While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2)

by David DeLee

  At that hour all but a few of the cubicles were unoccupied.

  A young man, black, wearing a dress shirt, tie, dress slacks, and black-rimmed glasses looked up. Surprise and concern widened his eyes. He had a cup of coffee, a Danish, and a computer tablet open on his desk.

  “Um, I’m not sure…” he started.

  Flynn held up his badge and put a finger to his lips. He could hear voices down the hall, coming from the corner office. Goodall’s office. Over the cubicle partitions, he saw Harriman and his people enter the maze of workstations. They quickly began disconnecting laptop computers. The sudden beeps and slapping sounds of computers closing caused the voices in the corner office to stop.

  A second passed before Sonny Tillman poked his head out to investigate.

  Flynn was there to give him a broad smile. “Morning, Sonny.”

  Tillman’s expression soured. “What’s going on here, Detective?”

  “We have a warrant to search the premises,” Levy said, holding the warrant out for him.

  Tillman looked at it as if the folded blue document might contain Anthrax. Reluctantly he accepted it. “Looking for what?”

  Before anyone could answer, Goodall called out, “What the hell, Sonny? Get back in here.”

  “We’ve got…a problem.”

  Goodall appeared at the office door behind Tillman. He locked eyes with Flynn. “Motherfucker.”

  “Hi, Teddy.”

  “This is fucking harassment.”

  Whalen and Harriman came down the aisle toward him from the opposite direction. “Afraid not, Mr. Goodall. I’m Captain Whalen. This is Agent Harriman.”

  “I’m with the Attorney General’s Office, Mr. Goodall,” Harriman said. “This is no longer a simple local police matter. The state’s involved now.”

  Flynn bristled at Harriman’s use of the phase “simple police matter” but let it go. He was too busy enjoying Goodall’s reaction. And then Goodall made his day.

  He pushed past Tillman and charged at Flynn. “I’ve had enough of this. Cop or no cop, I’m putting you down.”

  “Theodore, no!” Sonny shouted, but Goodall ignored him.

  Flynn stood his ground until Goodall bumped chests with him, like they were WWF wrestlers, taunting each other, strutting their stuff. “Back off, Teddy.”

  Goodall slammed both hands into Flynn’s chest, driving him back.

  Flynn took a step back to counter the blow, even as he swiped his handcuffs from where they were looped around his belt. He caught Goodall by the wrist, spun his arm down and around his back. With painful leverage, he twisted Goodall and slammed him into the wall.

  “Theodore Goodall, you’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.” Flynn spoke close to his adversary’s ear. “And for making my day.” He twisted Goodall’s arm up toward his shoulder blades. Teddy winced. Flynn grabbed Goodall’s other arm and handcuffed both wrists with a tight ratcheting of the cuffs.

  “Sonny, what the fuck?” Goodall sputtered. “Do something!”

  Sonny Tillman stepped forward. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Step aside, counselor,” Levy said, reaching for his arm.

  He pulled back violently. “Don’t touch me, girl.”

  “It’d be best if you didn’t interfere,” Levy warned, adding, “Counselor.” She held him in place with a stern look.

  “Best for who?” Tillman wanted to know.

  “You.”

  Flynn pulled Goodall off the wall. He looked at Whalen.

  Whalen nodded. “Go. We’ve got this.”

  Next to him, Harriman smiled. New to the game, he was enjoying it.

  “This is me cooperating,” Goodall shouted out.

  No one was around to hear him other than cops and agents until three men appeared, crowding around Goodall’s open office doorway. They had cell phones out. Videotaping, of course.

  Goodall raised his voice. “This is me doing exactly what the police ask of me. No resistance. If I sustain any injuries, it’s not because I resisted.”

  “Teddy,” Flynn said. “You have the right to remain silent. Exercise it. Please.”

  Flynn continued the Miranda warning as he walked Goodall toward the exit. Levy accompanied him on Goodall’s far side. Sonny Tillman trailed in their wake, already with his cell phone at his ear. He had someone on the line, instructing them to get down to the office, to supervise the police conducting their search.

