While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2)

by David DeLee

“Probably nobody. More made up unnamed sources,” another cop said.

  “A shooting team’s been formed to—” Goodall used finger quotes again. “—investigate what happened to DeShawn Beach. This is pretty standard procedure, I’m told.” Again with the quotes, he said, “This team is being led by two of the worst detectives in the entire department.”

  “Ouch,” Foxman said.

  Wilson appeared shocked. Levy wondered if she was or if it was all an act for the camera.

  “Tell us more,” Wilson said.

  “To start off with, and I have met with them personally, one of the detectives is a man named Frank Flynn,” Goodall said.

  “Son of a bitch.” Flynn began to pace behind the group of detectives staring at the TV.

  “You may recall from earlier this year, Kay,” Goodall said, “there was a police officer tragically shot to death under the Williamsburg Bridge. His name was Tom McNulty.”

  “I do remember that case,” she said.

  “Then you might also remember that McNulty was shot and killed by a woman named Jillian Flynn. Jillian Flynn is Detective Frank Flynn’s wife.”

  Wilson gasped. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. She’s currently incarcerated at Riker’s Island awaiting trial for committing that murder.”

  “Allegedly,” Wilson insisted. “Since she hasn’t been convicted yet.”

  Goodall flashed one of his reptilian smiles for the camera. “Allegedly. But think about that. This woman is, allegedly, involved in an affair with McNulty right under this detective’s nose. For years. Tell me, is that the sort of detective, someone so easily deceived, you’d pick to investigate an important case like this one?” Before Wilson could respond, Goodall added, “To make matters worse, this Flynn’s daughter was having an affair with the same man, while this detective remained clueless.”

  Wilson shook her head, as if shocked and saddened.

  “Mother! Fucker!” Flynn kicked a chair across the room and swept a nearby desk clear of papers and phone and pens in a penholder.

  “Frank,” Levy said. “Calm down.”

  “And the other detective,” Wilson said, drawing the squad’s attention back to the TV. “You said there was something up with her as well.”

  “There is.” Now Goodall shook his head, appearing sad as well. “And this one might even be more shocking. It is certainly more sordid, if that were possible. I’m told on very good authority that being an Internal Affairs investigator with the NYPD is not Detective Christine Levy’s first career choice. Prior to becoming a cop, Ms. Levy had a rather successful run starring in adult movies.”

  “You mean she was a porn star?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Her stage name was Candie Cane—”

  “Shut it off! Now!” Flynn snatched the remote from Foxman’s hand.

  Foxman pulled his hand away and clicked the TV off. “Jesus.” He looked at Flynn and then at Levy. “Guys, I’m really sorry. That shit sucks.”

  Levy pressed her lips together in a hard line across her face. She turned away and walked back to her desk. Her hands were fisted so tightly her nails bit into the palm of her skin. She could feel every eye in the room on her. They all knew about her past. It wasn’t their discovery of the facts that bothered her. It was the shame she felt.

  Behind her, she heard the detectives quietly disperse, returning to whatever work they had to do, murmuring among themselves. The room slowly going back to normal. But it would never be normal again.

  Flynn came up behind her. “You okay?”

  It took her a minute before she could answer. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

  “Yeah.” Flynn tapped his knuckle on the deck blotter. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Jillian’s in Rikers?” she asked. “I thought she made bail.”

  “The DA went back and petitioned the court. They rescinded it. Bad optics, Pace said, granting a cop killer bail.”

  “I’m sorry,” Levy said. As the arresting officer in the case, she had very strange mixed feelings about it. On the one hand Jillian Flynn had cold-bloodedly killed a cop—albeit a dirty cop—yet she was the wife of her partner, who’d assisted in making the arrest. It was strange.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. “That son of a bitch isn’t going to get away with this,” Flynn said. “Dragging Hailey into this…I’m going to fucking kill him.”

  Levy put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy with that kind of talk, Frank. People might think you mean it.”

  The look he gave her made her wonder if he didn’t.

  But before Levy could say anything, Whalen charged through the squad room door. He stormed toward his office and barked, “Flynn. Levy. My office. Now.”

