Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  Twenty minutes had elapsed since her call, the time spent getting dressed and dashing out of Steven’s brownstone on the Upper West Side, hailing a cab and speeding through Central Park to another brownstone on the Upper East Side, the difference between the nouveau riche and old money, both of them rarefied territory for a kid from Hell’s Kitchen. Upbringings had to take a back seat though to tragic endings and to cold-blooded murder. Jimmy stood on the stoop, trying to assess when, why, and how Henderson Carlyle had met his maker. First thing he noticed was that Serena, crouching beneath a tree on the edge of the sidewalk, was still dressed in her golden gown. Her dark hair might have been a bit disheveled, but otherwise she was still radiant, a morning bird who had lost its song.

  “Who else have you called?” Jimmy asked.

  “No one. I did as you asked. Not even 911.”

  “Good.”

  “Jimmy, thank God you’re here.”

  Niceties could come later. He jumped in, questions already formed on his lips during the cab ride across the park. “You say Robbie dropped you off?”

  “In front of the building. He kissed me, gentleman that he is. I exited the car, and then he sped off.”

  “So he didn’t see the body spread out over the steps?”

  “Tinted windows tend to keep things discreet.”

  “I thought that was to keep people from looking in.”

  “There’s a dead man on my steps, and you want to debate the benefits of tinted glass?”

  Jimmy said nothing. He’d file that bit of potential evidence for later. For the moment, he took hold of Serena, skirting the dead body while escorting her along the far edge of the steps. He knew he shouldn’t contaminate the crime scene, but this woman was visibly shaken, and she needed a good stiff drink. He took hold of her purse, fetched the keys and unlocked the double set of doors, allowing them quick entry to a high-ceilinged foyer. She swept off her fur and draped it over a hook, kicking off her black pumps in the process. Her actions were mechanical, as though she was unaware of doing them. The shoes went flying across the foyer in sudden anger. Jimmy took note that neither item had a speck of blood on them.

  Her brownstone was tasteful and elegant, filled with lots of gilded mirrors and frames, the furniture more like museum pieces than for casual lounging. That didn’t stop Serena from dropping to a plush sofa, or from stretching out her lithe body lengthwise, feet grazing the throw pillows on the other end. Jimmy found a bar topped with crystal decanters, all filled with a variety of amber-colored beverages. He poured out what he hoped was brandy and gave her the glass.

  “Drink this.”

  “I’ve had enough to drink tonight,” she said, rubbing her forehead.

  “This one isn’t for celebration. Drink it.”

  She did so, taking a gentle sip. Jimmy hovered over her, waiting. She took a second, larger sip. He thought he saw some color return to pale cheeks.

  “Wait here.”

  Serena Carson didn’t need to be told twice. Jimmy watched as she closed her eyes, and he wondered just what images the inside of her eyelids displayed, her rendezvous with Robbie or the bloody corpse of the man who had threatened her that she’d come home to or perhaps both, the twin images of life and death, sex and impotence, sinking into her memory banks? Jimmy waited a beat, steeled himself, and then he went back to the main entrance. He stood on the top step staring down at the lifeless eyes of a man he’d confronted just hours ago. He didn’t look so cocky anymore. He didn’t look like much of anything anymore. Jimmy wished he had a sheet to cover him up.

  For the moment, he took out his phone and dialed 911, where he calmly reported the body while identifying himself—playing it by the books, and then he awaited the hopefully quick response of the NYPD. This was the Upper East Side, a highly protected neighborhood, overflowing with Very Important People, diplomats and movie stars, the jet set and the playboy set, all living in pre-war buildings and brownstones that went for millions and were designed to protect them from the awful dangers of the city. That had all changed on a quiet Sunday morning, the presence of the criminal element splayed out in bloody detail. A dead body found on an upscale stoop will do that. Jimmy stared at Henderson again, not surprised by the violence which had ended the man’s life. He had seen him in action only once and in public. No doubt he saved his truly vengeful wrath for private moments.