  In between he was advising Goodall. “Don’t say anything, Theodore. It’s your right. They can’t make you talk.”

  “Personally,” Flynn said, as Levy hit the elevator call button. “I’d like you both to shut the fuck up.”

  Homicide Division – Interview Room

  7th Precinct – NYPD

  Lower East Side, Manhattan

  Friday, December 1st 8:18 a.m.

  GOODALL SAT IN THE interrogation room, conferring with Sonny Tillman.

  Flynn stood on the other side of the one-way glass. He’d not left the spot since putting the two men inside. The intercom was turned off. To listen in would’ve been illegal and any information gleaned inadmissible. Flynn considered doing it anyway.

  Levy came into the room and handed him a cup of coffee. Not vending machine coffee, but Dunkin’ Donuts. His favorite. She was dressed up in a black pants suit and cream colored blouse. Her testifying outfit, he remembered her calling it the first time he saw her going into court. Her badge was clipped to her belt and her backup firearm, a small Sig 9mm, rode her right hip.

  He peeled the lid off the coffee and took a sip. “Where’s Whalen?”

  “His office. On a conference call with One PP.”

  “Better him than me. Anything from Harriman and his people yet?”

  “We just left them like thirty minutes ago,” she reminded him.

  “You could just say no.”

  She stared through the window for a few minutes. “Anything from these two?”

  “I didn’t listen in.”

  “How by the book of you. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I was about to when you came in.”

  “Then I’m glad I saved you from yourself.”

  They drank their coffee in silence, watching the two men talk. It was like watching a really boring silent movie. Then Flynn turned to Levy. “It’s good having you back. I just wanted to say that.”

  “Same.” She started to say more but was cut short by a knock on the door.

  Harriman came in holding a file folder and a stack of papers. He had a wide grin on his face. “I think we’ve got something you can use.”

  Flynn waved him inside. “Tell us.”

  Harriman leaned over an old wooden desk and spread out the contents of a file folder. A lot of it was spreadsheets and bank account statements. He walked Flynn and Levy through the ownership of several shell companies held by Goodall under the Block-by-Block corporate umbrella. “All perfectly legal on the surface,” Harriman said, “except in a number of instances, the listed employees don’t seem to exist. The names, socials, addresses, all appear to be made up.”

  “For what purpose?” Levy asked.

  Harriman straightened up. “Near as we can tell, each of these companies have been set up for the sole purpose of hiding and funneling money.”

  He went into detail regarding the movement of monies over the last few days that they’d found. His team had cross-referenced funds going out of Block-by-Block and subsidiary companies with credits going into various other banking and online payment system companies, like PayPal, ClickBank, and ProPay, including Haywood’s and Walker’s institution of choice U-Pay Checkout.

  There were dozens of cross-checked items from various company accounts highlighted in yellow. Flynn zeroed in on two labeled transactions in particular.

  He snatched up the pages in questions and headed for the door. “Come on.”

  Levy scooped up the rest of the reports, haphazardly stuffing the pages back into the file folder and hu
rried after Flynn as he stormed into the interview room. To Harriman, she said, “Good work. Thank you.”

  She went into the interview room behind Flynn and shut the door.

  Goodall and Tillman looked up. They were seated on one side the table.

  “Detectives,” Tillman said, “I’m still conferring with my client.”

  Flynn slapped the pages he carried onto the table. “This is it, Teddy. The end of the line.”

  “What are you—”

  Levy stepped up beside Flynn and touched his arm. She nodded for him to back off.

  “I want to remind you both. Your client’s been read his Miranda warning and those rights still apply. During our search of your office computers, new evidence has been uncovered. At this time, would Mr. Goodall like to discuss this new evidence?”

  “What new evidence?” Goodall demanded.

  “Evidence that supports two counts of felony murder.” Flynn pulled out a chair and sat down. Levy did the same.

  “This is outrageous,” Tillman said.

