Vengeance: A C.O. JONES Novel, #2

VENGEANCE

by

David M. P. Flynn

VENGEANCE. Copyright © 2015 by David M. P. Flynn. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First edition.

eBook, print book, and cover designed by John Daily, Elysian Press.

www.elysianpress.com

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

THIRTY

ONE

The middle aged man in the lightweight trench coat strolled down Martin Road in the mild June evening. He looked like he belonged on the suburban street in Ft. Lee, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from Manhattan. His eyes were the only part of him that was out of step with his casual body language. They darted left and right, studying every car he passed. The half light of dusk in early May served his training and purposes well as he quickly analyzed the condition of each make and model parked on the quiet, tree-lined street. Only another pedestrian passing close by could discern that the man was intently inspecting so many cars.

He slowed his pace further as he approached the year old Audi from the rear. An expensive, late model foreign car was his target for the evening. A small triangular window behind the rear passenger door fulfilled the second of his criteria, the EZ-Pass reader mounted on the inside of the windshield his third and the MD license plates closed the deal for him. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves and wiggled them over his fingers.

As he reached the side of the car he looked casually up and down the street before moving to the driver’s door. Finding it locked, he scanned the street once more. Satisfied he was not being observed, he slid the long slender metal bar called a Slim Jim from his sleeve, quickly inserting it between the window and the door’s weather stripping. He jiggled it downward and sideways until he heard a slight click. He withdrew the steel shaft, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. His head disappeared below the steering wheel, and barely twenty seconds later the engine sprang to life. The car pulled away from the curb and glided quietly down the street, the latest victim of theft in the state notorious for auto thefts.

As the man in the trench coat turned onto Palisade Avenue, he removed a small box from his pocket and set it on the seat beside him. He drove within the speed limit for several blocks before turning into a closed gas station. He pulled to the rear of the building and parked next to another German car in for servicing. From another pocket in the trench coat he took out a small tool kit and a roll of electrical tape. He set his equipment on the passenger side floor, reached beneath the dashboard and began working on the car’s electrical wiring harness. As he set to his task he started singing his favorite John Gorka tune softly to himself. He thought the lines of Stranger In My Drive’s Seat somewhat ironic as he sang to himself, If you want to keep your ride, park it on the Jersey side.

#

The cracked and dirty mirror in what was undoubtedly the last rundown hotel room near Times Square reflected exactly what Josie wanted to see. She smoothed her hands down her hips, shaping the short, red leather skirt to the contours of her well defined thighs. Against and atop the black fishnet stockings, the skirt and hips would demand the attention of even the most street-hardened hustler, she decided. The spangled tube top baring her midriff and defining the contours of her breasts, added to the impression she strove to create; a street whore out to ply her trade.

The last of her armor this soldier of the street had to don was a dirty blond, slightly out-of-control Dynel wig, the one she wryly referred to as her Tina Turner Signature Model. Once in place, and accompanied by her gold rimmed wraparound sunglasses, she was ready to take on the world.

She took a step back from the mirror, pulled the tube top down a notch and smiled at the amount of cleavage she now showed. Pretty hot stuff, Josie. That’s me all over, she crowed. She half turned and took one last look at her profile before grabbing her bag and bouncing out the door.

#

Further south, in the trendy Tribeca section of lower Manhattan, Francis Xavier Sullivan stepped out of the yellow cab on West Broadway and paid the driver. He stopped for a second to adjust his shirt cuffs while he took in the street crowd that the warm, late Spring evening had brought out of doors. He fingered the knot on his tie and buttoned his jacket. Satisfied with his appearance, he opened the door of Montrachet and shouldered his way through the always crowded bar.

Francis had often dined at the chic French restaurant in the golden days, a time which now seemed so long go and far away. Mulheren and I were the fair-haired boys, he thought to himself as he passed the center of the long, narrow bar. And there was the throne, the seat of power when Jack occupied it. He stopped for an instant and stared at a barstool no different from the rest.

It had been Jack Mulheren’s habit always to sit in the center seat of any bar they frequented, ready to hold sway, whether it was a cops’ bar or not. Montrachet was not a cops’ bar, not by any stretch of the imagination, but that had been so like Francis’s now deceased partner, always running slightly against the grain.

