Fallen City

Prologue

October 18, 1988

Washington Heights, New York

Dust was still heavy in the air from the tenement building that had been demolished earlier that day. Particles reflected moonlight as they fluttered downward only to be charged by the passing air current and once again sent skyward.

Officers Mike Coaxley and Tim Daley were the first to respond to the call and saw the jumper through the windshield of their radio car even before they got out of the car. She was a young Latina of average height wearing a tight fitting red dress. Her movements seemed erratic, her balance off. It looked as if she might teeter off the window ledge at any moment. She screamed when she saw the two policemen getting out of the car.

Stay calm, ma’am. We’re coming up, Coaxley hollered. He slid his baton into his utility belt and hurried toward the building, his partner right behind him. He spoke into his radio while he hustled up the stairs to the entrance. Unit 33 Adam Boy requesting emergency services to 177th ‘n Wadsworth. Roll a negotiator if you’ve got one. We’ve got a jumper.

Copy 3 Adam Boy.

The door was unlocked. Coaxley pushed through it and moved steadily forward through the dimly lit hallway toward the stairs despite the peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resentment that coursed through his veins.

An earlier call had come over the radio just before their meal break—a 10-13, Officer Down. Everyone responded, even units from out of command, until the lieutenant on the scene came on the air with a terse, We got it under control here, Central. No more cars. Later a sergeant came over the air requesting EMS. An ambulance didn’t mean the worst, but it never meant anything good.

Over the next two hours, word spread amongst the cops. Paul Lebsock, a twenty-two year old rookie, took a bullet to the head while sitting in his police car. It happened not a quarter mile from where Coaxley now stood. None of the bosses had said who was responsible, but most of the patrol cops had a strong suspicion right away. Dominican drug dealers had murdered hundreds of civilians since the beginning of the year. Some analysts predicted the violence would spread from the civilian population to targeting police, particularly by one drug lord, Reinaldo Arenas. If that were true, Arenas was now making good on a promise he’d put out on the streets to go after cops. The message was clear:  Leave us the fuck alone!

And in the middle of all that, the bogus calls just kept coming.

Like this one.

Another dumb crackhead, Daley grumbled, breathing heavily as they climbed the stairs. As if we’re not busy enough sweeping the street for dealers . . . do we have to play nursemaid to every dumb Tom, Dick, and junkie too? I say let her jump.

How do you know she’s dumb? Coaxley said, taking stairs two at a time on his way to the top floor. You know what’s dumb? Picking up a magazine in someone’s crapper. You might as well rub shit on your hands.

Jesus, will I ever hear the end of this? I’m sorry I told you in the first place.

Yeah, and I’m sorry I ever shook your hand.

You should be more concerned about shaking hands with a fag. Who the hell knows how many dicks one of those guys touches.

Coaxley shook his head in disbelief, all without breaking stride. You know who else touches a lot of dicks? Women. Women touch dicks all the time. You never gonna shake a woman’s hand again either?

Daley didn’t have an answer for that.

Together, they crested the third floor landing. Three more lay ahead of them. I hope to Christ she doesn’t jump before we get up there, Coaxley said.

And I hope the door to her apartment is unlocked.

"You’re in a mood."

Yeah? And you’re high on new fatherhood. You’d be as cynical as I am if you didn’t have that sweet little ball of fluff to go home to.

Amen. Coaxley smiled as the face of his four-month old daughter flashed in his mind. He quickly made the sign of the cross. Let’s be careful up there, he whispered in what he thought was a voice too low for his partner to hear. Let’s come home safe and sound to the girls.

The two of them reached the sixth floor, panting. Coaxley took a half-second to catch his breath. There were two apartments facing the front of the building and two facing the rear. That one? he asked, pointing at one of the front-facing units.

Yeah. That one. Daley tried the door. Shit! It’s locked. He sucked in a chest full of air before driving his shoulder into the door. The frame splintered beneath his two hundred and twenty pounds of bulk as he went ass over teakettle through the entranceway and onto the floor inside.

Coaxley slipped through the doorway, grabbed Daley’s hand, and helped yank him to his feet.

I got it, I got it, the bigger man griped.

