FLASH POINT (Thomas Blume Book 6) Page 6
“Reeves. But I—”
“So, you can spend your days sucking up to Reeves, or you can get a real taste of how policing works and do this one quick job for me. And when the next junior detective position becomes available, I’ll put in a good word.”
There are two types of detectives in the NYPD. Detective Investigators and Detective Specialists, but the former are the ones everyone associates with being a proper investigator. The ones that investigate murders, rapes, and robberies. Some detectives are assigned to work specialist units, like terrorism, but these are much rarer. Most cops go through a spell in the Organized Crime Control Bureau before being selected to join the Detective Bureau. It can be a long and frustrating process. The tantalizing thought of shortcutting some of that must have been appealing.
I felt like a jerk for lying to the kid. He seemed capable if a little shy. The truth was that I was doing him a favor. There was no room for the timid on Homicide. Maybe in a few years, when the streets of New York had ground him into the hard-nosed, cynical son-of-a-bitch it made of everyone else, he would be ready. But not yet. Still, the dream of making detective early seemed to do the trick.
“You’d do that?” Harris was wide-eyed.
“I can’t promise anything, but you’d have a head start over the other officers. I mean, I can’t be any worse than guard duty. What do you do normally, Reeve’s paperwork, occasional beat patrols? Picking up drunks and perverts? You want out of all that and some real police work, I can help. But first, you gotta help me.”
The kid looked at me, cogs in his mind turning. “But why can’t you go inside, sir?”
“I pissed off that prick Lynch by questioning his orders. He’s got the Feds locking me out of the goddam building. You know how hard-ass those morons can be.”
I knew Lynch had rubbed plenty of the officers the wrong way and how the Police and the Feds had a complicated relationship at the best of times. Every cop knew it, from Captain to rookie. Harris was nodding along before I’d even finished speaking.
“So anyway, all I need is a file. It’s easy and quick. No fuss no muss.”
“Wh-what is it?”
“The boys in OCCB are working on the biker gang problem right now. I was talking with Turner the other day about it.” I had no idea if Turner still even worked with the Organized Crime Department, but it helped sell the lie. “He told me about a file they put together on the latest activity. I just need a name, a contact, a place to start.”
“You think bikers are behind this?” Harris said, looking around at the chaos.
“Maybe, maybe not. But I have a lead I need to follow.” I kept the details tantalizingly sparse. Enough to make it believable, enough to intrigue a rookie cop.
“Ok,” Harris said, nodding and taking a deep breath, more to convince himself than anyone else. “Where is it?”
I talked the kid through the files on the NYPD database—as best I could remember and gave him my cell number. That way, if he got stopped inside, or pulled onto some other task. He could quickly send me the information.
I repeated the process to him, but the kid was bright and learned fast. “Got it,” he said. “Give me ten minutes.”
He stepped away and looked over his shoulder before entering the building. I gave a thumbs up and turned away.
When Harris disappeared into the building. I waited, half-expecting a full FBI tactical team to come and take me away at any time. Sure, they had more significant problems, but I was still impersonating an officer and coercing a young cop into breaking the law.
I was relieved when a few minutes later, my phone pinged. The message was short, presumably from Harris, too afraid to send a more detailed explanation. I imagined him hiding in a cleaning closet somewhere and typing on his phone like a spy. For some reason, the notion was darkly hilarious.
Either way, the kid had done good.
There wasn’t much information in the message. Just a name and a location, but it was all I needed. Well, almost all I needed. If I was going to track down this contact, I would need one more thing. I hit reply on my own phone and asked the kid to speak to Kinsey for me.
Whether Harris would follow through on my second request, or if just digging up the file had given him a heart attack I would never know, but it was worth a shot.
In any case, I had no time to wait around and find out. I had a place to start and a name; Donnie Lewis.
THIRTEEN
It felt good to finally see clear skies and undamaged city roads once again, without the fog of dust and debris covering the 10th Precinct. I was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a new world with just your regular polluted air and ordinary bad-tempered New Yorkers.