  Still, Jimmy hated death. He hated murder even more. No one won in a situation like this.

  An elderly woman was walking down the street with a small Yorkie on a leash. She noticed him, the fact that he was still dressed in his tux—sans bow tie—somehow less threatening, even at this hour. He suggested she cross the street, as he said he was waiting on the police.

  “Don’t look,” he advised.

  Like saying don’t touch a hot stove, the woman looked anyway, and her face turned green, and she spun around so fast Jimmy feared she might crumple to the ground. That’s when a police cruiser turned down the street, further proof that the nosy, early-morning dog walker should seek out another curb for precious Muffy to pee on. Jimmy waited on the empty sidewalk just before the stoop, waving to the car as it pulled up beside a fire hydrant. Thankfully they had kept the sirens off. What was the point when the body was already growing cold? Jimmy noticed the blue and white cruiser was from the nearby 19th Precinct. Two uniformed officers got out.

  “Mr. McSwain?”

  “That’s me, yes,” he said.

  The two officers came around the car, cautious but clearly not believing Jimmy represented any kind of threat. They were more interested in what was to be discovered behind him. He stepped away, revealing Henderson Carlyle is all his final glory.

  “Oh man, someone didn’t like this guy,” said the lead officer, the driver.

  His partner, younger, didn’t look so well. He turned his head quickly and couldn’t speak. The other guy was more seasoned. He took charge.

  “McSwain? I’m Officer Malcolm Daniels. He’s Dilson Tejada. You say you stumbled upon this…guy?”

  “No, my friend…really, a client of mine, she lives here. She came home. Here he was.”

  Daniels nodded before taking a step closer to inspect the body. Jimmy watched him wince. Even the most hardened cop had to be affected by this sight.

  “CSU is on its way, as are detectives. Glad it’s so early. Not many people out yet.”

  “I thought about covering it up, then thought better about it,” Jimmy said.

  “Protect the crime scene, good thinking. You’re a PI, right?”

  Jimmy wasn’t surprised they knew that already. He had identified himself, and an easy search of his name would reveal previous associations with the NYPD, good and bad. “Yes. Ms. Carson, upstairs, she hired me to guard her at a charity function tonight.”

  “Ah, that would explain the tux. Fanciest PI I ever saw.”

  “Her world, not mine.”

  Daniels indicated the victim. “What about him? He’s got a tux on too. Sort of.”

  “Same function. He had made threats against Ms. Carson. Order of protection.”

  “Some guys never learn,” Tejada said. He’d rediscovered the color in his face. “Until they do, the hard way.”

  “Where is this Ms. Carson now?”

  “Inside. I gave her some brandy to calm her nerves. She discovered him.”

  “Did she do it?” Tejada asked.

  Jimmy noticed two pairs of suspicious eyes boring into him, anxious for his answer. “No, I don’t believe so. Someone with a lot of muscle did this.”

  “Or anger,” Daniels said. “I’ve seen it. Though not so…”

  He let his comment end there. Jimmy didn’t need to know.

  Jimmy was instructed to go back inside the brownstone and remain with Serena until the detectives arrived. Jimmy was glad to excuse himself from the crime scene, skirting the body once again and hoping it was the last he saw of it. Henderson Carlyle’s eyes stared upwards, almost as if they were following Jimmy,
trying and failing to tell him who had done this. He closed the door behind him, and the eerie glare was gone. He thought he too could use a shot of brandy. He helped himself to a quick shot, quieting his nerves.

  “Jimmy, what’s going to happen?”

  Serena was sitting in the dark, still on the sofa, a refilled glass of brandy in her steady hand.

  “The police will handle everything. They’ll have some initial questions for you. I’ll suggest they let you get a night’s sleep before taking your full statement. They’ll want to know about your relationship to the deceased, about the order of protection, and how he violated it. Tell the detectives everything you know, and don’t hold back, because one slip up will turn you from victim to suspect.”