Coaxley could hear sirens approaching as he turned and raced to the open window. He stuck his head out and looked for the young Latina. A nearby streetlamp glowed brightly, illuminating her bright red lipstick and her short red dress, a thick black leather belt accentuating her narrow waist. Her eye shadow was an intense shade of cobalt blue that seemed to have a phosphorescent radiance of its own. His presence startled her. She was trembling and picking at the skin on her bare arms. Her pupils were dilated and her fingertips were burnt. He pulled his head back in. Long term user, he said. Probably tricks. Take a look around. See if you can find some ID.

She swatted at him as he put his head back through the window, her long nails gouging his face. Coaxley bit back a curse as the sharp pain hit. He wiped away the blood with his hand, then held up both hands in the international pantomime for peace. Easy! Easy, miss. I’m not going to hurt you.

Her mouth was moving but no coherent words came out. She sputtered gibberish. Only an occasional word made sense.

Try to calm down, Coaxley urged, trying to make his voice sound as soothing as possible. Take a deep breath. Whatever it is, it’s not worth killing yourself over.

G-get the fuck outta here, she begged him, suddenly cogent. He’ll … he’ll kill me.

Who, your pimp?

She nodded, her teeth chattering.

Ma’am, no one’s going to kill you. My partner and I will keep you safe. I promise you that. But before we can do anything, you’ve got to climb back into your apartment. He reached out. Give me your hand.

N-no! She swiped at him again, her nails drawing blood on the back of his hand.

He yanked his hand away. Jesus, he muttered to himself. She’s a fucking bobcat.

The sirens were getting louder but Coaxley was still able to discern Daley’s voice. He was speaking to someone in the apartment.

Leave, Daley said with authority in his voice. Turn around and go back to your apartment. We’ve got a situation here.

What’s going on in there, man? Coaxley asked, without taking his eyes of the feral jumper.

Nosey neighbor, Daley barked. "Shit! He’s still coming. This asshole won’t take no for an answer. Sir! Turn around and go—"

The sound of a gunshot shattered Coaxley’s every last nerve. He jumped, smashing the back of his head against the windowsill. For a moment, all he saw were flashes of light and dark. Before he could get his bearings, he felt hands grasping the back of his utility belt. Someone tugged upward with great force, and the jumper’s nails dug into the back of his neck. His feet came off the floor. Panic enveloped him and he grasped desperately for something to hold onto. It did no good. He slid forward out the window headfirst. His gaze jumped frantically around to find something to grab, something to hold onto, something….

His mouth flew open wide to scream for help as he tried to clutch the window frame. From the corner of his eye he could now see behind the crackhead where her thick black belt was safely secured to a window washer’s hook.

Suddenly, he was weightless.

Falling.

She grew smaller and smaller, the ground coming at him like a howitzer blast and then finally a terminal thud as his upper back and neck impacted upon the concrete.

Chapter One

March 1989

Bodega Negro was located in the heart of the Washington Heights community; a large grocery market filled with the staples every Dominican woman depended on for her traditional recipes. Leon Alvarado could always be found behind the counter or checking the shelves, always taking a moment to greet his regular customers with a smile or a handshake. He’d been doing so for twenty some odd years. Chances were that if you ate rice and beans in any household in the neighborhood, the rice came from Bodega Negro, as did the scotch bonnet peppers, and the coconut milk. The people in this neighborhood loved him, and he loved them. He stayed out of the local politics and gossip, and steered clear of the drug gangs.

He watched as his stock boy locked the front door for the night and then directed him to cull out the over-ripened plantains and package them in bundles to be marked half-price. He helped his employees restock the shelves for the morning and had the linoleum floor washed a second time before pulling down the security gate and locking it. That gate was all the protection he needed for this store. Enough to keep an honest man honest, that was all.

Broadway was teeming with people as he walked home with a grocery bag of his own. He was a fixture in the local landscape, which made his progress slow because he was stopped by several of his neighborhood friends to chat. He was just a block from his apartment when the window above the Mambi Café opened and his wife’s Haitian friend, Taina Rodriguez, stuck her head out. "Bonswa, Leon," she said greeting him in a voice so high-pitched a neighborhood dog began to howl.

He looked up and waved. What’s new, Taina?

"I made poule en sauce," she said with a big smile

Oh. That’s one of my favorites.

I know it is. I told your missus I’d give you some. Wait two minutes, Leon. I’ll bring it down for you.