  Goodall smirked. “Who did I supposedly kill, detectives?”

  “Officers Leon Olivarez and Jordan Cabot.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Tillman said.

  “You’re trying to pin the murder of two cops on me? That’s ridiculous. Especially since you’ve already gunned down the alleged perpetrators, or don’t you think they did it now?”

  “We got the men who pulled the triggers, sure, but not the person who hired them. He’s sitting right here in this room.” Flynn stared hard at Goodall.

  “Hired them?” Goodall stood up and paced the room before turning back on Flynn. “The news said it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The young men had arbitrarily picked those officers. I do not condone what those young men did, but it was clearly a random, spontaneous act.”

  “You should know better than to believe manufactured news, Teddy. I mean, you’ve made so much of it up yourself.”

  Goodall returned to the table and slammed his fists into it. He leaned heavily on his arms. “Your vendetta against me is fucking with your head, Detective.” He stabbed a finger at his own temple to demonstrate.

  “Theodore, calm down,” Tillman said. “And for God’s sake, shut up.” To Flynn and Levy, he said, “What is this so-called evidence you claim to have, detectives?”

  Flynn cast a look to Levy to go ahead. She was better at explaining this stuff than he was.

  She waited, looking expectantly at Goodall until the silence and her stare became uncomfortable. He pulled the chair back and plopped down into it.

  “The AG’s Financial Crimes Bureau has begun conducting their audit of your company’s holdings, and in particular, your financial records.”

  “Looking for what?” Tillman demanded.

  “Any illegal irregularities,” Levy said.

  “You won’t find any. My books are clean,” Goodall said.

  “Not like it would be the first time you’ve been on the wrong side of the IRS,” Flynn said.

  Over the years Goodall had been charged with underreporting the financial gain of a home he sold in Aspen, Colorado. He’d undervalued the purchase price of property bought in Florida. He’d failed to pay property taxes on commercial properties he owned in both New York and New Jersey. And he’d failed to report stock assets and other sources of income over the years to the tune of three-quarters of a million dollars.

  The only thing that had kept him out of jail had been the IRS’s inability to trace the blame directly back to him rather than to his money managers. Several of whom fell on their swords, were tried and convicted. A few even served short prison sentences without turning on Goodall. That kind of loyalty could only be bought, Flynn decided.

  Goodall did end up having to pay the back tax amounts and applicable penalties and fees. And endure a few months of embarrassing press, which the public with its notoriously short memories promptly forgot after the next new scandal hit a politician or Hollywood celebrity.

  Goodall shrugged. “We learn for our mistakes, detectives.”

  “Maybe,” Flynn said. “Or maybe you learn to be better at hiding them.”

  “That’s bordering on slanderous,” Tillman warned.

  Flynn ignored the attorney. “Or maybe you don’t.” He tapped the papers on the table. “These indicate a much bigger problem than failing to pay your taxes. A problem you won’t squirm out of this time.”

  “What are we talking about, Detective Flynn?” Tillman asked.

  It was Levy who answered. “We’ve traced large sums of money filtered through various Block-by-Block subsidiaries. Subsidiaries that have zero employees, no function, exist for no other reason than to hide or funnel money. Money paid to foreign tax havens and organizations and individuals as far away as Boston, Chicago, Baltimore, and Detroit.”

  “What organizations and individuals are we talking about?” Tillman asked.

  Levy read off a few. They were known individual activists, civil rights groups, church organizations, even advertising costs, all paid by subsidiaries owned by Goodall’s Block-by-Block corporation.

  “What were the reasons for these payoffs?” Levy asked.

  “I resent the use of the term payoffs,” Tillman said. “Those are all legitimate businesses and faith-based groups. The monies paid to them were for travel, meal per diem, accommodations, and other expenses related to organizing many of the rallies staged in the city this week.”

  “Riots, you mean,” Flynn said.

  “That’s defamatory and wholly untrue,” Tillman said. He returned his attention to Levy. “Unless you’ve got more than this, I think we’re done here.”

