Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  “I’m sorry…my father? What does he have to do with Cassie’s death?”

  “Well, Joey was walking his beat, he and his partner. They were the first on the scene. Joey performed CPR on her. He did everything he could to save her, but the Lord wanted her more. He needed a new angel. He took her. I know Joey felt horrible that day. He was a good friend. She was a good girl, a special girl.”

  Jimmy felt a chill hit him like an arctic blast. Despite the warmth around him, the candles, the incense, he was frozen in place like a memory of his own had found him and held him in place. He didn’t like the ramifications of what he’d learned. Was that the reason the McSwain and Dean families drifted apart after a time? Was there a sense of blame on their part? Did they think Officer Joseph McSwain had not done enough?

  Jimmy wondered if Joey’s own path toward death had begun on a day an angel was born.

  Chapter Ten

  Even with his preoccupation with family matters during the last several days, Jimmy remained as up-to-date as he could be regarding Serena Carson. Still it took a call from the accused herself to get Jimmy totally refocused, coming in soon after he’d left Madame Mo’s storefront.

  “Where are you, Jimmy?”

  He looked up at a green street sign. “9th and 47th. Headed home.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re coming to my home pronto.”

  It was probably good she carried such insistence in her voice. He needed the distraction. The meeting with Maureen Dean had left him unsettled.

  “See you soon,” was his reply.

  He bypassed a kiosk that sold papers, soda, candy, and lottery cards. The headlines stared back at him from the Post and Daily News: HEIRESS BACK AT SCENE OF CRIME and HOME WHERE THE KNIFE IS, they said respectively. Jimmy shook his head.

  The newspapers had of course enjoyed brisk sales with the notoriety of Serena’s arrest the prior week for the two brutal murders that had occurred at her tony brownstone. She’d been on the front pages for days, the poor little rich girl more than grown up, having lived her entire life in the specter and shadow of her parents’ death in that fiery plane crash, a story they rehashed over the weekend in a double-page feature. Jimmy remembered looking at an ash-covered little girl, the lone survivor. Still there were even editorials written about her privileged life, one going so far as to say that since she had no real role models to guide her upbringing, she possessed no sense of the value of life.

  The reporter claimed she had shown no remorse during her arraignment over the way she allegedly had brutally murdered Henderson Carlyle and Robbie Danvers, men she had had sex with and disposed of when she was tired of them. Forget that she was the victim of domestic abuse, a subject still buried. Her lawyer had not introduced it, probably as a safeguard for their defense and just allowed her to enter a plea of not guilty. The headlines were sensationalism at its best—or its worse. It all depended on which side of the human condition you came down on.

  Jimmy thought it was all bullshit. He didn’t believe for a second Serena was guilty, yet it didn’t mean she was completely innocent either. Jimmy usually dealt between the lines. He found the gray in life.

  The courts were currently of a similarly mixed opinion, and because of that Serena had been granted bail and was currently under house arrest. It was a concession made by the prosecution, given her stature in the community and her unblemished record. Jimmy had been meaning to get in touch with her anyway, and after his meeting with Maureen Dean, he was thinking it might be time to devote some attention to his other case. She beat him to the punch. Dealing with the fallout of Mickey Dean and his possible involvement with what had happened to Kellan would have to wait until the nighttime, for an hour when Mickey would crawl out from the shadows and into his own darkness. Jimmy would be waiting.

  Then the sun was shining down on the fallen snow from the day before. It was still cold, leaving the streets with a seasonal glow about them. Only on the corners had the tramping of steady foot traffic turned it all to slush. Jimmy considered walking, but suddenly he saw an available cab and raised his arm. It stopped, and he hopped in. It sped off. “Madison Avenue and 64th,” he said.

  Life always felt different when he came to the moneyed neighborhoods like the sky was a bit larger, brighter. When rain fell, it was silver in color and left the sidewalks glistening. When the snow blanketed the area, it was serene, and only the sight of a police cruiser parked on the street and a uniformed cop standing before the stoop gave evidence that there was any trouble brewing at the otherwise exclusive address.