Okay. I’ll wait, he said in a patient tone.

The air was sublime, dry, and comfortable with a light breeze that tantalized the skin on his bare arms. Neighborhood kids raced by wearing those sneakers adorned with a bright red swoosh. The thump of a basketball on the sidewalk and the voices of teenagers drew closer. Leon recognized the boy dribbling the ball and pretended to reach for it with a grin on his face. The youth reacted with agility, moving the ball beyond Leon’s reach before finishing with an impressive dribbling display as he went by.

He felt a familiar pat on the butt and turned to see his wife behind him, still girlishly flirting with him after so many years of marriage. Just then the heavy, gated door creaked. When Leon turned he saw Taina through the glass panel. He and his wife had begun walking toward her when he noticed her stricken expression. She was looking past them when he felt a pressure against the back of his head followed by the thunder of a firing gun, just for an instant, and then he fell dead.

Chapter Two

Francisco Frank Corda sat stiffly in the hard plastic chair outside his boss’ office, looking straight ahead, keeping his expression neutral. Michelle, the secretary at the nearby desk, typed rapidly on her IBM Selectric. The frenetic clatter of the rotating ball didn’t sound like progress to him. He preferred the old style mechanical keys and ribbon on his Underwood. It wasn’t as fast, or as pretty, but at least it was predictable.

So was his boss. Corda knew Kramer Pendram wasn’t on a phone call right then. No, Pendram was asserting his dominance by making him wait. It was a power move, right along with calling the meeting at his office rather than over lunch at some posh restaurant, which was more Pendram’s speed most of the time.

Corda didn’t care. The trappings of power didn’t impress him. Neither did the charade of being powerful. All of that was an illusion, easily stripped away. Real power came from results. Success—now that was true power.

And neither Corda nor his boss had been experiencing much of that lately. He knew that was why he was there. And even though he didn’t know what words Pendram would say to him when he finally decided he was done being powerful and making Corda wait, he was sure of what the outcome would be. One of them was going to take the hit for what was happening. For what wasn’t getting done. And it wasn’t going to be Pendram, either.

Corda figured it was six to five odds that this was the reason he was there. He and Pendram would meet, they’d talk, there’d be a press conference, and Pendram would announce he was letting Corda go. They wouldn’t expressly say it was his fault, but even the densest of reporters would see through the DA’s rhetoric. Washington Heights was going crazy with drugs? Getting worse every day? Naw, you can’t lay the blame at the feet of the District Attorney you elected. It’s the system, ladies and gentlemen. And the system needed to be shaken up. So that’s why Francisco Corda is now updating his resume.

The typing stopped suddenly. Frank?

Corda turned his gaze to Michelle. Yes?

You can go in now. She motioned toward Pendram’s door. He’s ready for you.

Corda nodded and stood. Halfway to the door, he stopped. How’d you know? he asked.

Sorry?

How’d you know he was ready for me? Corda asked. I didn’t hear an intercom buzz or anything.

She gave him a slightly puzzled look, then pointed to the telephone poised next to her typewriter. The light went off on his line. He told me to send you in as soon as his call ended.

Corda pursed his lips slightly and nodded. Maybe he’d been wrong about Pendram. Then again, maybe he’d just gotten off the phone with the Times, setting up the presser. Thanks, Michelle. He looked at her for another moment, then smiled warmly. You changed your hair. It looks nice.

Michelle blushed slightly and mumbled her thanks.

Corda turned the doorknob and stepped into the lion’s den.

Frank! Pendram stood and boomed at him from behind what Corda always thought of as his oil baron voice. He knew Pendram had sold cars while putting himself through law school, and he supposed that’s where the oversized friendliness originated. But the District Attorney was an elected position, and if it had ever been about selling cars, it wasn’t any more. Now it was about buying votes. Come on in! Get you something?

No, Corda said simply. He made his way to the chair across from the desk and sat down without being asked.

If that bothered Pendram, he didn’t show it. He settled back into his high back leather chair and steepled his fingers while smiling somewhat at Corda.

Corda returned his gaze, not quite nervous but a little off balance. He’d expected to be yelled at, possibly fired. Instead, it seemed, that he was about to be buttered up.

But for what?

You get a verdict on that Campbell case yet? Pendram asked.

