“Jimmy, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to just blurt that out…”
“It’s okay, Steven. Probably good that you said it, cards on the table.”
“You haven’t responded to my request at least, not in words. Your body language says so much. Guess you don’t need to say anything, not anymore.”
“I’m just…I can’t do this. It’s too much. It’s too fast. I don’t do this.”
The mood had shifted. The sweat on Jimmy’s flesh had grown cold. He warmed himself not with the man beside him, not with the covering of blankets. He’d gotten out of bed. He’d found his clothes and put them on. He apologized, and he walked out of the bedroom and down the darkened stairs to the living room, where the remnants of their romantic dinner remained. He noticed lasting drops of red wine staining the bottom of the glasses. It was the last image he had, before he walked out the front door, closing it behind him with a noticeable echo. Perhaps that sound only resounded in his hollow chest.
The only thing faster than Steven’s asking him to move in was the way Jimmy departed.
And now there he was, the bright lights of the Lincoln Center Christmas tree glowing in the darkness, reds and blues, yellows, greens, gold lights. All of which only served to send Jimmy’s mood further south, even as his feet took him in the same direction. He was headed back home, to Hell’s Kitchen, to the world he knew, where comfort lived, even among the violence he sometimes witnessed there. He could handle all of that, defenses always up. They hadn’t been inside the luxury brownstone, where a handsome, wealthy doctor was asking him—after two dates—to move in and be a vital part of his life. Jimmy couldn’t do that, not move in, not deal with the notion of it. His life was too unsettled. He wondered if it ever would be.
Walking along Broadway, any number of cabs passed on by, many available to hail, their lights like welcoming beacons. He let them go. He needed the air, even as cold as it was. He zipped up his leather jacket, attaching the snap at the collar. He kept at a brisk pace, finally coming to Columbus Circle, the point at which he thought he was crossing a border from Uptown to Midtown, from a strange world to a familiar one. He crossed the circle, watching the traffic as it haphazardly shifted lanes. A speeding cab honked at him. He ignored its cry as he made his way toward 8th Avenue, preferring to go west from there rather than venture further down Broadway. He had no interest in making his way to Times Square. It was home he sought, but which one he couldn’t yet decide. His mother’s or his office. Did he need company? It was only 11:30. No doubt she was still awake. Maggie McSwain was a night owl, and she was also one perceptive lady, who would sense that her son’s mood was off. So he would go his office, pull out the sofa, or perhaps he’d just stretch out on the cushions, confine himself to a small space after the spacious bed in which he’d been only a short while ago.
He took out his phone, not sure why, to see if maybe Steven had sent a text, an apology.
Should Jimmy send one?
He decided it wasn’t the time to discuss what happened. It was still too new, too raw.
The light changed, and he crossed the double-width 57th Street, breathing a sigh of relief as made it across. He was truly back in his neighborhood. He walked south one block, turned west, and made his way along a quiet 56th Street with barely a soul around. Wednesday nights were not the hottest nights out in Manhattan; fewer people attended shows on that night than any other. The restaurants were quiet, the bars more subdued, like Jimmy himself.
Suddenly he stopped when he saw a short, thick figure emerge suddenly from the shadows of an apartment building. His mind went to Mickey Dean, how a dangerous man like that trolled the night, looking for trouble, for victims. It was a little north for him He liked the forties and thirties. A more dangerous element hung there, especially further west like 10th and 11th. Jimmy crossed the street, slipping behind a tree to avoid detection, his moves stealthy. He wasn’t sure why. A honed instinct had taken over. Perhaps it was the hour. Perhaps it was what happened to Kellan the other night that had him on edge.
He watched the mystery man, who just stood there on the curb, lighting a cigarette, putting one hand in his jacket pocket while he puffed away. He looked around. The match aside, he was encased in near darkness away from any of the streetlamps. Like he knew he was, the spot chosen deliberately. A rendezvous was surely taking place, and Jimmy thought maybe he should move on as innocently as he could, hopefully evade discovery. He had no reason to suspect this man of any wrong doing. It could just be a friend waiting or a possible hook-up between two people, but there was something about the man he seemed to recognize. Had he seen a flash of his face when he’d lit the match?