  He started to stand up.

  “Sit down!” Flynn snapped. “We’ve not even begun. Your client,” he said with contempt, “needs to explain these two payoffs in particular.” He emphasized the word payoff on purpose, to piss them both off and get them rattled.

  He pulled out the two account summaries Harriman had shown them earlier, the ones detailing the payments to Haywood’s and Walker’s U-Pay CheckOut accounts. Highlighted in yellow marker were four identical deposits. Two on Monday morning. Two more on Wednesday afternoon. Each in the amount of five thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars in total to each shooter. Half up front, half upon completion of the job. With the added benefit, it kept the amounts under the bank industry mandatory reporting amount of ten-thousand dollars per transaction.

  “Tell me, then, what did Tyrell Haywood and Jayden Walker do to earn ten thousand dollars each from the,” Levy turned the papers around to read from them, “Seize the Day Foundation?”

  When neither man spoke, Flynn said, “Recognize it?”

  Still nothing from them.

  “You should,” Flynn pressed. “You own it.” To Levy, he said, “That’s a hell of a stipend for attending a peaceful protest in New York, don’t you think? I wonder, did everyone you brought in from out of town get that amount to come protest?”

  He pawed through the papers as Levy said, “No. Not everyone got paid ten thousand dollars.”

  “No?” Flynn pretended to be genuinely surprised. “No one else got that much?”

  “Not that we can find,” Levy confirmed. “Not even close.”

  “Care to explain why we can’t find anyone else who received that kind of payoff?” Flynn asked. “You brought in whole groups, busloads of them, for a fraction of that price. Please explain, gentlemen?”

  Visibly shaken, Tillman said, “My client, we, we’ve got nothing more to say. I’d like to confer with Mr. Goodall at this time. Alone.”

  “I thought you might.” Flynn and Levy stood up. Together they gathered up the papers they’d brought in. At the door, Flynn said, “Just knock when you’re ready to make a statement. I’m sure the DA will look favorably on your cooperation.”

  “Or,” Levy added, “Maybe not.”

  They left.

  Manhattan Criminal Court - Grand Jury

 
; 65 Centre Street, Lower Manhattan

  Friday, December 1st 10:35 p.m.

  CHRISTINE LEVY RUSHED DOWN the corridor toward the Grand Jury room. Brooke Prescott stood outside the closed doors, impatiently waiting and checking her watch. The hallway was mostly clear of people.

  “I’m here,” Levy called out. Her heels clicked loudly on the highly polished floor. When she reached Prescott, she said, “The interview with Goodall went long.” She nodded toward the closed doors. “Did you tell him?”

  She shook her head. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms these days.” She opened the door, ushering Levy into the grand jury room. With a smile, she said, “Good luck.”

  Levy stepped inside the auditorium-like room. The walls were slatted strips of light pine with illuminated white space between them. A decorative choice popular thirty years earlier. Brown, indoor-outdoor carpeting covered the floor. There were three tiers of seats to her left. Twenty-three people in movie theater-style seats, many of them had side tables pulled up and paper in front of them so they could take notes. There was a general mix of men and women, mostly white with a few African Americans and Hispanics and two Asians.

  Joseph Gregg stood behind a podium addressing the jurors. Hearing the door open, he stopped and smiled. “Ah, here she is now.”

  He stepped out from behind the podium and directed Levy to a table facing the jurors. “I was just filling in our panel on your extensive police background, Detective Levy.”

  The door swung closed behind her with a metallic click. It echoed loudly in the chamber. She was reminded of the heavy metal sound of a jail cell closing, signaling imprisonment.

  She flashed a smile at the twenty-three people scrutinizing her, feeling like a fish in an aquarium. Gregg pulled a chair out from the table and pushed it in as Levy sat.

  He returned to the podium and cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Detective Levy’s a ten-year veteran of the NYPD. She’s won the Meritorious Police Duty medal and two Community Service Commendations. For most of the last three years she’s worked in Internal Affairs investigating corrupt police officers.”