Corda considered. With the number of cases that flowed through his office, the Campbell case could be any of a half dozen. Of course, more and more, the last names of his filings were Perez, Garcia, and the like.

Which Campbell case, sir? Corda asked.

Pendram shrugged. I don’t care. Any of them.

Any of them? Corda asked. Well, then. Yes and no. That should cover all of them.

Pendram released his steeple and wagged a finger at him. Funny. You’re the funniest Cuban since Desi Arnaz.

Desi Arnaz was Puerto Rican, Corda deadpanned.

Pendram scrunched his eyebrows. No shit? He’s a P.R.?

No. Just jerking your chain.

Pendram smiled, but not before a flicker of annoyance flashed across his features.

He wanted something, Corda realized. He wanted something from him. That’s why the good old boy routine.

Like I said . . . Funny. He lifted a newspaper and turned the front page so that Corda could see it. Unlike this.

The headline read: Dominican Gang Murders Wrong Family! followed by the subtitle: Respected Local Grocer Slain!

There’s been no arrests yet, Corda said.

I know. Pendram shook his head. I’d like to say that a headline like this shocks me to my very core, Frank. I’d like to say that I could never imagine something like this happening in this city. Or in Washington Heights, for that matter. It used to be a great place to live. Now the Dominican gangs run around like a bunch of psychos, warring over the cocaine trade, killing each other and anyone who gets in their way. That’d be bad enough, but now innocent folks are getting caught in the crossfire. He raised the newspaper again. Like this poor bastard and his wife.

If the police make an arrest, and it is drug related, I’ll prosecute, Corda said. If it isn’t drug related, it’ll go to Major Crimes.

"If it’s drug related? Everything in that neighborhood is drug related now. The goddamn school lunch program is probably drug related at this point. The sheen had come off of Pendram’s chummy tone, and frustration was seeping through. There were over ten thousand crimes in the Heights last year. One hundred and three murders. You know how big that neighborhood is? Three square miles. That thirty-four murders per square mile. I don’t know any place in the country that can beat that statistic."

He wasn’t exaggerating and Corda knew it. He’d read the same reports, seen the same statistics, heard the same outcry. The question was, what did Pendram want him to do about it? Or maybe this was still just a lead up to his dismissal.

Pendram sighed. I said I’d like to say I could never imagine this happening here. This level of violence. Innocent families caught in the crossfire. Cops being targeted, for Christ’s sake! But the truth is, Frank, I can imagine a lot worse. And every day, I think my imagination might become this city’s reality. Something’s got to be done.

Here’s where he fires me, Corda thought. The Dominicans are out of control, so fire the Cuban. Most of white America doesn’t know the difference, anyway. Hell, most don’t know there is a difference.

He wanted to tell Pendram to go to hell. That if the cops would send him cases that weren’t slapped together with dog shit, he might be able to get somewhere. Worse yet, if some of the cops weren’t taking money from Arenas and any other Dominican with cash, the honest cops might make better cases against them. He wanted to say that even with that bullshit going against him, his conviction rate was one of the highest in the office. His numbers drove up Pendram’s numbers, and those numbers got Pendram elected. So, how about if he shoves all that up his car salesman’s ass?

But something stopped him. It might have been something in Pendram’s expression, or his tone of voice, but something was off. So he waited.

And what Pendram said next could not have surprised him more.

Chapter Three

We have to get organized, Frank. Pendram leaned forward to express his sincerity. The Dominicans are. They may be crazy as hell, but they’re an organized crazy. We can’t match the crazy part but I know we can do better at the organized part.

Corda sat, hiding the fact that he was mildly stunned. How?

A task force. We’re pulling together everyone we need to put the screws to these spic … these bastards. Pendram smiled weakly, and Corda knew that was as close to an apology as he would get.

Who?

Us. The PD, obviously. DEA. And the State is kicking in techs to handle forensics.

Corda considered the idea, not answering.

Pendram gave him a few moments to digest the news, then asked, What do you think?

It’s a good mixture of specialties, Corda admitted. The state lab is more professional than the city’s lab. They have stricter protocols, and they stick to them. Also, they train their technicians on how to testify in court. It makes a difference.

Fine, Pendram said, dismissing that element with a wave of his hand. But on the enforcement side? That’s where the meat is.

It is, Corda allowed. DEA could target supply, and help with deportation efforts. Maybe even liaise with the FBI for support.

