by David DeLee
“A tough one?” he asked. As a former agent, he hadn’t been spooked by the fact she was a cop. That hadn’t always been the case with the men she met. Still they tried to keep the shop talk to a minimum.
“You could say that.”
“You survived it, so there’s that.” He smiled. They toasted, and she drank.
“It’s like the city’s gone crazy,” he said. “There was another big protest at Penn Station near my office this afternoon. I heard it turned violent. Two cops were hurt.”
At the sound of approaching police sirens, Levy looked past Chad at the windows onto Suffolk Street. Chad twisted in his chair. A blue and white screamed by, its emergency lights flashing.
“Glad you’re out of the business?”
“I miss parts of it,” he said. “I won’t lie. But not when it’s like this.”
They ordered. She had the braised veal cheeks. For him, the sixteen-ounce grass fed ribeye steak. When the waiter had gone to put the order in, Chad pulled his briefcase from under the table and snapped it open. From inside, he extracted a thick file folder and a computer flash drive. He slid them across the table to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“The stuff you asked me to look into.”
“Already?”
“Don’t be too impressed, there’s not a lot there. I pulled together what records I could that were accessible to the general public. It’s thorough for what it is, and there’s enough in there to get you started.”
“I didn’t tell you what I’m after.”
He forced a smile. “I’m former FBI, Christine. I recognize a fishing expedition when I see one.”
She bristled at that but remained quiet.
“Goodall’s shooting his mouth off about the police shooting of DeShawn Stokes. He and it are all over the news. You wanted to know if I could find any shady dealings with him or his organizations. You’re working the shooting for IA and want something to use as leverage to get Goodall off your ass.”
Not exactly, but Levy kept that to herself. “Is there?”
After Flynn and Whalen had floated the idea that Goodall might’ve paid out of town people to come into the city to grow the size of the protest crowds—not an unreasonable assumption—and that those same people might have been paid to do more than protest, including executing two cops as they sat in their blue and white, it was a theory she thought farfetched, but one that needed to be run down. She’d called Chad and asked him to see what he could find out for her.
“Nothing jumped out at me.” He tapped the file folder. “But you dig deep enough into an organization this size you’re bound to find something. I’d concentrate on the flow of monies and any subsidiary holdings he has. And he’s got a lot of them. They could be shell companies used to hide shady business deals or to illegally move money. I’d look at off shore accounts, too. Tax havens. They’re all the rage these days.”
“This is great.”
He indicated the file again. “It only a preliminary glance, but I found a few things—I’ve highlighted them—you could hang a subpoena on. Might not rise to anything prosecutable, but it’s enough to open up the books for you. A deep dive might give you whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. This just about Goodall putting the NYPD in a bad light, or are you on to something more?”
You can’t take the cop out of the accountant, she thought. She wiped her hands on her napkin. “I can’t talk about it.”
He held up his hands. “Say no more.”
Their dinners arrived, and they ate, exchanging only small talk for the rest of the evening until dessert and coffee came. The waitress delivered her strawberry gelato and Chad had a regular coffee. He stirred cream into the cup and had become silent.
He laid the spoon down on the saucer. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
The way he said it, Levy tensed.
“I saw the interview Goodall did on Studio Live. Is it true?”
A tightness clutched her throat. She didn’t have to ask is what true. She met his gaze. “Yes.”
A vein pulsed along his jawline.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
She hesitated. “Probably.”
“Probably!”
The others in the restaurant looked at them. Even the waiter and the bartender who’d been deep in conversation by the register paused and gazed at them.
Chad lowered his voice. “Probably.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. She noticed a tiny scab of dried blood under his chin. He’d nicked himself shaving that morning. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and then stopped.
“What do you want me to say, Chad?”
“I was hoping you’d say no. That it was a lie. Fake news.”
“It’s not.”
He sat back and rubbed his hand down the thighs of his pants, like they were wet and he was drying them. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you keep something like that a secret?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was concerned you’d react like this. It’s not exactly a first date topic of conversation.”
“This isn’t our first date.”
“I was young.” She wasn’t proud of what she’d done, but she wasn’t ashamed of it either. It was work. Legal work and she’d need a job. It was that or a homeless shelter. “It was a long time ago.”
Suddenly, he blurted out, “How are you even a cop?”
“They missed it doing the background.” Then she stopped herself, refusing to go into the details. It wasn’t any of his business. “What does it matter? I did it. I can’t undo do it. Is it a problem for you?”
Of course it was, otherwise they wouldn’t have been having the conversation.
“Is it a problem? Yeah, it’s a problem,” he said. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You did porn.”
“A long time ago,” she said again.
“That.” He stopped. “I can’t even…”
She thought about all the bullshit she’d put up with from other cops over this. Not Flynn or the squad at the Seventh, they’d been great, but the IA guys and others, when it first came out. She thought about her fight with brass over it. The endless meetings with the employment lawyers and her union rep and the staff of the Chief of Personnel, defending herself, defending her meritorious career. Paying money to justify what she’d done earlier in her life to survive.