Nudged by a drunk on the way to the bathroom, Francis came out of his reverie and pushed on through the crowd to the dining room at the rear.

His practiced policeman’s eyes began to read the room even before he got to the Maitre D’s station. Mostly locals, he decided, with a smattering of Wall Street. Two sharkskin suits sans neckties at the end of the bar gave him the once over in return as he passed by. They looked vaguely familiar but Francis couldn’t put names to the faces. He made a mental note to ask the owner if the restaurant was having any sudden labor or carting problems.

At about the same time he reached the small wooden stand that held the reservation book, Jean Pierre spied him and came forward, his hand extended as wide as his smile.

"Monsieur Sullivan, comment ca va?" The pleasure in the Frenchman’s voice seemed genuine, and that pleased Francis. The man clasped his hand and covered his wrist with his left hand. The action struck Francis as comically political or religious even. The image of Monsignor Dwyer, his confessor for the past fifteen years came to mind. The pastor at St. Mary’s always greeted his parishioners in similar fashion after the twelve o’clock Mass.

"Pas mal, merci ... Et vous?" responded Francis. He turned his head and stared pointedly at the sharksin suits before smiling back warmly at the half owner of the very popular restaurant.

Jean Pierre followed Francis’s gaze and shook his head in dismissal. "Bien, he replied, his eyes quickly scanning the reservation list. I do not recall booking a table for you, but I’m sure I can find something suitable."

No need, my friend. I’m meeting the Deputy Commissioner.

Jean Pierre arched his eyebrows in relief, "Mais bien sur! I seated Commissioner Lynch not five minutes ago. This way."

#

George or Martha? the man in the trench coat said aloud as he approached the Bridge tollbooths. His decision would affect just where he exited the bridge on the Manhattan side, and might subsequently alter the life of someone he didn’t know, or care to know. George, I think. He aimed the Audi toward the tollbooths that would direct the car onto the upper roadway of the bridge. This section of the roadway had stood alone and unnamed for the first thirty years of the bridge’s lifespan. In the early 1960’s the bridge had been expanded to include a second roadway constructed directly below. The upper roadway had come to be known as George and the new, lower roadway humorously as Martha.

The man pointed the Audi at one of the EZ-Pass lanes, avoiding any interaction with a toll booth attendant. Nevertheless, he turned his face away from the left side of the toll booth where a camera was positioned. He slowly passed through the toll and guided the stolen car out into the merging traffic, disappearing among the thousands of cars that would cross into Manhattan in the next hour. Halfway across the bridge, the Audi merged over to the right hand lanes and head for the 178th Street exit.

Once off the bridge, the car turned north onto Fort Washington Avenue for three blocks and then east onto 182nd Street in the gathering dark. The Audi turned south at Broadway, then crawled to the red light at 181st Street and waited for the light to change. One half block away on the right stood the man’s destination, the Citibank Branch with the ATM window in the lobby, a lone beacon of business on the now deserted avenue. The light turned green and the Audi drove slowly by the bank and pulled into the curb, one block below.

As he passed the bank, the man in the trench coat scanned the street on both sides, searching out a likely candidate. His eyes rested momentarily on the Hispanic looking teenager leaning against a small storefront restaurant, partially blocking the Cuchifritos sign near the front door.

My money’s on you, Juan, he muttered. He pulled to the curb and killed the engine, making sure the jump start wiring was hidden completely under the dash. He surveyed the interior one last time. Sure he had left no clues to himself, he considered and then discarded the idea of removing the latex gloves. An observant thief might notice them but he was betting it was now dark enough that they wouldn’t draw any attention. He got out of the car, made a show of locking the door and walked quickly back to the bank. He enhanced his performance by glancing around as a nervous bank patron might, given the neighborhood and time of night. His excellent peripheral vision kept the young man in sight and he half smiled to himself as he felt the pair of eyes inspecting him.