  “Ms. Carson is expecting me,” Jimmy said, approaching the cop.

  “McSwain?”

  “In the flesh.”

  He flicked his head. “Go ahead.”

  Jimmy didn’t need to knock, since the door opened the moment he started up the steps. He was greeted by Serena herself and escorted quickly into the brownstone, as though by doing so she was able to dismiss the fact that cops were keeping a constant watch on her: taxpayer money at work keeping them safe from a millionaire socialite accused of murder. She didn’t appear all that bad off, stylishly dressed even in a pair of jeans and a sweater, her hair and makeup perfect.

  “Thank you for coming, Jimmy.”

  “You don’t look any worse for wear,” he said.

  She went over to the drink cart and poured herself a healthy amount of vodka. She lifted. She drank. “Look, sure. Feel…another story. Cheers. Join me?”

  “Kinda early.”

  “When you’ve been in jail, it’s never early.”

  “Rough time?”

  “I live like this, then they put me in a small cell with an open toilet. Even for women it’s barbaric.”

  “You’re home now.”

  “With no opportunity to go anywhere, not that I want to go out and be leered at.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Reputations always come first.”

  She didn’t respond. She poured vodka into a second glass. She handed it to Jimmy.

  “Don’t make me drink alone.”

  Jimmy accepted it and took a sip. Sure it was after noon, but the taste was stringent. He winced as the booze slid down his throat. It wasn’t his usual choice of beverage.

  “What does your lawyer say?”

  “Ha! He told me I should think about a plea bargain.”

  “So life behind bars instead of the death penalty.”

  “Once I was released…if you want to call it that, I fired him.”

  Just then Serena dropped to the sofa, the glass still in her hand and the vodka splashing. Jimmy wondered if it wasn’t the first of the day. He looked around the decorative living room and couldn’t help but notice the drapes were closed, keeping out the daylight. It was like Serena had imprisoned herself, a trait so unlike the woman who hired him to be a bodyguard.

  She was no withering flower. She knew how to fight except she seemed to have forgotten her technique. The only signs of life in the darkened space was a pile of wrapped presents. There must have been thirty at least, a reminder of the upcoming holiday season. She had no tree and no other decorations about, just boxes wrapped in shiny, reflective blue, silver, gold and red all tied with bows. She said nothing about them. She said nothing for a while. The growing silence enveloped the room, and Jimmy waited to see where she wanted to steer the conversation. Finally after draining her glass, she spoke.

  “I didn’t kill them, either of them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I never said you did. Hell, I’m here with you alone. I don’t see any knives handy.”

  “But it doesn’t look good.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not with your alibi for the first murder having been murdered too, no. Definitely a complication.” He paused, thought how he could help. “I know a few lawyers, if you want a recommendation.”

  “Your sister?”

  “You do your research.”

  “Jimmy, people with money have to be aware of whom they deal with. You don’t want to be
taken advantage of.”

  “So shall I put you in touch with Mallory?”

  “She works for an impressive firm, but I don’t expect it to get that far. I will not go on trial for either of these murders.” She paused. “I’ll let you know.”

  Jimmy set his glass down. It was still full. He’d only taken two sips out of courtesy. They had reached the business portion of the get together, the reason she had summoned him. He sat down on the edge of the sofa, a perch that gave him an advantage over Serena. She looked up at him with blurred eyes.

  “You already known I’m not guilty.”

  “That’s not always the same as innocent,” he said.

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means I think you know more than you’re saying.”

  “Jimmy McSwain, listen to me, and don’t forget my words. I am not a killer.”

  “That part I believe.”

  “So I’m hiring you to prove my innocence.”

  “Can’t,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” she said, indignance returning to her voice. The fighter was slowly edging out into the ring. “When I ask someone for something, the last responsive I expect is a negative one.”

  “I’m already under retainer to Help Is Here. Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud hired me.”

  “To do what, protect the charity from this scandal?”

  “To find out who killed Henderson Carlyle.”

  “Fine. Now I’m hiring you to find out who killed Robbie.”

  “Same case,” he said, “It wouldn’t be professional of me to double-dip.”