And she got angry. “You can’t even what? Did you think you were dating a virgin, for Christ sake?”
“This is a lot different than not being a virgin.”
“I had a life before you, Chad. You had one, too.”
“Not in porn.” He said it like it was a dirty word. “What do I say to my friends, my family?”
“How about nothing. It’s nobody’s business but mine. Wait. Are you embarrassed by me?”
He waited a breath before he answered. “As a matter of fact, yes. Of that.”
Levy felt her mouth drop open. “Get out.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She pointed toward the exit. “Get out!”
From the small bar at the back of the restaurant, the bartender glanced over, as did the customer who sat on a stool talking with him and the waiter.
“You heard me, Chad. Leave. Now.”
He pushed his chair back and stood up.
When he reached for his wallet in his back pocket, she said, “Don’t. Just go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t make me tell you again.” Levy fisted his coat and flung it at him.
He caught it against his chest. The bartender moved out from behind the bar. Chad noticed. He grabbed his briefcase and started to back away. As he left, walking backwards, he said, “I can’t help how I feel, Christine.”
The bartender came over to the table. He hit Chad with a stern look. Chad turned and shrugged into his overcoat. When he was gone, the bartender said, “Are you all right, Miss?
”
Levy pressed her lips together forcing back the tears threatening to fall. She nodded. When she was sure she could speak without the tears falling, she said, “I am. Thank you.” She forced a smile. “I could use another wine, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. It’s on the house.” He bowed slightly and added, “If you don’t mind me saying so, his loss.”
“Yes.” She forced a smile. “Yes, it is.”
Manhattan Criminal Court – Grand Jury
65 Centre Street, Lower Manhattan
Thursday, November 30th 9:35 a.m.
FRANK FLYNN CAME OUT of the grand jury room madder than Levy had ever seen him. Maybe even madder than when she told him she was transferring back to Internal Affairs. And that had been pretty mad. He hit the swinging door with a bang, almost running into a woman and a teenage boy walking past, the kid playing a game on his smartphone. The corridor was crowded with people, mostly lawyers and people talking to lawyers.
Levy sat on a low bench on the opposite side of the corridor thumbing her phone, answering e-mails she’d chosen to not answer the night before. After dinner, she’d gone straight home. She’d poured another wine she didn’t need, but wanted, and drew a bath. She soaked and cried and then went to bed.
Her eyes were puffy and swollen. She’d chosen a black sweater, black slacks, and a gray jacket. With her black overcoat draped over her lap and her eyes still bloodshot, she looked like she’d just come from a funeral. But the dark colors matched her dark mood.
She finished her last text and stood up, pocketing the device. “How’d it go?”
“It sucked.”
“Any sense of how the jury’s leaning?”
Before he could answer her, the grand jury door opened again. Joseph Gregg emerged adjusting the collar of his overcoat. He carried a briefcase and had a cell phone clutched in his hand. He saw them and frowned.
“What the hell was that in there?” Flynn demanded, blocking the attorney’s path.
Gregg stood his ground. “Back off, Detective, before you do something you’ll regret.”
“That’s not a grand jury you’re running in there, it’s a fucking witch hunt.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“What happened with Stokes yesterday has nothing to do with this case,” Flynn said. “It never should have been brought up.”
“I disagree. Not that I have to argue the finer points of the law with you. It goes to character,” the lawyer said. “It shows the man is unstable, prone to violent outbursts, drinks heavily, demonstrates poor judgment. The jury needs to know that if they’re to form a proper opinion.”
“Stokes wasn’t like that until you had him arrested. Our team has talked to everyone who knows him. To a person, they all agree. You turned him into that man. You’re the one destroying his family. His life.” Flynn poked Gregg in the chest. “You did that.”
Levy touched his arm. “Take it easy, Frank.”
“What are you trying to accomplish?” Flynn asked, backing a step away.
“What I’m doing is my job, Detective,” Gregg shot back. “Maybe you should try it. In case you haven’t noticed, this city’s in crisis. Protests every night, three nights straight. Looting. Violent clashes with police. People are getting hurt and it’s only a matter of time before some else gets killed. I’m not going to wait around and let that happen.”
“Don’t get all sanctimonious with me. I’m out there pulling people out of burning cars. Not railroading a good cop. What, you think forcing an indictment is going to save the city from itself? Or are you just trying to earn brownie points with the boss? Boost your win-loss record.”
“I don’t have time for this.” Gregg stepped to one side.
Flynn grabbed him by the arm. “Did you even tell them that Kevin Wills lied? That he recanted everything he said about the shooting. Did you tell them he wasn’t even there? That your only eyewitness account is a work of fiction made up by the city’s big trouble maker? Why are you even presenting this case? You’re a bureau chief, for God’s sake.”
Gregg shook off Flynn’s grasp. “Look, you don’t think Stokes killed that boy intentionally, prove it. Bring me evidence he didn’t gun DeShawn Beach down in cold blood and I’ll present it.” He looked at Levy then back at Flynn. “In other words, go do your fucking jobs and get out of my face.”
Gregg shouldered past Flynn and stormed off.