  Flynn and Levy looked at each other. Together they said, “Shit.”

  Homicide Division – Whalen’s Office

  7th Precinct – NYPD

  Lower East Side, Manhattan

  Tuesday, November 28th 5:25 p.m.

  CAPTAIN RAY WHALEN NEVER slowed as he made his way to his office door. There he waited for Flynn and Levy to go in the office. He followed them in and closed the door behind him. Levy took a seat in front of his desk. Flynn took up a position standing behind her. Whalen sat down and tapped a pen on file on his desk.

  “I was in the commander’s office. We saw Goodall on TV.”

  “Captain, I—” Levy began.

  Whalen cut her off. “She supports you, Levy. Fully.” He looked up. “You, too, Frank. We all do. No worries there. I promise.”

  “What about One PP?” Levy asked.

  “And Gregg and the DA’s Office?” Flynn echoed.

  “Don’t worry about them. I’ll handle any political flak that comes down. You two just do your jobs.”

  “Captain, I’m sorry,” Levy said.

  “Stop already. I told ya. I’ve got you covered.” He tossed the pen down and sat back in his chair. It squeaked under his weight. “What I need from you two are clear heads. Don’t let this prick get under your skin. You go out and you do your jobs. We have your backs. You hear me?”

  “Captain Greene?” Levy asked.

  “Talked to him. He’s on board. Now, let’s get on with it. What’d you learn in Brownsville?”

  They took turns telling him about Calderon and their conversation with Juan Diego Cruz.

  When they were done, he said, “That’s it? Howser and party store?”

  Flynn told him about their conversation with Gillot in Detroit.

  Whalen frowned. “It’s thin.”

  “Calderon is going to knuckle down on the Pitt King Spades and work any CIs to see if something shakes loose,” Levy said.

  “Think it will?” Whalen asked.

  She shrugged. “Calderon knows his beat, there’s no denying that. He believes Cruz. He told us JD could kill a punk in a drug dispute or go too far in a beat down, even do a random drive-by without remorse, but killing a cop for kicks, even hanging out with someone who did?” She shook her head. “That kind of heat is way out of Cruz’s league.”

  Whalen thought for a minute. “Putting us back to square one.”

  “Not completely. We know they’re from out of town,” Flynn said. “Even if the Detroit angle doesn’t pan out. And we know a lot of the looters arrested since the rioting started are from out of town,” Levy said.

  “Sure.” Whalen confirmed. “Philly. Baltimore. Detroit. Even goddamn Chicago.”

  “It’s not unusual for these civil rights groups to bus in people from other places to bolster the size of the crowd during protests. Makes it look good for the cameras.”

  “Or to have paid rabble-rousers,” Whalen suggested.

  Levy frowned. “Paid disrupters? That’s awfully cynical, don’t you think?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” Flynn said. “And it’s Goodall we’re talking about. Look what he just did.”

  “Yes, but that’s still a big leap to paying people to loot and vandalize,” Levy argued.

  “Or kil
l cops?” Whalen asked with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Wait. Are you suggesting Goodall ordered the execution of cops? What would be the point?” Levy couldn’t believe they were even considering such a scenario.

  “Retaliation,” Flynn said.

  “You kill one of ours, we kill one of yours.” Whalen shrugged. “People kill for less.”

  “Are you serious? You think Cabot and Olivarez were killed as retribution for DeShawn Beach’s death?” Levy said. Shymanski had floated the possibly at the crime scene, but she’d dismissed it. The angry ranting of a distraught man who’d just lost men under his command, with the underpinnings of a racist vending his unappealing views.

  “We can’t ignore it,” Whalen said.

  “There’s no evidence to—”

  Whalen leveled her with a stare. “I’ll have Toro and Lovato look into it if you—”

  “What?” Levy asked. “You’re taking it from me because you don’t think I’ll give it serious consideration?”

  “No. Because it’s their case,” Whalen said with patience. “You two have your hands full clearing your own case. You gave them a hand, now it’s up to them to run with it.” He leaned forward and placed his forearms on his desk. The sleeves of his dress shirt were shoved halfway up his arms. “Your priority is Stokes. What’s next with that?”

