He hated that phrase but let it slide. He knew his mother was just being colloquial. Still it didn’t stop him from smelling the memory of a distant bullet. He tightened his hold on her arm, not willing to ever let her go.
“We were friends with them, the Deans, once.”
“Oh, sure, back in the day when you kids were small, all of you, the Martino kids too, running around the playground, tossing balls or jumping rope, stickball in the street, the kind of stuff kids today know nothing about, innocent stuff, not all these fancy electronics and hiding behind your computer. And your father and Larry, Senior, not exactly friends but coworkers and compatriots, both police officers. Larry rose quickly in the ranks, ambitious to a fault. Your father liked the beat. He wasn’t interested in promotions and petty office politics. He liked the people, liked helping them directly. And Maureen, she worked for years on the aisle at the Lunt, and so it was almost like our families were mirror images of the other, except they had two boys and one girl. We had one boy, two girls.” She paused then resumed, her voice quieter, respectful. “Such a shame about that young girl. Maureen was never the same afterwards.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Oh, Jimmy, it’s such a long time ago. She was a troubled girl, quiet, if I remember, not shy, really, something else. Maybe a mental illness went undiagnosed? Maureen never talked about it, not when Cassie was alive, especially not after she died.”
“Cassie? I had forgotten her name.”
“Cassiopeia,” Maggie said. “She was supposed to be the star that kept them bright. Mickey was always trouble. I think he came out of the womb fighting, picking fights whenever he could, because he could. And then Larry, Junior, the way he looked up to his father, you could see it in his eyes that he would do anything to make his father happy, to be him.”
“Like joining the police force,” Jimmy said.
“You would have done the same, Jimmy, had the situation been different.”
Probably true. Jimmy went to the police academy, Larry Dean alongside him. It was after graduation, the only day Jimmy wore his dress blues, that they went in different directions. Funny how you both could be on the side of the law and work such opposing angles. Strange, too, how two brothers could diverge, one following his father into law enforcement, the other challenging the very notion of the law. Jimmy thought again of Mickey Dean. He suddenly looked around as they passed the Clinton Playground on 47th. He looked through the closed iron gates, and in his mind he heard the noisy chatter of kids from another time playing together: two Jimmys, one on the sidewalk, the other behind bars, trapped in memory.
“Ma, what happened to Cassie Dean?”
“Oh, I don’t remember all the details, not at this hour. Your father did what he could.”
Jimmy stopped in his tracks, his mother forced to pull back. “What do you mean? How was he involved?”
“Oh, Jimmy, this is ancient history. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Mickey’s return.”
“Ma, what did Dad know?”
“He discovered the poor thing’s body on the sidewalk. She’d jumped from their building.” Maggie let out a heavy sigh, as though remembering the day from all those years ago. “Jimmy, she was only fourteen, like I said, troubled. Maureen was never the same again, perhaps none of the Deans were. A family sees tragedy. It alters them.”
Yeah, Jimmy thought. He knew.
They returned home, trudging up the five flights to the uppermost floor. A quick turn of the lock had them entering a darkened apartment, where Maggie flicked on a lamp in the living room. A warm glow was cast over their home. Meaghan was probably asleep already. Pregnancy did that. Again Jimmy thought of a new member of the family joining them, the next generation. But what of the generation that existed before them, did it still retain the same amount of hope a newborn brought? Or did years of living steal that, or worse, did death?
Chapter Seven
Jimmy stood before the loft building on Mercer Street, just below Houston. The first Wednesday of December arrived, so he was glad to be away from Midtown, where all the activity was centered around the annual lighting of the Rockefeller Christmas Tree. Soho was far removed from the tourist-rich center of New York, with Mercer a cobbled side street abounding with renovated industrial buildings turned into lofts whose rents were even loftier. Jimmy checked the listing of the six tenant names adjacent to the buzzers. Carlyle had lived on the top floor, no surprise to Jimmy. A man who lived the high life would never settle for the first floor. The truth of everyone being beneath him was not lost.