“I get to testify tomorrow,” Levy said. “Can’t wait.”
“Yeah, it’s a barrel of laughs.” He steered her down the hall in the opposite direction Gregg had gone. “You had coffee yet?”
“Sure, but I’m always up for another.”
They found a vendor cart on the sidewalk below the wide courthouse steps. Traffic moved sluggishly along Centre Street with the normal amount of honking horns and city noise. Coffees in hand, they walked north toward Pearl Street. Flynn had parked their car in a spot reserved for police near One PP.
“Let’s talk about anything but work. How was your hot date last night?” Flynn asked, sipping his coffee.
“Or not. It sucked,” Levy said. She pinched a piece off the pastry she’d bought with the coffee, balancing the two in one hand while she ate. “How was your night?”
“Sucked.”
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked.
“No. You?”
“No.”
They accepted each other’s stance on their personal privacy and walked, ate, and drank in silence. After a while, Levy said, “Work it is. Why do you think Gregg’s handling the grand jury himself?”
“To make sure he gets the outcome he wants. The whole idea of a grand jury is a farce in the first place. And since Prescott secured the Kevin Wills arrest warrant for us, I’m sure Gregg isn’t seeing her as much of a team player these days.”
They fell into quiet reflection before Flynn added, “You should have heard him in there. You’d have thought Stokes was the next Son of Sam.”
“Speaking of which,” Levy said. “Stokes, not David Berkowitz, I put a call into the Twelve-Two and spoke with Vachon. Karen declined to press charges, so he and his partner chose not to pursue the resisting arrest and assault charges against Stokes, either. They cut him loose, suggesting to Karen she get all the booze out of the house. She told them she already had.”
“Smart woman.”
Levy nodded. “Did you know she was pregnant?”
“No.”
“She told me when she was at the precinct.”
“Damn. Timing couldn’t be worse.”
“Nope. So, what’s our next move?”
Flynn sipped his coffee. “Damned if I know. We’ve got Stokes’ statement of what went down. We know DeShawn was caught in the commission of a crime and failed to follow a lawful order to stop. There’s virtually no forensics to confirm or refute his version of events. We’ve proven Kevin’s witness account is for shit. Without another witness—which we don’t have—to either corroborate or contradict Stokes’ account of what happened, I think that’s all we’ve got.”
“A dead end.”
“Pretty much.”
Others on the shooting team had interviewed friends, family, neighbors, and co-workers to get a read on Stokes. All the feedback was the same. Nice guy. Unremarkable. Average. A good but mediocre cop. A good husband and a great father.
Levy’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. The caller ID said it was Danny Toro. She answered.
“I’m looking for Flynn. I was told he was in court.”
“Was. I’m with him now. I’ll put you on speakerphone.”
They stepped off to one side of the sidewalk and huddled around the phone. “What’s up?”
The squad’s newest detective had to compete with static from a bad connection. “I got his text and the files he sent me last night, the ones from his detective friend in Detroit.”
Levy gave Flynn an inquisitive look.
He mouthed, I’ll t
ell you later.
“That guy’s thorough as hell, man. Anyhow, we might have a line on our two shooters.”
“Haywood and Walker?” Flynn asked.
“Yeah, yeah, them. You two want in?”
Flynn exchanged a glance with her.
She nodded. “Is that even a question?”
“Hell, yeah we want in,” Flynn said. “Tell us where and when.”
K & D Salvage Corporation
Avenue D
Canarsie, Brooklyn
Thursday, November 30th 11:15 a.m.
FLYNN AND LEVY DROVE BALLS to the wall, lights and sirens on all the way from Manhattan to the address Toro gave them. A staging area set up in the parking lot of a beer distribution company two blocks south from the target location. Flynn eased their vehicle to a stop next to Toro and Lovato’s plain-wrapped Crown Vic. A car no one would mistake for anything but a police vehicle. There was also a blue and white from the Six-Nine precinct and another unmarked car. Flynn guessed that had to be Hector Calderon’s, whom he spotted in a small group with Toro, Lovato, and two uniform cops.
Flynn got out and popped the trunk of their car. He handed a flak jacket to Levy before pulling out his own. As they vested up, the tearing sound of Velcro loud in the crisp air, Toro and Lovato came over. They already had vests on under their blue NYPD windbreakers.
Toro wore a shit-eating grin as he rubbed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Ready to saddle up, cowboys and girls.” He bowed to Levy with a smile.
Lovato licked his already moist lips and looked about as nervous as a grown man could look. If a person seeing him didn’t know better, they’d think the man was afraid of his own shadow.
But the opposite was true.
The tall, lanky cop was one of the toughest Flynn had ever worked with. And he was an excellent shot. He’d saved Flynn’s life in a shootout with two bangers who’d tried to rob a bodega a few years back.
He swiped his wind-blown comb over out of his face. “Glad you two could join us.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Flynn said.
“What’s the situation?” Levy asked, double checking her vest’s straps.
Before Toro or Lovato could answer, Hector Calderon sauntered over. A half-smoked cigar dangled from his lips. “Back for more, huh?”