Jimmy was considering his options when his phone rang again. Serena. He answered. “I’m on my way,” he said without preamble.
“Shit,” he thought. What was the urgency? He thought his association with Serena Carson had ended the night of Henderson Carlyle’s murder. What could she want, and why was she being so demanding? Had he detected anything in her voice other than her usual impatience? It took the entire cab ride to the East Side to think about it, and he came up with nothing. It was only when the cab left him off on the corner of Madison and 64th that he realized something was terribly wrong. He could see two police cruisers down the street, lights swirling, and an ambulance blocking all traffic. Several uniformed cops milled about, one of whom stopped Jimmy when he quickly arrived from the corner.
“Sorry, sir, crime scene. You’ll have to cross the street.”
“My client called me. I think she’s involved in…whatever this is.”
“Who’s your client?”
“Serena Carson. That’s her brownstone, right there…”
“You her lawyer?”
It was an opening he took. He could deal with the misrepresentation later. “I am.”
“Good, she’s gonna need one.”
Ominous words followed Jimmy under the yellow police tape and up the cement steps of her stoop, which only days ago had been the scene of the crime. He imagined the eviscerated body of Henderson Carlyle, the bloody mess he’d left behind. He saw no lingering stains. Serena had no doubt hired someone to clean it up, but what of the mess he was about to find? Would it be so easily washed away by a splash of bleach and detergent? He steeled himself for whatever scene awaited him inside. He turned the knob and was immediately stopped by another uniformed cop.
“No access, sorry sir.”
“Serena Carson is my client. You can’t deny me…”
“Let him in.”
Jimmy looked over to the new voice, where he saw Detective Roscoe Barone entering the foyer and behind him, his partner Larry Dean. There they all were, reunited at the initial scene of the crime, except that time it was the NYPD that had the advance notice of whatever had happened, leaving Jimmy in the dark, a place he would have preferred to remain given what he saw next. He was escorted into the living room, where he noticed two people. One was Serena Carson, as stylish as ever except for one very noticeable exception. Blood splatters marred her designer clothes, her face. She was trembling, and Jimmy rushed to her side.
“What happened?” he asked.
She couldn’t speak, merely pointed. Jimmy spun around and saw the body on the floor or what was left of him. Not unlike Henderson Carlyle, the man sprawled out on the floor was a study in red, his chest sliced open, blood everywhere. Shock was in his eyes, forever stained. It took all of his guts not to avoid looking at the man’s guts, but he hadn’t been called there to be squeamish. Serena was obviously in deep trouble. Jimmy bent closer, even as the forensic team was still milling about, taking photographs, dusting for prints, finding fibers, the kind of minutia that made up their days.
Jimmy didn’t speak either. He just stared, remorsefully, at the body of Robbie Danvers. He had last seen the man escorting Serena from the reception following the Nutcracker benefit. At the time Jimmy had thought of him as just another trust-fund boy with perfect hair and teeth, not to mention bank account. He was attractive and young enough to profile as one of Serena Carson’s conquests. Conquest no more. He would see nothing more in this life. He might have led a fancy, privileged life, but no doubt what he had seen at the end of his existence had been awful, brutal, a painful last breath.
Jimmy turned, first to Serena then to Barone, who came up beside him.
“Someone want to fill me on the details?”
“Ms. Carson says she came home about an hour ago, and this is what she found.”
“Serena, is that what you told the detectives?”
She was quiet still, merely nodded. For someone who had called him not forty minutes before with her petulant, urgent tone, she’d grown oddly silent. Had shock set in, or was it an act meant to deflect and diffuse the cops?
“She’s been advised of her rights,” Larry Dean said, joining them. “She hasn’t said a word since.”
“What? You think she did this?” Jimmy asked.
“Unlike the last victim, this one was found inside her home. How did he gain access?”