And it wasn’t so much the face but the shape of his body: built like a fireplug, short but thick, corded with muscle. Jimmy knew then who it was: one of Mickey Dean’s goons. He’d been at Mickey’s side the other night at Paddy’s. Coincidence, happenstance, or meant to be, Jimmy stayed his ground, holding his breath, while allowing the tree to keep him as protected as possible. He waited another minute, before he saw a person coming toward the goon. The other was a man, tall, lanky build, definitely not the other guy who had flanked Mickey and not Mickey himself. A quick nod occurred between the two men, a handshake or perhaps a sly exchange of cash, drugs? The light of a cell phone illuminated the two of them; the man was counting something. Definitely cash was Jimmy’s assessment. What he saw next sent a shiver through his system:
A gun, easily discernable under the glow of the screen. He couldn’t make what type, which hardly mattered. In Jimmy’s experience, a gun was a gun, and it did damage. It killed. It destroyed lives, people. The lanky man took hold of the gun, slipped it in an inner pocket of his jacket where a moment ago he’d put the cash. He nodded a single time before continuing down the dark street. He lit a cigarette, almost as if he’d only stopped to ask the man on the street for a smoke, common enough occurrence, innocent enough except it was a front. Jimmy had just watched an illegal sale of what he assumed was an unregistered gun. What confused him was the fact that the man left with both gun and cash. If it wasn’t a sale, then something else was going down, a hit.
Suddenly the goon was on the move, quickly crossing 9th Avenue, heading west toward 10th. Jimmy pulled out too, maintaining a distance but trailing him. He walked slowly. He took out his own phone, pretending to text while walking, which enabled him to go slowly and appear distracted. The goon would have no clue he was being followed. In fact as they continued even further west to 11th Avenue, eventually down 51st Street, never once did the guy look back. Either he was cocky, or he was clueless. The guy stopped before a service garage with an old, plastic sign that said “Rocco’s.” A couple of cars were parked in front. Discarded pieces of other cars were in the lot. Several towers of tires gave Jimmy a place to hide as he watched things unfold.
The goon went to a metal door, knocked once, then rapped his knuckles a second and third time, each one an off-beat. A coded knock, no doubt. The door swung open, Mickey himself standing in the door frame, his eyes darting both ways as he admitted his friend. Then just as fast the door shut, the sound of a lock echoing in the quiet of the late Manhattan night. Jimmy thought about what to do. Should he try to find a window, catch a glimpse of the activity going on inside, or did he have enough evidence to call Midtown North and have the place raided? That second choice seemed extreme, at least at the moment. Jimmy needed to know more.
He eased forward, careful to remain as quiet as possible and avoid tripping over the assortment of metal junk assembled in the front lot. He made his way to the door, which had a small diamond-shaped window in its center. Jimmy peered in, saw that the inside was a large open space: cars up on racks, industrial-size lights illuminating the place. He saw a table in the corner, where he could make out Mickey, though his back was turned to him. The goon was sitting at the table, both men engaged in conversation. About a dozen guns were spread over the table, each more deadly than the other.
So Micke
y was running a gun smuggling operation from inside the old garage. Was it small potatoes, regular guys on the street buying them, or was it part of a larger scale operation, using them for people they had targeted, paying assassins? Using Rocco’s as his headquarters, but knowing Mickey, it was probably more than guns, more than money, probably drugs, and given the location, perhaps he also was running a chop shop. Stolen cars were brought there, broken down, and sold for parts. Jimmy’s mind took him back to the last time he’d gone investigating at a service garage that was something it wasn’t, and that’s when a familiar chill took hold of him.