But my mood quickly soured. Even before I reached the booth at the entrance, I could hear the idiot from across the street. As I closed on the source of the noise my anger built.
The main impound lot for towed vehicles in Manhattan is an enormous, sprawling complex near the water’s edge at Pier 76, not far from the Lincoln Tunnel. It sits opposite the Jacob K. Javits convention center and makes up a vast parking lot comprised of every manner of vehicle you could imagine. Stretching out into the water, the concrete pier seems like some kind of quarantine for cars, where only upon payment can they be released.
I had visited the NYPD Tow Pound twice in my career as a cop. Once to investigate a vehicle used as part of a murder, the second time—more embarrassingly—to recover my own car which I had inadvertently parked blocking a fire hydrant.
The boys at the pound had found it hilarious to be dealing with a respected detective, but today I had no time for games.
The pound was only a couple of blocks away from the station, so I had hustled the distance on foot, not wanting to negotiate the building Manhattan traffic. Now, as I approached the booth guarding the main entrance, I already wished I’d called ahead.
I wasn’t a cop anymore, and as such, I wouldn’t have so much pull. Today I would have to queue just like anyone else. On the plus side, there was only one man in front of me.
The downside; he was an asshole.
He wore a leather jacket, tight jeans, and a man-bun haircut that may have been ironic in a hipster kind of way—or just sad. He had one hand against the booth and was arguing with the woman inside aggressively.
She, on the other hand, appeared bored. The middle-aged black woman looked at the hipster with eyes half-closed and weariness in her voice.
“Sir, like I have already said. Unless you have the paperwork, a receipt to indicate payment of the penalty charge, or a field release agreement, the vehicle will not be released.”
The man slammed his hand on the countertop. “I need that bike back now! I got it as part of a repo, and now I have a buyer hanging on the line. If I can’t bring it to him this afternoon, I’m screwed.”
“Perhaps you should have considered that before parking the motorcycle in a disabled spot.”
“Do you know how much that bike is valued at! It’s a classic. Worth a goddamn fortune. Original Indian Chief from 1960 or 1970 or something. 500cc rare as hell.”
“So?” the woman replied nonchalantly.
“Listen bitch, if I don’t get inside I—”
I grabbed the prick from behind by his collar and spun him around. He stank of smoke and cheap aftershave. I stared hard into his eyes and spoke with a low voice.
“Listen, moron, this woman is doing her job, and if you don’t quiet down, I’ll be tempted to do mine.”
With this, I opened the inside of my jacket, revealing the holster and pistol contained within.
“That bike you so clearly love would be a 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle, not 1960. It’s also 1300cc, but you wouldn’t know that since you clearly aren’t interested in it for restoration. What are you, a loan shark?”
The man stepped back from me, smoothed his jacket and frowned before jutting his chin out in something resembling pride. “A personal financier,” he replied. “I help people.”
“You don’t frighten me, tough guy,” the man spat. “I work with jackasses like you every day, and once I get my bike I’ll—”
Hidden from the woman in the counter, I delivered a sharp punch to the man’s gut and grabbed him again. He doubled over, groaning in pain and I whispered in his ear once more.
“What did I just say about name calling? Now, you’re going to sit here and think about your choices. The next words you say to this woman had better be polite or we’re going to have a real problem.”
The man coughed and gasped for air. He faintly nodded, and I released his collar, dropping him roughly to the ground. He slumped, half-sitting on the curb and scooped up mouthfuls of air.
Leaving the hipster shark to consider his life choices, I stepped up to the booth.
The woman inside regarded me carefully then glanced to the curb. “You didn’t have to hit him; I had it under control. We get assholes like that here every day.”
“Nah, I didn’t have to, but it was fun.” I couldn’t stop myself adding a wink.
The woman looked at me, unimpressed. “What can I help you with sir?”
“I need access to the lot. Special authorization.”