  “We’ve got an appointment to meet with Trey Beach and his mother tonight.” Flynn checked his watch. “And we better get moving.”

  Levy got up and so did Whalen, the old school gentleman.

  “You think Goodall will be there?” he asked.

  Flynn shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Worried, Levy looked at Flynn. With the smear campaign Goodall just launched against the NYPD and them specifically, she thought it would be in the civil rights leader’s best interests if he stayed far, far away from Flynn. From her, too, for that matter.

  They left Whalen’s office, grabbed their jackets and their guns, ready to head to the Beach residence when Flynn’s phone rang. He answered. “Ben, that was fast.”

  He put the phone on speaker and Levy huddled close.

  “Yeah, well you’ve got the luck of the Irish like no one I’ve ever seen.”

  “How so?”

  “The two jamokes on that subway video you sent me? I know ’em both. Recognized ’em right off, but just to be sure I had a couple other people check it out, too. Everyone came back with the same conclusion. Your cop killers are Tyrell Haywood and Jayden Walker. Haywood goes by the name Howzer. They’re a couple of real shit-birds, Flynn, got sheets so long you could wallpaper your squad room with ’em.”

  “That’s great, Ben. Incredible.”

  “Well don’t get too excited. You’ve still gotta find ’em. I sent a unit to their last knowns. Both of ’em are in the wind. We’ll rattle some cages here, see if anybody knows anything about where they’ve gone.”

  “Appreciate that,” Flynn said, smiling. “Also, if you can find out if they know anyone in New York—friends, relatives, whatever, specifically in or around Brownsville, Brooklyn. That was where they were last seen.”

  “We’ll ask around,” Gillot said. “I’ll e-mail you their jackets and anything else I can dig up.”

  “Thanks,” Flynn said. “Drinks just became an all you can eat steak dinner at Smith & Wollensky.”

  “I have a big appetite.”

  “I remember,” Flynn said with a laugh, ending the call. He put a call into Danny Toro to rely the good news. When he and Levy left the station, they felt more encouraged than they had since catching the Stokes case.

  A significant break, and maybe, finally, things were going their way.

  Residence of Eleanor Beach

  East 10th Street

  Alphabet City, Manhattan

  Tuesday, November 28th 6:35 p.m.

  ELEANOR BEACH AND HER son Trey lived on the second floor of a charming apartment building about half a block from Avenue B in a section of the East Village known as Alphabet City, the name derived from avenues A, B, C, and D. The neighborhood, once known for being a hotbed of illegal drug activity and violent crime, had transitioned over the last twenty years. As crime rates fell and rents skyrocketed, apartment buildings were bought and renovated while abandoned storefronts became thriving businesses.

  A rent-controlled corner two-bedroom unit, the Beaches’ living room windows overlooked a deli and a street mural of a jungle scene with tigers and parakeets and a vertical rendition of the flag of Puerto Rico. The apartment, while not large, didn’t feel cramped and was tastefully decorated with functional if dated furniture.

  Eleanor Beach had grown up in this apartment.

  Flynn and Levy sat on a sofa. The muted city sounds of cars passing by underneath leaked through the closed windows. Mrs. Beach sat in an overstuffed chair, worn but not yet in need of being replaced. Sonny Tillman sat next to her in a straight back wooden chair brought in from the dining room.

  Trey Beach stood off to the side, leaning against the doorjamb to what Levy assumed was his bedroom. He had his arms folded over his chest. His body held tight, like a coiled spring. Tense and ready to spring. He watched them. His eyes were full of contempt. His mouth was pressed in a firm, tight scowl. The door to his room was closed. That eliminated any chance they might find and seize evidence seen in plain sight.

  Levy was sure that was by design, at the instructions of their attorney, Sonny Tillman.

  Mrs. Beach had placed two mismatched mugs of hot tea on the coffee table for Flynn and Levy. With them were a porcelain sugar bowl, milk dispenser, two spoons, and a pile of paper napkins.

  They learned she was a registered nurse. Still in her uniform, a flower-print top and white pants, she worked at Mount Sinai Beth Israel and had just gotten off work an hour before. She clutched a tissue in her hand and looked tired.

