New York City Murders

by W. D. Frolick

  As Buck and Kristie entered, the dingy atmosphere, the sweet smell of pot, stale beer, and cheap perfume penetrated their nostrils. When their eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting, they surveyed the room, but there was no sign of Tommy Gaylord. A few construction workers were playing snooker at the only pool table, and two black prostitutes sat at the bar, sipping drinks while they chatted. The bartender was a tall, broad-shouldered African-American with a large shaved head. He had a boxer’s cauliflower ears, a three-inch scar over his right eyebrow, and a crooked nose that had been broken more than once and not fixed.

  “Are you ‘Punchy’ Porter?” Buck asked.

  “And who wants to know?”

  They showed their gold shields.

  “I’m Detective Woods, and this is Detective Karlsson.”

  “I thought so. I can smell a pig a mile away,” Porter snarled. “You here on official business or you wanna buy drinks?”

  “We’re looking for Tommy Gaylord. I understand he’s a regular,” Buck said.

  “And why would you want Tommy?”

  “Police business,” Kristie shot back. “Has he been in today?”

  “That depends,” Porter said with a smirk.

  “Cut the bullshit and answer her question,” Buck demanded.

  “Don’t get nasty, Detective, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “We won’t give you any trouble if you cooperate,” Kristie said.

  “Okay. To answer your question, no, Tommy hasn’t been in today. He usually stops by around three.”

  Buck checked his watch. It was two thirty-five.

  “We’ll wait,” he said.

  “While you’re waiting, can I pour you each a drink? No charge.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. We’re on duty,” Buck said.

  “As you wish,” Porter said and went back to drying a glass.

  They found a table that faced the door and settled in to wait.

  “God, this place smells as bad as a dumpster with rotting fish,” Kristie said, clamping her index finger and thumb over her nose.

  Buck laughed. “Yeah, it sure as hell doesn’t smell like a bouquet of freshly cut roses.”

  Kristie cringed at the word roses. It reminded her of the night Kruger had brought a bouquet of roses and tried to sexually assault her.

  At five minutes after three, from outside the front entrance, they heard what sounded like two rapid gunshots.

  “What the hell…?” Buck yelled.

  Drawing their guns, they jumped up and dashed to the door. As Buck reached the street, he almost tripped over Tommy Gaylord’s body. Gaylord was lying on his back on the dirty sidewalk. He had a shocked expression on his face, and his wide-open eyes stared up at the heavens, a place he would probably never see now or in a thousand lifetimes.

  “My God,” Kristie said. “It’s Tommy Gaylord, and he’s not looking too healthy.”

  Gaylord had two bullet holes in his chest. He had died instantly. Two shell casings lay on the sidewalk three feet from his body.

  Woods glanced up and down the street, but the shooter had disappeared.

  After Buck and Kristie had dashed from the bar, the few people who were in the joint along with Porter came streaming out behind them.

  “What the hell happened?” Porter demanded.

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” replied Buck.

  The bar people and a crowd of curiosity seekers were beginning to gather at the scene, surrounding the body.

  “NYPD.” Buck held up his badge. “Please back up. Unless you are a witness to what happened here, please be on your way. Mr. Porter, would you and your patrons go back inside. We don’t want anyone contaminating the crime scene.”

  After the crowd had dispersed, an elderly black man slowly walked across the street. He looked to be in his early seventies and was shabbily dressed in soiled clothing. He approached Buck. “I saw a white man run from the scene.”

  “Did you get a good look at the shooter?” Kristie asked.

  “I was across the street half a block away. I only saw the man’s back as he ran to a black SUV. He jumped in the passenger side, and the car took off.”

  “Can you describe him?” Buck asked.

  “He was average height. I’d say just under six feet tall. He was broad across the shoulders and wore a black leather jacket and dark pants.”

  “By any chance did you happen to see the license plate of the vehicle?” asked Kristie.

  “I didn’t get the plate number. It all happened so fast. But one thing I do know, it had New York plates. Oh, the other thing I noticed, the car had a sticker on the back bumper. I could be wrong, but I think it was a white skeleton head.”

  “Do you think it could be a skull?” Buck asked.

  Woods pulled out his cell phone and brought up a picture of the White Skulls logo.

  “Is this what you saw on the bumper?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. That’s what it looked like.”

  Kristie was taking notes of their conversation.

  “Could we please have your name, address, and phone number, sir? Kristie asked.

  The man laughed and then snorted. “I don’t have an address or phone number, but my name is Bill Howard. If you need me, ‘Punchy’ Porter knows who I am and where I usually hang out. Sometimes I stay overnight at St. Michael’s Mission House. Father Murphy knows me. He feeds me, let’s me clean up and stay there from time to time. Do you know Father Murphy? He’s a hell of a nice man. Oops! I didn’t mean to swear.”

  Buck smiled. “Yes, we do know Father Murphy. He is a nice man.”

  “Thanks for your help, Mr. Howard,” Kirstie said.

  “I don’t know a Mr. Howard. Call me Bill. Can I go now?”