She rolled her eyes. Her trademark, no doubt.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but once again, without the correct I-466 form, I’m unable to allow entry. If you would just—”
The sharp trill of a phone echoed from inside the booth. The woman held up a finger and turned to answer it.
“Parkin … yes … ok. I understand but without the I-456 I can’t …. Yes, ma’am. I will.”
She hung up the phone and turned back to me.
“Seems like you were telling the truth. I just had a call from one Captain Kinsey. I don’t think I like that woman.”
“You wouldn’t be the first. What did she say?”
“She asked me to let you in.”
I got the impression there was very little asking involved, but I didn’t query it. The barrier craned upwards, creaking all the way to the vertical. “Thank you,” I said.
And thanks, Captain Kinsey.
I stepped into the vast parking space where rows of cars of every size and shape and color greeted me, lined up like metallic soldiers against the chain-link fences. Endless rows of gleaming metal. Most were easy to ignore, some stood out more than others.
Near the end, a bright pink ice cream truck sat silently, while halfway along I clocked a brilliant white limousine. No-one was safe from the vigilance of the traffic cops.
As impressive as these vehicles were, I was there for one purpose, and one purpose only.
I passed the end of the parked cars, reached the eastern edge of the Tow Pound, where they stored the non-four-wheeled vehicles. The specialist transportation.
One, in particular, drew my eye and I smiled. It seemed fitting.
Deep red, polished chrome, leather pannier bags and sweeping fairings.
It would be rude not to.
***
I twisted the throttle of the classic motorcycle and earned a low growl from the engine beneath me. Kicking the stand back into place, I pulled away, urging the bike forward and out of the storage yard. As I reached the exit, I slowed just enough so Mr. Loan Shark at the front could glimpse the bike—his bike.
He shouted, but I didn’t hear the words beneath the thick helmet I had found in the pannier bag.
As the barrier opened once more, I gunned the Indian Chief and pulled it onto the road beyond.
As the streets whisked by, I urged the bike forward, grateful I had chosen the motorcycle. I had a feeling it would be necessary for the job I had planned, but more than that, it allowed me to cut through the traffic. Manhattan was in chaos.
Hell, Manhattan was always in chaos, but today it was something extra. The bomb blast had some people fleeing their homes and others trying to get a glimpse of the action. Vultures hoping to capture footage of the blast scene and make a few bucks by uploading it online.
The snarl of traffic that flew by my motorcycle stretched for miles in every direction, while off to my right, the plume of dust was rising into the evening sky. Cars were in complete gridlock and, had I chosen to take a squad car, I would have been sitting stationary for hours.
Hours I didn’t have.
FOURTEEN
Almost everyone in New York knows Joe’s Pizza. In fact, half of the world knows about the famous Greenwich eatery thanks to its appearance in film and on TV. When the friends in a sitcom want to grab a slice, Joe’s was the place to go. When Peter Parker needed a job in between being Spiderman, Joe’s was his employer.
The corner eatery at Carmine and Bleecker Street in the South Village had become so famous that many tourists now grouped it among their must-see locations upon visiting the Big Apple. The Empire State building, Central Park and Joe’s Pizzeria.
But not everyone appreciated the café quite so much. Josie McLennan, daughter of late Jersey mob boss Tony ‘Mac’ McLennan hated the place, in fact. As a teenager, when her father was killed during an FBI sting operation, she had attempted to legitimize the family business by turning the various properties her father owned into a chain of Italian restaurants … and pizzerias.
Unfortunately, Josie wasn’t much of a chef. In fact, the only thing her old man had taught her was how to cook the accounts. She lost two of her restaurants due to health code violations and, when the tax man came knocking some years later, Josie had lost everything else. Her money, her businesses, even her apartment.
The only thing left was one remaining pizza place. Her first one. And she’d be damned if she lost that to the man, too. So, she took over personally, hired a half-decent chef, and Josie’s Pizza was born—a little jab at the more famous Joe’s, just two block away.