Paco Ramirez, a street entrepreneur just weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, maintained his casual pose in front of the restaurant. Easy one, my man, he thought. Just go into the bank for half a minute and Paco has another radio to sell. Except for his eyes, Paco appeared unnoticing of the man in the trench coat. All the same, he fingered the handle of the long bladed screwdriver he introduced to his friends as El Liberadore in honor of all the music it had freed from Anglo cars.

The man in the trench coat reached the front door of the bank and looked around nervously once more before bringing out his wallet, extracting a bank card and using it to open the door. He pulled his card from the door slot and quickly stepped inside, pulling the door shut and locked behind him.

Paco pushed himself away from the building and started to walk slowly south on Broadway. After a few steps, he risked a look across the street toward the bank. The man in the trench coat was facing the automatic teller machine, his back to the door. Paco broke into a run as swift and as silent as his newly broken-in Nikes could manage.

He was across Broadway and through the intersection in a flash, pulling El Liberadore from his belt as he moved. He knew the Audi well and went immediately for the small triangular window behind the rear passenger door. The butt of the screwdriver smashed the window in one shot and Paco’s gloved hand shoved inside and popped the rear door open. He slid into the car, pulled the door shut and snaked his way over the seat backs and into the front passenger seat.

The man in the trench coat pressed up against the side wall of the small enclosure and watched as the thief turned to glance back toward the bank. He pulled his head back out of sight, counted to three and then risked another look out the window. All he could see was the back of the young thief’s head as he was intent on the five hundred dollar radio that was about to be his.

Only fifteen seconds had elapsed since Paco had pushed his body away from the Cuchifritos sign. In another fifteen he would be gone from the car with his prize. His hands wiggled the screwdriver blade between the dashboard trim and the radio and jerked the handle to the side. Parts of the dash flew off in small pieces and the radio popped free from its supporting bracket, tethered to the car only by the group of wires at the rear that connected it to power, speakers and antenna.

Paco held the unit in his left hand, pulled a pair of wire cutters from his jacket pocket and prepared to cut all the wires in one slice. Perhaps if he had not been in such a hurry, or was working under better lighting he might have noticed the extra wire attached to the rear of the radio. Probably not, since Paco was only a radio thief and not an electronics expert.

The man in the trench coat watched with patient interest as Paco neared the end of his labors. A sudden arc and flash of blue and yellow light from the front seat of the Audi immediately accompanied the odd jerking and spasms that Paco’s body produced. The man looked around casually for other witnesses. A small handful of curious people were materializing from nowhere, drawn to the car and the flashing light and jumping body inside.

The passenger window exploded, propelled outward by the heel of Paco’s sneaker. The crowd on the sidewalk gasped and jumped back as one entity. Cries of mira, mira, mira and Dios mio filled the air and greeted the ears of the man in the trench coat as he opened the bank door. He slipped out and walked slowly north, away from the gathering crowd.

#

The front doors of the Embassy Arms burst open, pushed outward by the force of nature in the Tina Turner Signature Model Dynel wig. Josie took three steps out onto the sidewalk and stopped, hands on hips, feet apart. Her grand entrance to what little was left of the seamy life of 42nd street since its Disneyfication was only one of a few entrances the street would see this evening. These little displays of showmanship were witnessed by crowds considerably smaller than a subway stop at rush hour. But in Times Square, the size of the audience was less important than its composition, especially after ten o’clock. The calculated entrance of a whore into the arena was intended for the clientele that frequented the area, not for judges at a beauty contest.

Josie did cut an imposing figure and momentarily commanded the attention of those in the vicinity, including the competition. She cast her head about arrogantly, stuck out her chest and challenged the world, Come and get it, you swingin’ dicks, Josie be open for business! She punctuated the last with a small shimmy of her thighs against the tight skirt and a shake of her shoulders. Her introduction over, she whirled to the right and sashayed down toward The Great White Way.

#

At about the same time as Josie’s Broadway debut, the wine steward at Montrachet was presiding over another kind of opening, that of a bottle of Chateau LaTour. Not one of the great years, but still an impressive gift from management to the new Deputy Commissioner, a fact not lost on either man at the table. Bertram Patrick Lynch, the newly minted commissioner, and his protégé Francis X. Sullivan watched Reynaud’s subtle showmanship with a corkscrew with a relish that comes to those who truly appreciate the perquisites of power and enjoy seeing one of them on display.