  “Yes, Mr. Howard…I mean Bill you’re free to go,” Kristie said.

  After Bill Howard went on his way, Buck phoned Captain Robertson. He explained what had happened and gave her their location. “Kristie and I will secure the scene and wait for the CSU team.”

  “Okay, Buck, I’ll dispatch a team. Do you have any idea who may have killed this Gaylord fellow?”

  “From what the witness described, I’m pretty sure it was the work of the White Skulls. It could be part of the turf war between the two gangs or payback for the shooting of Raymond Cooper.”

  “That sounds logical. I’ve got to go. Update me later.”

  “Okay, Captain.”

  During the time Buck was on the phone, Kristie had gone to the car and picked up a roll of crime scene tape. She was in the process of keeping curiosity seekers away while she roped off the area. They stood guard until the CSU van arrived thirty minutes later.

  It took three hours for the team to process the scene, after which Tommy Gaylord’s body was whisked away to the morgue. The shell casings were from a .38 caliber handgun. They were placed in an evidence bag and taken to the crime lab.

  Back at the precinct, Buck updated Captain Robertson on the Tommy Gaylord shooting. When he had finished, she said, “Before you arrived, Commissioner Gowan called. He wants you two to work the Mason case exclusively. Therefore, I’m assigning the Gaylord case to Detectives Burke and MacRae. Before you leave, I want you to turn over your notes and any information you have on the Gaylord case to them.”

  After their meeting ended, Buck and Kristie found Burke and MacRae in the lunchroom drinking coffee. Kristie gave them her notes. Buck mentioned that the murder of Tommy Gaylord may have been carried out by the White Skulls as payback for the Raymond Cooper murder.

  “Good luck with the case,” Woods said.

  “Thanks,” McRae said.

  “We might need a little luck on this one,” Burke said.

  As Buck and Kristie turned and walked away, McRae followed Kristie with lustful eyes.

  On their way home, Buck
took Kristie to Sandrelli’s. After dinner, they returned to Buck’s condo, made love, and were fast asleep before ten.

  CHAPTER 19

  Just before Christmas, Woods, and Karlsson each took a week off. Kristie drove to Virginia to spend time with her brother and his family. Buck booked a flight to Bangor to celebrate the holidays with his best friend, Detective Jim Barkowsky, his wife Shawna, and their children Kristina and Nicolas at their country home near Orono, Maine. He had left his Silverado pick-up truck in the spare bay of the Barkowskys’ detached garage. After his sabbatical, when he returned to New York Buck had leased a new Chevrolet Bolt electric car. It eliminated costly gas bills, and the car was easier to navigate in city traffic. Plus, Woods felt he was doing his part to protect the environment.

  While he was home, Buck used the truck to take Jim out to his cabin on Pushaw Lake. He was pleased to see that everything was exactly as he had left it. It looked like the neighbor he had hired to keep an eye on the place was earning his money.

  The first day back on the job, Buck and Kristie were getting caught up over coffee at Starbucks on East 161st Street.

  “How did Christmas go at your brother’s?” Buck asked.

  “It went great. I had a chance to relax and forget about work and enjoyed seeing everyone again. I can’t believe how young Simon is stretching out. He must have grown three inches since the last time I saw him. How did your holiday go?”

  “It was nice to get back home again. The Barkowskys are like family to me. They’re really super people. I even got a chance to go to my cabin. I’m happy to say everything’s in good shape. A neighbor is keeping an eye on it for me.”

  “That’s good to hear. Getting back to work,” Kristie said, “Do you think Kruger ordered the hit on Cooper?”

  “That’s my guess. Kruger knew we were investigating Cooper, and he didn’t want to take the chance Cooper would rat him out. He must’ve hired the Black Devils to do the job for him.”

  “It looks to me like the White Skulls believe it was the Black Devils who killed Cooper. They retaliated, and now there’s a full-blown gang war going on,” Kristie said.

  “There’s not much the NYPD can do about it. Sooner or later, the two gangs will work out a truce and get back to the business of killing people with drugs instead of killing each other with guns.”

  Kristie was about to reply when a clean-cut young man in his mid-twenties wearing a beige trenchcoat over a blue business suit approached their table.

  “Are you Detective Woods?” he asked, looking directly at Buck.

  “I could be. It depends on who wants to know,” Buck said.

  “My name is Brian Hubert. Does the name Hubert ring any bells, Detective?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “I can’t believe you forgot already. You killed my brother last December. Harvey Hubert.”

  “Yes, I remember. Your brother murdered a store clerk in cold blood, ambushed, and killed my partner, and then he tried to kill me. I shot him in self-defense.”

  “I’ve been trying to find you for over a year.”

  “Now that you’ve found me, what can I do for you?”

  “What can you do for me? You can fucking die for me.”

  Without warning, Hubert pulled out a handgun from his coat pocket and pointed it at Buck.