Since he was there, he considered his options. He could ring any of the other buzzers, try to gain entry, but to what effect? Was he going to pick the lock of Henderson Carlyle’s loft, and if so, what did he expect to find? Surely the forensic team had been through it with a fine-tooth comb in their search for clues. What Jimmy needed was to talk to people, get a sense of what the other tenants thought of their ne’er do well neighbor. Did that mean ringing any buzzer and seeing how the situation played out? But if that failed, it might draw the attention of a paranoid resident who was home and suspicious of someone randomly buzzing the door. Said person might call the police, which was something Jimmy wanted to avoid. He wasn’t supposed to be working this case, and the last thing he needed—on his first official day of investigation—was to draw the attention or ire of the NYPD.
He took a step back, and looked up at the fire escapes attached to the front of the building. He was looking for lights, signs of life, in any of the lofts above him, but the sunlight was reflecting off the windows, hard to tell who might be home. A breeze blew down the street, causing Jimmy to wrap his jacket around him and flip up the collar to protect his neck. It had grown noticeably colder overnight, and with the clock having slipped beyond noontime, the forecast called for even more bitter temperatures as the earlier night approached. If he was going to act, it was the time. He’d come all this way. If nothing was ventured, nothing was gained. He stepped forward, pressed the fifth-floor buzzer. Might as well start with his most direct neighbor.
No answer, not from there, or from the third or second. He got a response when he pressed the buzzer for the first floor.
“Who’s there?” A man’s voice.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Jimmy said, “I’m just looking for information…about a neighbor.”
A crackle between them before the reply came. “Who? Carlyle?”
“Actually, yes, I’m a private investigator.”
“The cops have already been here.”
“They don’t have my resources,” Jimmy said. Was that a suggestion on his part that he was willing to pay for information the neighbor might have? He was not on a budget, and with Help Is Here footing the bill, Jimmy believed Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud would approve such an expenditure. She wanted discretion, and such a thing cost. Those thoughts took a split second, and he feared the lack of a response had not won him entry into the building.
“I’ll come down,” he finally heard.
Another minute passed before Jimmy saw a figure approaching the door. A man of about twenty-five appeared. He was big and beefy, wearing a muscle T-shirt that exposed corded arms thick enough to rival a tree trunk. He wore his dark hair buzzed. Clearly he wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone. Jimmy was fit, but this guy was all meat. He opened the door.
“Got a license?” he asked.
Jimmy was already prepared. He flipped open his wallet, showed his private-eye license.
“Good enough. We can talk here.”
“Ok, thanks for meeting with me. Jimmy McSwain.”
“Billy Potter.”
“I’m guessing you heard about what happened to your neighbor?”
“Like I said, the police were here, interviewed us all on Sunday. We were all talking about it. It takes a murder to get Manhattan neighbors to talk to each other.”
“What was your general assessment?”
“Henderson Carlyle was a prick, bar
ely said a word to any of us. When he did, it was like he was granting us special privilege being in his company.”
“Speaking of company, did he have much?”
“Yeah, always some high-society broad, well dressed, smelled of money.”
“How often?”
“Often enough.”
“Ever heard of the police being called to the scene, you know, afterwards?”
“A couple rumors. I’ve only lived here for six months. I’m a personal trainer at Equinox, spend a lot of time at the gym.”
“So I can see,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, you like what you see?”
Jimmy’s gaydar circled, wondering. He didn’t think this guy was gay. He was probably bi, or just one of those cocky straight guys who enjoyed blow jobs from other guys, because the women he met didn’t go down on them. Big muscles, compact body, they probably meant a small dick: overcompensation. Jimmy just shook his head.
“Let’s stick to the topic at hand.”
“Your loss.”
“I’ll tell that to my boyfriend,” Jimmy said, just to get a rise out of the guy.
“Look, man, I’m the one helping you out. Least you can do is help me out.”
“And sucking your cock is your reward for passing along information?”
“Life is about compromise, fair trade and all.”
“So far you haven’t really given me anything.”