Being policemen they both also retained, even when off duty, that sense of place around them, the ingrained radar that allowed them to feel the eyes and thoughts of other patrons. They knew without a doubt they were the center of attention, at least for the moment.

Reynaud’s quick, sure fingers danced around the bottle as he slowly eased the ancient cork from its moorings until it released in a slow sigh of surrender. Summarily freed from the corkscrew it was presented to Commissioner Lynch in its entirety. Not many sommeliers could free a cork from a twenty five year old bottle and do no damage to it but Reynaud was certainly one of them. Bert Lynch accepted the prize with a smile and gently brushed the tip of his index finger over the moist bottom. Finding no crystallization, he brought the cork to his nose and sniffed gently. Again he smiled, and set the cork beside his salad plate. Reynaud prepared the next step in the ritual and decanted a small amount of the venerable claret into Bert’s wine stem. Bert started to raise the glass to his lips, then paused and looked to Francis. The younger man began to wave a negative reply, then hesitated only a second before reaching for the proffered glass.

Francis’s knowledge of French red wine was young compared to Bert’s, but he gladly accepted the invitation. He took the glass, held it to the light for several seconds, then swirled his wrist gently, studying the way the deep red liquid softly retreated from the sides of the glass. Satisfied with the wine’s miniscus, he passed the glass past his nostrils once and then again, before taking a small sip which he savored for several seconds more.

He swallowed and looked first to Bert and then to the expectant Reynaud. What if I tell him it’s shit? he wondered. Francis banished the mischievous thought as he savored the tannic aftertaste of the big Bordeaux. Bert, our host has outdone himself. It will be a challenge to the kitchen to stand up to such greatness.

Reynaud allowed himself a small grin as he placed Francis’s stem in front of Bert and filled both glasses halfway. I will send Alois to your table in ... ten minutes?

That will be perfect, my friend, answered Bert as he patted the other man’s forearm before he retreated from the table. As soon as he was gone, Bert smiled at his companion, raised his glass and Francis did likewise. Here’s to a couple of Harp cops who can keep the French guessing.

Francis grinned broadly and both men sipped.

Hmmm, you weren’t bullshitting, Francis, this is excellent. Bert hesitated a moment, then sipped again. You really did learn some of the finer things from Mulheren. He watched the younger man’s face closely as Francis absorbed the remark. If Lynch saw any betrayal of emotion, it was not evident.

Jack was many things, Bert, not the least of which was a lover of the grape. Did you know he willed me his wine cellar?

Really? Then I insist on being a dinner guest on a regular basis from now on.

Francis smiled at the older man as they both picked up their menus. Bert pulled out a pair of reading glasses and Francis raised his eyebrows at the gesture. The day will come when you’ll need them, too, so no sass about it, eh? was Bert’s weak response to the unspoken observation.

From behind the relative safety and distraction of the menu, Bert fired his first salvo of the evening. What’s this I hear about you going to the 34th, Francis? It’s a fucking toilet.

There are worse places, Bert. I needed a change. You know that.

Bert Lynch lowered his menu slightly and stared at the younger man. And it has nothing to do with Mulheren’s death?

Francis shook his head decisively. No.

Bert retreated behind the menu once again. I think it does, Francis. I think you’re still punishing yourself for his death.

My partner’s death is behind me, Bert. I want to do some real police work now. That’s all there is to it.

The menu dropped to the table. What the hell? ... You were doing real police work!

Francis waved his hand impatiently, You catch white collar criminals with a computer, Bert. I want ... I want ... Uncertain exactly what he thought he wanted, his voice trailed off as he reached for his wine glass.

Bert stared at him a moment, then sighed. Well, it’s no bed of roses you made for yourself. And Crack City is not where you get yourself assigned if you want to have any kind of career path in the Department, Francis. We both know that.

Francis smiled. They don’t call it that anymore, Bert. You’re showing your age.