  Before he could fire, Kristie, like a jungle cat, sprang from her chair and tackled him. The gun went off, grazing Buck’s right arm a few inches above his elbow. The pistol flew out of Hubert’s hand, clattered to the floor, and slid under an empty table five feet away. People screamed and dashed toward the door. Hubert jumped to his feet and joined the stampede.

  The tackle had caused Kristie to take a nose dive. Her momentum carried her headfirst into the round metal support of the same table where the pistol lay on the floor. She hit the top of her head with a resounding blow and was momentarily stunned. When the stars stopped flashing, and her head began to clear, Kristie staggered to her feet and slowly headed to the door. When she reached the street, Hubert was nowhere to be found. Like a ghost, he had vanished into thin air.

  Her head pounding, Kristie went back inside and found Buck holding a blood-soaked handkerchief on his wound. Feeling the top of her head, she discovered a giant goose egg. Her head didn’t appear to be cut, and there wasn’t any blood on her fingers.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Kristie demanded.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later,” Buck said.

  “How badly are you wounded?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. How about you? I saw you hit your head on that metal table support.”

  “I’m good. It’s just a little bump. Nothing serious. Will you be okay while I talk to a few witnesses and get their statements.?”

  “Yeah, go right ahead, I’m fine.”

  Kristie spoke with several employees who had witnessed the shooting. She recorded their statements and contact information in her notepad. Everyone agreed to testify in court if needed.

  When she had finished with the witnesses, Kristie called for a CSU team and an ambulance. The ambulance was there in fifteen minutes, and the CSU team took forty minutes. After she explained what had happened, the team went to work. The gun was bagged and entered into evidence, making sure any fingerprints on the weapon weren’t disturbed. The pistol was a pocket-size .45 caliber Springfield XD-S model. The serial number had been shaved off, making it impossible to trace.

  Buck sat patiently while a paramedic cleaned and bandaged his wound. When he had finished, he said, “You’re good to go, Detective. If you want, as a precaution, we can take you to the hospital and have a doctor check you out.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m fine.”

  “Okay, Detective. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Kristie, I think the paramedic should check your head. You could have a concussion.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I’m good. Do you want me to take you home, Buck?” Kristie asked.

  “I’m okay. It’s nothing serious, just a minor flesh wound. You could’ve got yourself killed when you tackled Hubert. What were you thinking?”

  “I didn’t think, I just reacted to the situation. By the way, you’re welcome.”

  Sheepishly, Buck said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Thanks for having my back. You saved my life with your quick action. I owe you one.”

  “That’s what partners do. They look out for one another.”

  “When we get back to the squad room, let’s check to see if Hubert is in the system,” Buck said. “Like his brother, he may have a criminal record.”

  At the car, Kristie said, “Give me the keys, I’ll do the driving.”

  Without protesting, Buck handed Kristie the keys. She slipped behind the wheel, started the engine, and took off.

  In the squad room, they went directly to their desks, and Buck fed the name Brian Hubert into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database.

  While Buck was busy on the computer, Kristie opened her middle drawer and pulled out a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. She shook out two tablets and swallowed them with a sip from her coffee.

  “It looks like Harvey Hubert’s younger brother doesn’t have a criminal record. Let’s try the DMV and see if he’s got a driver’s license.”

  Buck punched in the name Brian Hubert. In a few seconds, Brian Robert Hubert’s address and photograph appeared on the screen. The picture matched the suspect.

  “Bingo! We got him,” Buck said.

  He printed the information and said, “Let’s go update the captain.”

  “What’s going on?” Captain Robertson asked as they entered her office.

  “We just had a little encounter with a young man who tried to kill me,” Buck said.


  Shock registered on the captain’s face. “What happened? Who tried to kill you?”

  Woods sucked in a deep breath and began his story. Captain Robertson sat back in her chair and listened without interrupting.

  When Buck had finished, the captain asked, “Have you had a chance to check the shooter’s name in the system yet?”

  “Yes,” Buck replied. “He doesn’t have a criminal record, but we found him in the DMV database. He drives a late-model black Lincoln Navigator and lives in an apartment building on Hudson Street in the West Village.”

  Two hours later, arrest warrant in hand, they headed over to Brian Hubert’s address.

  Kristie knocked on the door and yelled, “Brian Hubert, NYPD, open up.”

  No one answered. Kristie pounded harder.

  Just then, an elderly woman appeared in the doorway across the hallway.

  “Are you looking for Brian?” she asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Buck said. “Do you know if he’s home?”

  “Brian won’t be home until around five thirty.”

  “Is he at work?” Kristie asked.

  “Yes. I think Brian gets off at four thirty.”

  “Do you know where he works?” asked Buck.

  “He works on Wall Street. Brian sells investments for Marshall World Investments. He handles my portfolio. Brian’s made me a lot of money. If you need someone to look after your finances, Brian’s the one to see. He’s excellent.”

  “Thanks for the recommendation,” Kristie said. “We really appreciate your help, but we’re not looking for an investment advisor.”

  “When he gets home, would you like me to tell Brian you dropped by? Who should I say came calling?”