  “I want it on the record,” Tillman said. “I oppose Mrs. Beach’s decision to speak with you.”

  “You do?” Flynn asked. “Or your boss does?”

  Tillman smiled. “On the contrary, Mr. Goodall felt it best she and her boy cooperate.”

  “I’m sure he did.” But Flynn left it at that.

  “We understand how upsetting this is, Mrs. Beach.” Levy leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her notebook in one hand. “And again, we’re sorry for your loss.”

  “I don’t need your platitudes, young lady. Just ask your questions so we can be done and you can leave.”

  “Do you know why DeShawn was out so late that night?” Levy asked. “Was that usual?”

  “If you’re implying my boy was a bad kid—”

  “We’re not implying anything, Mrs. Beach. We’re just trying to get a clearer picture of what happened that night.”

  “You know what happened,” Trey said. “Your boy gunned DeShawn down like a dog. ’Cause he was black. No other reason.”

  “We’ve spoken with Officer Stokes at length,” Levy said. “As well as checked his personal file, spoken with his family and friends, his co-workers. There’s no indication, no history of behavior to suggest that would be the case.”

  “Of course, you’d say that,” Trey said. “This is bullshit.”

  Mrs. Beach twisted in her chair. “Trey Michael Beach, you watch your mouth. I won’t tolerate that kind of talk in my house. You know that.”

  Trey looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet.

  With her attention back on Flynn and Levy, Mrs. Beach said, “Now, let’s get on with it. No, I didn’t know DeShawn was out there. When I work seven-to-three I’m in bed early. He must have snuck out. It was not usual, as you ask, but then if he snuck out before I wouldn’t know about it, would I?”

  “Do you know why he snuck out?” Flynn looked at Trey.

  “What’re you asking me for?”

  “You’re his brother. You sleep in the same room,” Levy said. “Did your brother confide in you, Trey? Can you think of any reason he’d be out that late at night? In that neighborhood?�
�

  “No.” Defiant.

  “Did he have a friend?” she asked. “A girlfriend he was visiting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He already said no, Detective,” Tillman said. “Twice.”

  Levy nodded and jotted notes down in her notebook.

  “We have reason to believe DeShawn broke into an apartment that night, at the Vladeck Housing Project.” Flynn kept his eyes on Eleanor Beach to gauge her reaction.

  “You’re saying my boy’s a criminal?” Mrs. Beach choked on the words as sobs overtook her.

  Levy turned to Trey. “You know anything about that, Trey?”

  The young man pushed off the doorjamb. “Man, you two are bugging. DeShawn wasn’t no burglar. Whoever told you that is lying.”

  He waved his hand at them, indicating he was done with them. He stormed off into the room. Levy watched him go, knowing he’d gone to the kitchen.

  “You’re trying to say my boy was a criminal.” Mrs. Beach leveled them both with a withering hard stare once she’d regain control over her tears. “Talking ill of the dead. How dare you both.”

  “Careful, Detectives,” Tillman warned. “You don’t want a slander charge leveled against you.”

  “We’re just trying to make sense of what happened out there,” Flynn said. “Not place blame.”

  Mrs. Beach held her hands folded one of the other in her lap. Right over left. She changed them, now left over right. Levy wondered, was that her tell? An unconscious, involuntary movement, done out of nervousness. A tell often indicated someone was lying about something or concealing something.

  “Is there something you’re not telling us, Mrs. Beach?” Levy probed.

  She shook her head, but after a time, she asked, “You said the Vladeck Projects?”

  “That’s right,” Flynn said. “On Water and Gouverneur Streets. Does that mean anything to you?”

  She hesitated and delicately licked her lips. “Years ago. When the boys were young—after their father left—there was a young woman there who ran an in-home daycare center. It wasn’t sanctioned or licensed or whatever is required by the city. Young, single mothers like me couldn’t afford those proper, fancy daycare places. We made do with friends and friends of friends. People like us who would take in kids, take care of them when we needed. We paid ’em what we could afford. It wasn’t a lot but we all survived, you know?”