The warehouse was in Queens, where Seetha Assan had been held captive—he and Frisano had discovered it. Seetha had been a distraction during the Stage Fright case, a link to the Crime Wave case that had seen her brother, Rashad, gunning down deli owners. Jimmy had been warned off both cases by the police, but found himself drawn to them. A link to his father’s case had presented itself with Rashad, and Seetha’s appearance—and subsequent disappearance—had only added to his suspicions. But it was the symbol he saw, first on the wall of the warehouse in Queens that had told him he was on the right track, and there it was again on the far wall of the chop shop: a gold shield with a blue stripe running through the middle of it. It was in the shape of a policeman’s badge.
He remembered the phrase that had accompanied the symbol. Seetha had told him. Her brother had used it: “Blue Death.”
Jimmy found his breath stalled in his throat, nearly choking him. He backed away from the door, fearing discovery. Alone at that hour, if he were to be discovered by Mickey Dean, there was no telling what would happen to him. He might never be heard from again, sent to sleep with the fishes in the nearby Hudson. Suddenly spending the night in a luxurious brownstone—hell, living there—with the comfort of fine wine and gourmet meals and making passionate love on a nightly basis with a handsome doctor. None of it sounded like the worst thing for Jimmy to fear.
He stepped away, making fast progress down the street away from what he’d witnessed. The night swallowed him up, almost as if he’d never been outside the seedy garage. He knew what he’d seen, the details, the names. They swirled in his mind to the point of dizziness.
Mickey Dean. Blue Death. The Assan Case. Joseph McSwain.
What the hell was going on? What was the connection? Had he just taken an unexpected and major step forward in solving the Forever Haunt case? Jimmy’s suspicious nature told him, “Yes,” but he was afraid to give it voice, afraid if would dissipate into the air.
§ § § §
He awoke the next morning still fully clothed, an empty beer bottle at his side as well as the thick file of his father’s case, which he’d taken out the moment he’d returned to his office. For two hours as a new morning chased the night away, Jimmy had poured through the articles, mouthing the words with such familiarity he almost didn’t need to look. He stared at photographs, and at one point he went to a desk drawer, and he pulled out a medal of honor his father had received. He kept it there and rarely took it out. Joseph had stared down a gunman and saved several hostages. He’d been honored at a press conference with the commissioner and the mayor.
“This man standing before you is the true representation of New York’s finest,” said the mayor, while Maggie and the three McSwain children gazed on proudly dressed in their Sunday best. Jimmy had been ten. He’d known then his father was a hero. He’d often wondered why Joseph McSwain could defeat one gunman while another would send him to his grave.
Jimmy stirred, his body stiff from having fallen asleep on the hard floor, his back against the sofa. He gathered up the file, stuffed it back inside the black metal file cabinet, and then closed not only the drawer but the closet, leaving only the remnants and tatters imprinted in his mind. He was about to head to the shower, knowing he was probably rank from the beer and from sex. Pulling off his sweater, he made his way to the bathroom, only to hear his phone ring. He turned, unsure whether he wanted to pick it up. It was early morning. Would it be good news or bad? A fresh case? He hoped not the last. His plate was full.
He ignored it and threw himself in the shower. The water felt good, as though it was washing away the regrets and surprises of last night, leaving him clean and ready for the day’s challenge. He’d left the door open, and he could hear the phone ringing again. Another call, or the same one? He finished his shower quickly, dried off, and, with the towel wrapped around his waist, he went for his phone. Two missed calls, both of them from Uncle Paddy. The warmth of the shower went away, replaced by the ominous chill of the open room.
He called back. It was answered on the first ring.
“Jimmy, have you seen Kellan?”
“No, I mean, it’s early. I was just in the shower…”
“He didn’t come home last night.”
Jimmy didn’t like this development, not the panic in his uncle’s voice nor the worry that washed over him.
“Maybe he, uh, you know, met up with that Sally girl again.”
“I suppose that could be so, but I’ve called him. He’s not answering…”
“Well, perhaps because they are…”
“You don’t have to tell me what you kids do these days, at all hours of the day…”
“Uncle Paddy, I’m sure he’s fine. You sure he didn’t suddenly decide to return to Florida?”