  “Suspect? He beats me, and I get to take the rap for his murder?”

  “People have killed for less,” Jimmy said.

  “Besides, I have an alibi,” she said, “I was with that delectable Robbie all night until he gallantly insisted on dropping me off. Henderson was already waiting for me, very much dead on arrival you could say.” She paused, took a dainty sip of her drink, and that’s when the Serena Carson he’d come to know and read about re-emerged from her shell. Her smile took on a wicked bent. “Something tells me you too have an alibi for tonight, Jimmy. Still in your tux but missing the tie. Did the rest of those clothes come off at some point?”

  “This isn’t about me,” he said.

  “Tell me everything. Who, when, how many times? You look quite virile, you know.”

  He was spared from her line of questioning as the door to the brownstone was opened, and in stepped two men in plainclothes, one man older and the other younger, around Jimmy’s age. Jimmy was surprised to see them both, since he knew them both, and they were far from their usual beat. Detectives Roscoe Barone and Larry Dean sauntered in, looking around the swanky, elegant home, glittering even in the dim morning light. It should be a place for parties, for living life to the fullest. Not the place to find a man sliced to death.

  “Barone, Dean, what brings you here?” Jimmy asked. “Not exactly the 10th, is it?”

  “So, McSwain, we meet again. You do turn up at interesting places,” Barone said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “If you must know, we’re on special assignment, on temporary loan to the commissioner’s office,” Barone said, smoothing down his handlebar mustache that had him looking like a seventies porn star. His outfit of brown blazer and tan slacks didn’t help. “We were just wrapping up an earlier case when the call came through. We heard your name and asked to take the case. We wasted little time in getting up here.”

  “Not exactly your neighborhood either,” Larry Dean said.

  “I go where the cases takes me,” Jimmy replied, “Kind of like you.”

  “We’re never the same.”

  “Can’t take the neighborhood out of either of us, huh Larry.”

  Jimmy and Larry Dean had grown up together in Hell’s Kitchen, their families not exactly close but certainly not strangers. That’s how it went sometimes in such tight quarters of New York’s neighborhoods, enemies closer than your friends. For now, though, Barone silenced them both, stepping forward to address the other person in the room. She was of primary interest to them. Often it was the person who discovered the body that was responsible for its condition. The most likely suspect was eliminated only when the evidence said otherwise.

  “Ms. Carson?”

  Serena rose from her position on the sofa, extended a soft hand. “Serena, please.”

  She was attractive enough to get away with such familiarity, as Jimmy witnessed both men shake her hand and address her by her first name. It was a smart move on her part, meant to weaken their resolve. Men were suckers for a beautiful woman, and it allowed her to keep playing the role of hapless victim. Jimmy hoped that’s how it went down, her giving a brief statement before being allowed to retire to her bedroom. They all needed sleep, Jimmy included. The brightness of the day would shed better light on a brutal death.

  “Serena,” Barone said, “We’re going to have a few questions for you. Are you up for some answers?”

  “I’m already up,” she said. “Ask away.”

  Barone then looked at Jimmy. “I think we can deal with you later, McSwain.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said.

  “Are you her lawyer?” Dean asked.

  “You know I’m not.”

  “Then you’ll leave us to our job. Thank for you being a conscientious citizen.”

  Dean’s voice was filled with condescension, mostly because he knew Jimmy had no choice in the matter. He was done.

  “Goodnight, McSwain,” Barone added. Then he checked his watch, only to let out a weary sigh, the sound of a cop who’d taken too many early-morning calls. “Rather, good morning. I hope yours goes much better than the unfortunate vic on the steps outside. We’ll be in touch, of course. I’m sure we’ll have a number of questions for you.”

  “Like always,” Dean added.