“Okay, man, I think I’m done here. Good luck with your investigation.”
He started to close the door when Jimmy put a foot forward, wedging it in the nook.
“You ever have a thing with Carlyle, you know, a mutual exchange? I know about him.”
“I’m not gay, man.”
“Didn’t say you were. Doesn’t mean you didn’t trade favors.”
“Henderson Carlyle didn’t care who he fucked. Yeah, he had men to his apartment, or, I should say, ‘man.’ Looked like an exclusive thing.”
If Jimmy was surprised by this revelation, he didn’t show it. He just absorbed it, but it did add insight into who Henderson really was: a man frustrated by his attractions, trying to justify his manhood by screwing as many women as he could, but in the end feeling unsatisfied. As a result, he had taken it out on them, cock first, fists second. He was a closet case, afraid of his true desires but not immune to the desires of manly flesh. Guys with good looks and a big package, rarely was sex ever about the other person. One-sided pleasure.
“Got a description of the guy?”
“Snooty, like Carlyle himself, like the fudge they packed didn’t smell.”
Descriptive. Jimmy didn’t comment. “Look, thanks for the info,” Jimmy said.
Billy hesitated, suddenly smiling Jimmy’s way. “You really a private dick?”
“Yes,” Jimmy replied, “And it stays that way.”
“Your loss. We could have had some fun.”
Jimmy removed his foot, and the door closed. The horny Billy Potter slipped back into the elevator and returned to his life. Jimmy spun around and walked along the cobbled street, his mind trying to piece together what he’d learned. Henderson had a regular male lover in addition to bedding whatever society broad he could get. Walking south, he bypassed both Prince and Spring Streets, at last coming to the congestion that was Canal Street. Tribeca to his west, Chinatown to his east, he wasn’t sure where his investigation was leading him. All he knew was north was home, more familiar territory. What was he doing in Lower Manhattan now? Were his feet trying to tell him what his mind couldn’t?
Suddenly inspiration hit him. He wasn’t far from One Police Plaza, the main headquarters of the NYPD. Perhaps Barone and Dean were working down here today. He might be able to hit them up with some questions without letting on his true interest in the Carlyle case. He could say he was acting on behalf of Serena Carson. She wanted a progress report. The only flaw in that was whether the detectives had been in touch with her already and whether they still considered her a suspect despite her alibi. Everything was speculation at this early point in the investigation, and to make progress meant to take chances. He continued along Canal Street, turned down Mott Street, the heart of Chinatown, and the smells hit his stomach hard. Hunger ate at him, and the sight of the crispy Peking ducks hanging in the window did little to halt the consumption. He felt there was no time to sit down for a meal, so he popped into one of the storefronts, where he ordered two eggs rolls and waited while the chef turned them golden brown. It wasn’t the most nutritious lunch, and considering what might happen on his date tonight, not great for the body either. But he ate them with relish—actually, with duck sauce—and was wiping his greasy fingers by the time he reached the perimeter of One Police Plaza.
The headquarters of the NYPD would never win any architecture awards. It was big, blocky, and brown. It was downplayed on the skyline by the nearby Brooklyn Bridge, a beautiful expanse that brought two boroughs closer. With the cement barricades surrounding the square that housed the NYPD brass, it looked more like the ranks were being closed in. Security kiosks kept a random person from entering the property, and many uniformed cops walked about, keeping a close eye on activity they deemed suspicious. Jimmy wiped his hands on his jeans, the last of the egg roll grease, and hoped any cop who was watching him thought that was normal, a guy being a guy.
He kept walking, so as not to draw further attention to himself. It seemed like a slow news day, since he didn’t see much in the way of news vans, reporters, such ilk, just the normal activity of cops on duty, coming and going from the front doors. Squad cars pulled in. They pulled out, a regular day in the life of the NYPD, fighting crime and fighting against the criticism often lodged at them for their interaction with certain communities. Jimmy thought back to his days in the police academy, about how thrilled his father would have been to see him graduate and take that golden badge out onto the streets. He would have done it, such a beat would have been his.