“They were dating,” Jimmy said. “Perhaps she stepped out, left him here. He unknowingly admitted his killer…shit, there are any number of possibilities. Barone, you already know Serena didn’t kill Henderson Carlyle, and now we have Robbie Danvers killed in the same fashion. Clearly someone is targeting the men in her life…”
“Either that, or Ms. Carson actually killed Carlyle with Danvers’ help.”
“That makes no sense….”
Except considering who the second victim was, to Jimmy it made perfect sense, because the body he was staring down at was none other than Serena Carson’s alibi for the first murder. He found himself gazing up at Serena, who was still trembling. He wanted to comfort her, even if she was guilty, because he understood her fear, perhaps even her reasoning. Covered in blood, she was a crime scene unto itself. Her clothes would be taken, tested, examined, used as proof against her.
“Jimmy, I suggest you get Ms. Carson help, legal help and fast.”
“What are you saying?”
Barone ignored the question as he made his way over to Serena. “Serena Carson, you are under arrest for the murders of Henderson Carlyle and Richard Danvers…”
The reading of her rights continued, empty words that held no meaning, not to Jimmy nor to Serena either, who again didn’t speak, not when Barone finished, not when she was handcuffed and taken away to the backseat of a squad car. Jimmy watched from the stoop as the detectives spun away, leaving in their wake the devastation of a life ended, a life destroyed, and for Jimmy, a case that had gotten complicated beyond words. Was Serena still his client, or was he still under contract to Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud? Two ends of the same case, and he wondered if both high-powered women were working different angles. Were they playing Jimmy?
All he knew was two men had been brutally murdered. A killer, whoever it was, roamed, waiting to strike again, or was it mission accomplished?
§ § § §
Not every day produced results. Sometimes a break cleared the mind. Midnight was approaching. There wasn’t anything Jimmy could do for Serena Carson at that hour, and in fact her lawyer had taken control of the situation. Jimmy had no official standing, and in fact he was a material witness on the first crime. He might be called in again for more questioning, and if the case were to go to trial, surely he would be called by the prosecution. He would have to wait out the legal process on this one.
He was sitting at his usual corner seat at Paddy’s Pub, Maggie beside him. There was still no word from Kellan, which is why the McSwains were rallying around their brother and uncle. Jimmy could see the trepidation with which Paddy poured every beer, the nervous energy he shot off when the door opened to emit a new customer, hoping each time it was his son coming home. For the past three hours, Jimmy had watched, and at one point he’d told his uncle to take a rest, sending him to his office, Maggie at his side. Jimmy had served up drinks as best he could. It was a bar full of regulars, they understood the mood was different here tonight. Paddy was a jovial man, wore his heart on his sleeve, and his laugh on his florid face.
That night only sorrow helped him behind the bar.
“Paddy, maybe you should close early, you know, get some sleep.”
“Work keeps me going. I won’t sleep ’til I see my boy.”
He then went to the other end of the bar to refill some glasses.
Jimmy nodded, sipped at his beer. His mother touched his arm. “You’re a good nephew.”
“You know I’d do anything for Paddy.”
“And you’re doing it,” she said.
“No, I should be out th
ere looking for Kellan.”
“This is New York. You’d have better luck finding the proverbial needle in that haystack. You can’t help Kellan right now, but you can help Paddy—and you are.” Maggie paused, took a drink from the dry martini in front of her. She’d been with her brother all day. She’d even taken a shift off from the Calloway, allowing the director Kathy to take over as chief. Maggie rarely took off, and when she did, it was because of family. And indeed, Paddy was family, the father figure Jimmy had lacked, the shoulder to cry on for Maggie when the nights became too dark, especially in those early days after Joseph McSwain’s death. Back then, before Paddy’s ex-wife had moved to Florida, both Kellan and Taran had been like little brothers to Jimmy, the three of them playing ball in the street, cracking jokes, stealing peeks at naughty magazines, where women exposed their breasts for all to see. Jimmy had known back then he had other interests. None of his family had judged him.