  Jimmy knew when to play his cards, when to fold them. For the time being, he let the police do their job. He wasn’t on the clock anymore, and Serena was well-connected enough to be able to contact a lawyer at a moment’s notice. So Jimmy gave his client a peck on the cheek for support then took his leave. He bypassed the officers who guarded the body while anxiously awaiting the CSU team. A passing cab had Jimmy’s name written on it. An easy hail stopped it, and soon he was speeding through quiet, waking streets. At this late—or early—hour, he hated to go home to his mother’s apartment, no sense in alarming her to the dangerous worlds he straddled.

  “Forty-fifth and Ninth,” he said.

  Back to his office, back to the world he’d grown up in, no brownstones, no horny doctors, no self-absorbed heiresses. Once out of the cab and back on familiar streets, he was finally able to breathe easily. He saw dog shit on the curb; he saw vomit from someone who had partied too hard; he saw a homeless man sleeping in a door frame. Hell’s Kitchen might be its own world, but it was not immune to the vices of the human condition. He took out his key, opened the outside door, and padded upstairs to his office. For a moment he thought the image of Henderson’s bloody body had flashed in his mind, but that’s when he realized the blood he noticed on the steps was not a memory. The trail led to his door.

  Heart racing anew, he unlocked the door and stepped in.

  Three men sat inside his office, all on the sofa. One man’s face was a bruised, bloody mess.

  Chapter Three

  This long night seemed not to want to end, the bloodstains as permanent as memories, and while a weary Jimmy thought it should have ended with a visit to the emergency room, his uncle put the kibosh on that.

  “We deal with our issues in our own way,” Paddy reasoned while attending to the bloody bruise above his son’s Kellan’s left eye. It had swelled up, partially blocking the young man’s vision. Jimmy saw him wince in obvious pain.

  Jimmy had no argument there. He lived his life by a similar code. Earlier this year during the Hidden Identity case, he’d been attacked from behind. He’d insisted on avoiding the hospital, and here he was, still standing. Kellan would be fine, even if his recovery might take a bit longer. Kellan was slight in build, five seven and not bulked up, unlike his older brother, Taran, who was six feet and all corded muscle and tattoos. It was remarkable they came from the same parents, but such is the nature of genes, the pool sometimes shallow, sometimes deep. Growing up, Kellan often had been called a fag, but in truth he was straight as an arrow and did surprisingly well with the ladies. He had finesse and charm, and at the moment, his handsome face was taking on a shade of purple rarely seen by the sunset. Yet here it was sunrise, the sky still a gray pall. The snow from last night hadn’t stuck. Jimmy thought that the only thing that sticks in vengeance.

  “So, you want to tell me what happened?” Jimmy asked.

  “Fucking Mickey Dean attacked him,” Taran said, “He and
his boys. He’ll regret it.”

  Jimmy visibly blanched. It had been years since he’d heard the name Mickey Dean, but he had long memories of the neighborhood menace. The kind of kid who pulled wings off flies, you just knew he’d grow up to become an even worse presence. Mickey’s penchant for street fights had led to a series of petty crimes, all of which he had been rescued from by his NYPD father. He was just misunderstood. Jimmy knew otherwise. Mickey Dean was dangerous, and suddenly, he was back in Hell’s Kitchen. Why wasn’t Jimmy’s only question. It was the only one with an answer he feared.

  “Where were you, Taran, when this happened? You witness it?”

  “No, I was downstairs, having a beer with Pop. Why, you think this is my fault?”

  “No, that’s not what I was implying…”

  “Better fucking not….”

  “Taran, shut up,” Uncle Paddy said. “Don’t make this worse. Why don’t you go downstairs and bring up a bottle of brandy? I think we can all appreciate a nip.”

  Brandy seemed the cure-all tonic that night. He thought of Serena sipping it on her sofa, and then his mind went to the wine he’d consumed at Steven Wang’s brownstone and what the wine had led to. That’s when he realized he was still dressed in his tux, and it was the last thing he wanted to be in, a symbol of this long night. So he excused himself to change, while Taran let himself out of the apartment. Uncle Paddy continued to tend to his son, dabbing at the cut.