Life changed on a dime with a bullet.
Jimmy pulled out his phone, scrolled through the list of recent calls. He saw Barone’s name from just yesterday, which at this point seemed a lifetime ago. Should he call him and take a chance the seasoned detective would talk to him? Should he call Larry, not so seasoned, so dense between the ears, and manipulate him into giving up the latest details on the Carlyle murder? He was about to call the latter, figuring he’d have a better chance at the young detective, where he could question him about both Carlyle and Mickey. Working two cases, you had to economize, maximize.
“Jimmy?”
Jimmy looked up from the phone. He didn’t see Barone nor Dean. He saw Frisano.
“Frank…oh, hi.”
“Everyone okay? I mean, what brings you to OPP.”
Jimmy was rattled, felt his mouth go dry with a loss of words. Captain Francis X. Frisano was the last person he’d expected to see there, and seeing him then, in his uniform, noticing how snug it fit against his hard body, it was all Jimmy could do to think, much less answer the question hanging between them. He found himself staring at Frisano’s handsome face, the dark shadow of his heavy beard, how hot they’d been together in bed, how wrong they’d been together out of it.
“A case,” Jimmy said, a lame answer his mind told him.
“Okay. You got an appointment?”
“Kind of a clandestine one, if you catch my drift.”
“Not the Carlyle case, is it?”
“You told me to avoid it.”
“Doesn’t mean you will,” he said. “So if not that, what, Mickey Dean?”
“Frank, I think I’d like to invoke the private part in my license.”
“Got it,” he said.
“What brings you here?”
“Weekly lunch with Lieutenant Salvatore Frisano, sandwiches in his office, keeping tabs on his son. My mother thinks it’s a bonding between father and son, but I know differently, been like that since I first walked a beat.”
“Orchestrating your career,” Jimmy said.<
br />
“Sal won’t be happy until I hold the title of commissioner.”
“Got it,” Jimmy said. “No pressure.”
Jimmy started to move on, but he felt Frisano’s hand grip his wrist, holding him, drawing him in. They locked eyes, brooding dark eyes meeting expectant blue, dissolving into a color that only existed between the two of them. Jimmy felt fire pass through him, unsure whether it was his body creating the heat or being in Frisano’s presence and decided it was both. Neither of them had ever denied the attraction between them. Neither of them acknowledged the problems that existed between them. Still Jimmy had never felt anything like this, heat, desire…a woozy sensation that created within him a need to quell his heart.
“I hope you’re good, I mean, in your life, in your space,” Frisano said.
“Day at a time, isn’t that what the experts say?”
“Any progress, you know, on your father’s case?”
“Been quiet, like everything. Something about winter, hibernation’s not just for bears.”
It was a double-edged comment, reflective of how everything they had shared had gone into hiding but also about their physical attributes. Frisano was classic Irish-Italian, sexy, beefy, a hairy bear in the label-obsessed gay world. It took all of Jimmy’s resolve not to want to take the man into his arms right then not there, in front of his colleagues, where his father’s long shadow probably looked out on where they stood now. Suddenly Frisano released him, desire flooding out of them, regret settling in.
“Take care, Jimmy.”
The knot in this throat made it hard to speak. “Yeah, you too.”
Frisano started toward an idling squad car, which would then escort him back to the 10th. He stopped, turned back. Two feet separated them, less than the emotions that kept them farther apart. “Jimmy, I’m sorry, for a lot.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Soon Frisano was seated in the passenger seat of the cruiser, the blue and white car pulling out of the lot. Beyond the thick barricades, it went into the start-and-stop traffic of Manhattan. Jimmy found himself alone, no longer set on calling upon either Barone or Dean. He was done for the day. He was spent, emotionally. It was only after he’d walked several blocks and the image of Frisano had finally dissipated that he realized that another man was awaiting his arrival in just a matter of hours: a date, as different from Frisano as the black night was from the blinding sunlight of day. Jimmy usually liked living in the darkness. The light would be a surprise change.
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