Josie’s isn’t the best pizza in the city. In fact, it isn’t perfect at all. The cheese is overcooked, the dough has too much flour, and the toppings are second-rate, but her little joint does have one thing it’s more famous competitor didn’t.
Connections.
Tony might have been long dead and buried, but Josie keeps a healthy connection to the New York underworld. She doesn’t pedal drugs, has never touched prostitution and leaves the shootings and burglary to the Russians. Instead, Josie’s pizza is a place for second chances.
If that is, you are the kind of person who needs one.
The tiny doorway and greasy glass window didn’t give much away from the outside. Situated on the corner of Bleecker and 6th Avenue, it could have been any other pizza place or even a 7-11. But as I pushed the door open, I was greeted by the familiar clamor of dozens of voices all battling to be heard.
The place was packed, as always. The atmosphere far more appealing than the food. The long thin building only allows for two tables width-ways, but it stretches back almost fifty feet, right to the kitchens at the end.
Each table was full; the small bar area was the same. A smell of melted cheese and stale beer greeted me as I stepped inside. God, it smelled great. Like home.
But there was no time to further soak in the ambiance. Amid the dinner crowd, the gray-haired old timers sipping coffee and the sports jacket-clad New Jersey wannabes shooting the breeze and talking loudly at each other, I searched for my target; Donnie Lewis. Though I had no idea what the man looked like.
All the staff were dressed in black, and none screamed ‘biker.’
At the back was a waiter, short, maybe five-four if he wore lifts, with broad shoulders and curly hair. Dressed in a black polo shirt and carrying a tray of drinks, he was serving two of the rearmost tables and squeezing between crammed chairs and raucous patrons.
Near the door was another waiter, this one taller and with a full sleeve tattoo on his right arm.
Was that Donnie? Or was Donnie one of t
he other staff, one I had yet to see?
Without a picture, I had no clue, but I would have to tread carefully. They say that ex-cons can sense a cop, even an ex-cop. If I spooked the guy, he would be gone in a flash.
This was his ‘second chance.’ Like most of the staff at Josie’s, Donnie had just completed a stretch in prison. Four months for street racing and grand theft auto, according to the record.
“Blume!” boomed a voice from behind the bar.
My pulse jumped. I turned instinctively and saw the main woman herself—Josie—standing there, hands on hips. She beamed a smile and waved at me. Highly regarded by many who met her, gregarious, easy-going and immediately likable, she is an easy woman to get on with. I smiled and nodded, pushing forward through the crowd.
“Hey, get your ass over here and show me some love!” Josie cried above the din. “I haven’t seen you in years!”
I raised a hand absently and tried to calm her hollering, but it was too late.
I turned back just in time to see the kitchen door slam open and a figure dash through the exit.
“Wait! I need to—”
But whoever Donnie was, he didn’t wait for me to finish my sentence. A crash from the Kitchen told me he wasn’t coming back.
“Damn it,” I whispered under my breath, and I raced after him.
FIFTEEN
Donnie Lewis was fast. A greyhound on steroids. I bolted after him, knocking a waitress aside, sending a tray of drinks to the floor and earning a string of curses. I yelled an apology over my shoulder and bashed open the kitchen doors with the grace of a drunken buffalo.
I skidded to a stop on the slippery kitchen floor and scanned left and right.
Across, two confused looking cooks glanced at me. Steam filled the air with smells of melted cheese and oregano. Any other day I would have savored the culinary setting. At the back of the room, a fire exit door was swinging wildly on its hinges. Someone had left in a hurry.
I dashed between the stainless-steel countertops and stumbled over a crate of oranges near the door. Shouldering into the fire exit, I burst outside into the rear parking lot. For a second, the sudden brightness of the setting sun blinded me. Everything was brilliant orange and red; too much, but then as my eyes adjusted, I caught my target. Dressed in black with a matching helmet, Donnie was on the other side of the chain-link fence—gate closed between us, sitting on a stocky black motorcycle. He fumbled with a key. I could hear mumbled curses from twenty feet away.