitated and then tossed the gun to the platform ahead of him. It hit the concrete and skidded a few feet away. As Tillman dropped his arm from around the woman, Flynn, Levy, and King rushed forward. Tillman slumped his shoulders and cast his gaze to the ground.

  The woman pushed a step away from him. Then she turned around.

  “You bastard!” She threw her arms out hitting him in the chest with both hands.

  Startled, Tillman staggered back a step from the blow.

  “Asshole!” she shouted and rushed at him, slamming her open palms into his chest again. “You scared the shit… oh my God!”

  Flynn yelled, “No! Stop!”

  But it was too late.

  Tillman backpedaled, trying to maintain his footing. He stepped back, too far, past the yellow caution strip painted on the concrete. There was no platform behind him on which to place his feet. He awkwardly windmilled his arms, trying to regain some kind of balance. He couldn’t. He fell off the platform and screamed.

  The train blasted into the station.

  It hit Tillman’s flailing body. A sudden thump. The train doors rattled.

  The sound was like nothing Flynn had ever heard before, a sickening wet thud.