“Oh, that he would have told me.”
“But not about a girl, so…let’s not panic…”
“Jim, after what happened with Mickey…”
“I’ll look into it. I’ll track him down. I’ll call you back.”
“Thank you, Jimmy. I knew I could count on you.”
“Of course you can. Family sticks together.”
“Please make sure my family is okay.”
He ended the call, Paddy’s words echoing inside Jimmy, a plea, filled with a sense of fear and desperation. Jimmy hoped it was misguided emotion and that it was a simple as Kellan having a reunion with the girl he’d met the other night. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. At least he hoped so.
Quickly he dressed. Before he left the apartment, he called Kellan’s phone. It went right to voicemail. Had he forgotten to charge it? Had he lost it maybe? Who else would he have been with? Should he go visit Sally? Her apartment wasn’t far, and she’d been seemingly upfront with him, before when he went to question her that Sunday morning. Or maybe Kellan had stayed at the McSwain home last night, taken Jimmy’s room, since he’d told his mother he probably wouldn’t be back. He placed a quick call, heard his mother answer on the second ring.
“Ma, it’s Jimmy. Is Kellan there by chance?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since Monday’s dinner. Is everything all right?”
“I hope so. Call Paddy. He’s worried, or better yet, visit him. He’s probably getting ready to open up.”
It might only be ten o’clock in the morning, but it didn’t mean there weren’t any regulars who came by Paddy’s thinking it was almost five o’clock in Dublin. Glad to have sent his mother to help keep Paddy calm, Jimmy set out, realizing that Kellan’s disappearance was the priority of the day, not Mickey and the symbol of Blue Death and certainly not the Henderson Carlyle case. Except When you make plans, they often go awry, and on that morning it was like the universe was sending Jimmy conflicting messages, pulling him in as many directions as it could. His phone was ringing again, and he knew he couldn’t say no to the caller. She wouldn’t stop calling until he answered.
“Serena, good morning.”
“Jimmy, get over here right now.”
“Serena, I’m kinda busy. Can this wait?”
“No.”
Her voice offered no room for negotiation. “Can you tell me what this is about.”
“Just grab a cab, and get to my brownstone now. I’ll be waiting.”
Jimmy knew his priorities. He also knew he was in control. “One stop, then I’m yours.”
She cut the call short, not even
a good-bye. “Spoiled rich people,” Jimmy thought, unhappy when they didn’t get their way.
Snow was in the forecast that day, not a major storm but flurries that might lead to a few inches of eventual slush on the sidewalks and corners of New York. The snow always looked nice when it was falling, dusting the branches of trees with its gossamer of white, a taste of Rockwell on the mean streets. Soon it became slush underfoot, brown and dirty. It made for messy walking. Thankfully, at that moment, the sidewalks were clear of all but people and trash, and Jimmy joined the throngs as he walked uptown on 9th Avenue. He hadn’t eaten, and he could smell the scent of fresh bread from the local bakery wafting out the door. A local deli was serving up egg-and-bacon sandwiches, the allure of grease calling to him. Determination won out over hunger, and in just a few minutes he was outside the apartment building where Sally lived.
He pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no response.
He repeated the process two more times, trying to be patient but feeling concern claim him.
“Come on, Sally.”
It was a Thursday. She could have been at a job or an audition. Didn’t she say she was an aspiring actress? He tried the buzzer one last time, and he thought he could hear its echo throughout the building, a hollow sound. Frustration hit him, and he pushed at the door, even though he knew it was a fruitless attempt. It was a strong lock, and no way was he going to bust through it. He thought about ringing a neighbor’s bell, trying to gain access the old-fashioned way: piss someone off so much they just buzzed you in to stop the annoying noise, but he couldn’t risk having a neighbor call the police—not unlike yesterday, at Henderson’s loft. The only difference today was the fact none of the neighbors seemed to around. All was quiet in the hallways of the walk-up.
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