The door to Paddy’s Pub opened. Jimmy had a perfect view, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw Captain Francis X. Frisano enter. Unlike the other night, he wasn’t casual. He was in uniform, and he was accompanied by two patrolmen. Even in the dim lighting of the bar, he would see that Frisano was flush, his swarthy features evident with a nervous glow. It was also in his eyes, usually dark, at that moment pinpoints of blackness. It was like he carried the weight of his news behind his irises, a duty dimming his own energy.
“Patrick Byrne?” Frisano said.
“Yes,” Paddy said, “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“Captain Frisano, 10th Precinct. May we talk in private?”
By then Jimmy had gotten up from his seat, made his way to the front entrance.
“Frank, what’s going on?”
“Hey, Jim. This is…difficult.” He stared at Jimmy, hurt in his eyes, but personal issues had to wait as he turned back to Paddy. “Mr. Byrne?”
“Just tell me,” he said, his voice resigned almost gone.
“I’m sorry. We have discovered a body…we believe…he may be your son, Kellan.”
Behind the bar Paddy grew stone cold and silent. His arm gripped the edge of the bar like a lifeline, like a trusted friend he’d known all his life.
“Tell me,” Paddy said.
“He wasn’t alone,” Frisano said.
“I don’t understand…”
“It looks like a murder-suicide. A woman was beside him, identified as Sally Hendrix.”
“Where?”
“In an apartment a few blocks north.”
Jimmy’s heart sank to new depths. He’d been buzzing that door, and all along…were they both already dead? Should he have done more, or broken down the front door? He wouldn’t have been able to get into the apartment, and if he had…to what end, to find them both? Murder-suicide, it made no sense. Jimmy’s mind swirled with ideas, with loss, and it was only when he finally focused again did he hear the empty words spoken by a broken man.
“Everybody out. The bar is closed.”
Part Two
The Angel Beside You
Chapter Nine
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust….”
Words meant to be comforting instead felt hollow on the cold December morning.
Snow had fallen the night before with a light dusting covering the ground. It was still early enough in the season, and the ground hadn’t hardened so much that a burial wasn’t still possible. It was Monday, mid-December, four days since the body of Kellan Byrne had been found with a single bullet wound to the head, lying beside the young woman whom he’d picked up on a Saturday night that felt like years ago. She’d also been found with a bullet wound to the brain. Sweet, effective, and not for a second did Jimmy believe the NYPD’s theory. No way had Kellan killed her then turned the gun on himself.
It was an execution.
Even four days afterward, Jimmy’s fists were tight, his anger bottled deep within his soul. He had to hold it in for his uncle, for his family. They would grieve. They would bury their fallen son, their nephew, and cousin, but as time insists, moving forward was inevitable. They would return to their lives, albeit with holes in their heart that never fully healed.
Jimmy knew all about it. The pain of his father’s death that he carried with him since age fifteen had only grown exponentially after they placed Joseph McSwain into the ground forever. They returned to the same family plot upstate where they would say good-bye to another good man whose life had been cut short by violence by the loud blast of a gun. Jimmy wiped at a tear as the priest spoke, tried to dry it on his dark overcoat before anyone could witness it. He felt the squeeze of his mother’s hand. He looked over. Her tear just fell down her cheek. She was unafraid to show emotion.
No words were necessary. He might have allowed a smile. Instead he looked away.
The cemetery was small, located on the outskirts of Brewster not far from Peach Lake and the cottage his grandmother, Hester Byrne, called home. She was there, of course, at eighty-eight, as feisty as ever, holding her family together as only the strongest can. Paddy was dressed in a black suit, and he looked as though he had aged ten years since receiving the devastating news. His ex-wife, Darcy, had flown up from Florida along with Taran, who held onto her as though she would fall. Mallory was present too, her boyfriend, Taylor, at her side. Meaghan was there too, and if any one of them could offer hope for the next day, it was she, her belly six-months pregnant and promising new life. Jimmy felt an inner warmth hit him, realizing the last time they had all been together on Thanksgiving, just a couple weeks ago. So much had happened since then.