At an impasse, the two men stared silently at each other for a moment before Francis smiled slightly and decided to make at least an attempt at a peace offering. what you say might be true enough, Deputy Commissioner. Who knows how long I’ll want to stay there, but it’s no reason not to enjoy the wine and celebrate your promotion. He reached for the bottled and began to refill Bert Lynch’s glass.

TWO

Josie yawned and stretched as much as she could in the confined space. Damn! Only assholes would still be awake at four o’clock in the morning. She tried to make herself comfortable on the hard, cold seat of the NYPD’s vice squad wagon, the ‘Black Maria’. And they’re fucking welcome to it she thought bitterly.

She shared the seat, and probably the thought as well, with the twelve other hookers already seated or now being herded into the van like so many cattle. Their high heels even clicked on the steel floor like hooves at the stock pens as six uniformed policemen and three undercover cops with their badges pinned to their street clothes moved about the rear of the van, trying to complete the loading procedure.

Bone tired and irritated with the time consuming procedure, Josie ignored the bitching, the moaning, and the curses that flew all around her. The other girls were just going through the ritual complaining about the periodic vice sweeps that were a part of the dwindling life on 42nd street.

This your first ride downtown?

Josie half turned her head to look at the face that belonged to the voice. A pale blond girl of about sixteen or seventeen, with a friendly smile and large moon eyes stared her up and down with a kind of bored, professional curiosity. Josie looked straight ahead and nodded slightly. It is in New York, sister.

You didn’t look familiar is why I asked, Moon Eyes went on. Who you with?

Just freelancing. What’s your name?

Miriam, but Chantale is my street name. Johnny gave it to me.

Josie patted her forearm, then turned it over, exposing the trail of small bruises made by needle marks near the crook of her elbow. He give you those, too?

Chantale pulled her arm away, ignoring the question.

Before Josie could continue, the rear door of the van slammed shut, throwing the inside into complete darkness. That raised the level of complaints to new heights. Fuck it, Josie told herself. She leaned back against the side wall. I’m not a social worker for teenage runaways with drug problems.

#

The faint red light from the clock radio was the only illumination in Francis’s bedroom. The digits flipped over to 6:30 and the silence was broken by the voice of the all news station announcer. Temperatures expected to reach into the low 70’s in the city and mid to upper 60’s in the northern and western suburbs.

The voice droned on as Francis stretched and yawned his way to consciousness. He tuned out the rest of the information once he knew what the weather would be. He pulled himself to an upright position and threw the light blanket to the side. He stood, reached for the window shade and let it up gently. The half light of early morning tried to brighten the darkened room and succeeded only slightly. Francis stretched for another moment, bringing himself fully awake. He found his slippers and used his toes to work them onto his feet. He grabbed the bathrobe hanging on the closet door, and then paused on his way to the bathroom to listen as the radio caught his attention again.

In local news today, the police in the 34th precinct in Washington Heights reported a young Hispanic man was nearly electrocuted yesterday evening while apparently attempting to steal a radio from a late model sedan. There is a degree of irony to the story, in that the car had been reported stolen in Fort Lee just minutes earlier.

Francis tuned out the next story as he resumed his journey toward the bathroom. He wondered briefly if that was an omen of things to come in his new precinct. Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought with his first spoken-out-loud words of the day. Schmuck should’ve worn rubber gloves.

#

This Wednesday morning in Manhattan District Court was not as busy as a Monday when the weekend’s backlog of petty criminals gave everybody a case of the ass, but it was still pretty busy as Wednesdays go. Judge Mordecai Schlerman, a man in his sixties with all the enthusiasm for dispensing the law that his hemorrhoids would permit him, moved his buttocks from side to side in his chair, ever trying to scratch an itch that would not be relieved. He looked over the docket and determined it was to be a long, long day. Sighing in surrender, he stopped his side to side movements and glanced down at Tonio Perez, one of the seedier attorneys who plied their trade on behalf of pimps, junkies and prostitutes, Manhattan style. Perez, in polyester, stood in front of the thirteen prostitutes arrested in the early morning hours, ready to lead a charge on their behalf up the San Juan