Probably not, Pendram said doubtfully. Those two agencies get along about as well as Yankee and Red Socks fans.

Maybe, but the possibility is there. And having an NYPD contingent is pretty key, anyway. They work those streets. They know the players. They have contacts. If you picked the right men for the job, they could do a lot of damage.

Pendram leaned back in his chair and gave Corda a knowing look. Then I suggest you pick the right men, Frank.

The gravity of the statement hit Corda hard. In one moment, he felt all the weight of it. The danger, the glory, the possibilities.

Wait a minute, he said. If I get to pick the detectives, does that mean the DA’s office will be in charge?

Pendram smiled thinly. More or less.

What the fuck does that mean?

Pendram’s brows shot up in surprise, but he didn’t reproach Corda for his language. Instead, he said, "We have … no, you have strategic control. You set the agenda, the targets, the overall plan. NYPD and DEA retain operational control over their cops, but that’s about tactics, not strategy. You are the general, Frank. It’s your task force."

Do they know that? Corda asked, but he barely listened to Pendram’s answer. Instead, his mind was whirring with possibilities. Instead of a half-assed, ramshackle, hit and miss piecemeal approach to this problem, he could orchestrate something that would stick. No more losing battles that the drug lords dictated. Now he had a chance to choose the right battles, win those battles, and eventually win the war. Maybe not the overarching war on drugs, true. Since crack came on the scene, Corda had started to see the war on drugs in the same way people today saw the war in Vietnam—unwinnable, or perhaps already lost.  But there was a war he could win. The war for Washington Heights.

Frank?

Corda blinked, and focused on his boss. Yes?

Did you hear what I said?

Yes, Corda lied, because whatever Pendram had just said didn’t matter. What mattered was what he, Corda, did. Because that was where power resided. In action. In success. In results.

So? Are you up for this?

Corda smiled for the first time since coming into Pendram’s office. Yes, he said. "Soy listo. I’m your man."

Chapter Four

The AMG Hammer was black from bumper-to-bumper except for the highly polished trim rings on the oversized wheels. Baron watched impassively as Arenas walked around his car, inspecting it, running the back of his hand over the glistening paint to see if had been compounded, polished, and waxed twice as he’d demanded. When he finished, he fixed the detailer with a cool stare. Wax it again.

Again?

"You got a problem with your hearing, cabrón?" he said in a slow tongue weighted heavily with Dominican Spanish influence.

No, boss.

Then get to it, man.

There were four cars in Arenas’ shop, all hot road racers. Next to the Hammer stood a pair of Buick Grand Nationals, and an IROC-Z Camaro nestled in the corner. Each was being modified in a unique way, headers on the Camaro, and sound systems in the two Buicks. The AMG Hammer, his own personal car, already had every conceivable modification performed on it and was only in the shop for sprucing up.

Baron’s walkie-talkie chirped, and he answered it. Felipe filled him in on the visitor. Baron listened, then motioned to get Arenas’ attention.

"Someone’s here for you, jefe."

Who?

You got an appointment with the insurance company? A physical or something?

Oh yeah. I want to name my Tía Rosalia as my beneficiary … just in case. She’s been like a mother to me ever since … well, you know, man—ever since.

He’s in the waiting room. Some guy named Dado. Dado Gutiérrez. He told Felipe the two of you go back.

He ain’t lying. Bring him to my office.

Baron nodded his acquiescence, and headed toward the front of the shop. Dado was diminutive, with scant hair and narrow shoulders. His eyebrows lifted when Baron appeared, and he took a step toward the open door.

Baron held out his hands to stop him. Place your hands on your head, sir.

Dado gave him a momentarily confused look.

"Por favor," Baron added.

Understanding flooded the small man’s features. Of course. He raised his hands to his head and waited.

Baron moved behind Dado and conducted a firm, measured frisk. He made no apology, nor was he hesitant in the process, but he made every attempt to be as professional and respectful as possible. Dado held as still as he could, moving and swaying under Baron’s powerful, searching hands.

Thank you, sir, Baron said when he’d finished.

"De nada."

If you’ll follow me, sir.

Baron opened the door and led Dado through the shop and eventually to Arenas’ opulent office. The two men remained silent throughout the thirty-second walk. When they reached the office, Baron stood unobtrusively