They had celebrated, and now they mourned.
The priest’s intonations finished. He stepped aside and offered each family member a quick moment before the casket. A vase of red roses was set to the side, and one-by-one family members took hold of a long stem and tossed it on top of the casket. Jimmy awaited his turn, grabbed one of the roses, and as he threw it into the air, he silently made a promise, not unlike one he had made to his father long ago that the truth would be known. Jimmy knew Kellan was no killer and that he would never have killed himself. He had everything to live for. Sally Hendrix was a victim too, and he would honor her life too. They were both collateral damage in a much bigger case.
Jimmy watched as the rose hit the shiny casket, joining the others in a bouquet of love. He then moved aside, shielding his hooded eyes while the last remaining family members paid their final respects. He knew Paddy would be last and that he might linger for longer than any of them. Not one of them would move him from his place, so Jimmy took that moment to slip away, walking through the snow-coated grass to another grave. It was one he hadn’t visited in some time. Should he come more often? Would it matter? He spoke to him every day. He vowed regularly to find the reason this man lay here for so long.
He stared at the gravestone, bent down, and dusted off a coating of snow, so he could read the words.
JOSEPH McSWAIN. HUSBAND. FATHER. DEDICATED TO LIFE.
The dates listed beneath the simple epitaph spoke of the brevity of life.
“Hi, Dad,” he said aloud, his voice strange in such somber surroundings. All else was quiet around them. The birds had already flown south. Only a cold breeze swept across the open land, wrapping its own sound around the numerous granite stones that rose up from the ground like arms, as though the dead were never really gone, not when someone remembered them, not when you still craved an embrace. Jimmy didn’t know what else to say at that point. A simple “Hello” seemed to suffice. He knew his father was aware of his life’s goal. Then suddenly he said, “I’ll find who did this to Kellan and to you.”
“Oh, Jimmy, you hold so much strength inside you. You do your father proud.”
Jimmy expected to see his mother standing beside him, but instead it was his grandmother, Hester, she of the sharp mind and sharper tongue. Then her voice was soft, reflecting her own loss of a grandson. It was one thing for parents to outlive a child, another for a grandpare
nt. So many years they lived, so few their offspring. Jimmy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“I think that strength is more Byrne than McSwain.”
“You are the best of both,” she said, “Handsome, unafraid. You need happiness.”
“I have all of you. I’m happy.”
“Jimmy, let me tell you something, and you just listen. I may be old school, and I may not understand these modern things like phones that tell you where to go and TVs that tell you what you like. But I know the heart, and I know you have a good one. But it’s not complete.”
She paused, looking up at him. He stared at green eyes that wore the color of their family, their history. He felt a wash of shame for the direction of his life. Mallory might have children. Meaghan would soon have one. Would they be McSwains? Not by name. He was the male heir, his father’s legacy, yet he couldn’t see himself fathering a child, he and another man raising one. He wasn’t programmed that way. He was independent. He was damaged.
“Grandmother, you are far too wise for this world.”
“Don’t be getting any ideas into your head. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jimmy laughed, despite the gravestones around them. “Wasn’t suggesting such a thing.”
“Good, my plot ain’t ready.” She patted his arm. “I’ll be here for your wedding. They allow that now, you know?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
“Good. Now go find a good man, and be happy.”
She stepped away, almost as quickly as she had appeared, still spry at her age. Jimmy shook his head, amazed by the support around him. She wanted to see him happy, but wasn’t happiness something they all strove for, love?
Paddy and Darcy had once found it. They’d shared two great kids, only to see their own lives so separated, brought together in death. Maggie too had found the love of her life with Joseph only to live most of her later years alone.
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