  “Jimmy, Melissa just wants to cover her ass in front of the board. They can remove her.”

  “And you?”

  “This is my life. As you said, it’s life in prison or the death penalty. New York State doesn’t care what my bank account reads. If I’m found guilty of these horrific crimes, my life is essentially over, and that’s not an option. So fuck Melissa and her precious—and might I add—fake reputation. Jimmy, two days in that dank jail was about all I could take. If I have to live the rest of my life in an orange jumpsuit and pee in the open and makes friends with vicious criminals…well, I may as well have died along with my parents. I have all the money in the world to disappear.”

  “I would imagine the courts took your passport.”

  She eyed him with a suspicious gaze. “You think I can’t arrange for another? With the right amount of money, I can change my identity, receive new identification, slip away, and never again be heard from.” She paused, suddenly getting unsteadily to her feet. “But that’s not an option I wish to pursue. All that money I could spend on forged paperwork, instead it will go to you. Jimmy, I’m offering you a one-time payment of one hundred thousand dollars for my freedom, half up front.”

  It was a hell of a payday, way more than Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud had given him.

  “Well? My checkbook is in the next room.”

  “The cops warned me off this case,” he said.

  “And yet you took the case for Melissa. With my arrest the NYPD is not even looking for the real killer anymore. The DA is busy building a case against me. I’m out of options. My friends have not called me back. The invitations for holiday parties have dried up. I’m a social pariah, and even if I wanted to attend, I couldn’t, not with this fucking house arrest. Get me my damn life back, Jimmy. Serena Carson is nobody’s fool, and my so-called social circle will find out what it’s like to turn their back on me.”

  “So those presents over there, I guess you won’t be sending them out to those friends.”

  “What…oh, those…no, they will get delivered.”

  “Coal for that so-called ‘social circle’?”

  “Actually, Jimmy, despite my significant legal troubles, I am still a functioning member of society. Every year the Help Is Here staff hosts a holiday party for underprivileged children from around the city. Those gifts are for the kids who attend, and some are for those who cannot because of serious illness. I’m glad you reminded me of them. The party is two days from now, and I need to make arrangements to have them sent.”

  Jimmy looked at the stack of gifts then back at Serena. She was an enigma, a grown woman but maybe too a little girl who had never been able to experience the joy of gift-giving. Having lost her parents at such a young age, what did she know of Christmas traditions? Did she use her money to ensure other children didn’t grow up with the same sense of loss? Jimmy felt for her, wondering if a woman like her had ever really known love. She had never lacked for company, for companionship. Jimmy knew they weren’t the same thing.

  “What if I could arrange to have you attend the charity’s party?”

  “How could you do that?”

  “I could speak to the lead detectives, Barone and Dean. We go way back.”

  Serena came over to him and surprisingly embraced him. Jimmy felt her arms around him, and he let her hold him for as long as she wanted. He could smell the booze, too much of it. He also knew asking this favor of Barone would cost him at some point, but for now it seemed heartless to deny a damaged Serena from a cause she truly believed in. Her generosity of spirit was evident in the pile of presents. As beautifully wrapped as they were, they couldn’t possibly be the work of a brutal killer in his midst. When they parted, Serena smiled at him.

  “Oh, Jimmy,” she said, running a hand across his shaven cheek, “It’s too bad I’m not your type.”

  He offered up a laugh despite what would next come out of his mouth. “Considering how the men you sleep with end up, I’m fine with our present relationship. Oh, and you can make that check out to ‘Jimmy McSwain Investigations’?”

  “A true mercenary after my own heart.”

  “And only that,” he said.

  She kissed him anyway. “Thank you, Jimmy. My life, it’s in your hands.”

  § § § §

  Jimmy left Serena’s with a weight of responsibility and a check burning in his pocket, the highest retainer he’d ever received in his six years working as a private investigator. A successful end to the case would bring him a heftier payday, one that would give him a rare bit of financial security. He worked case by case, like most people worked paycheck to paycheck, except that he never knew when a new case was going to find him. It was happenstance combined with the impulses of the human race when backed up against a wall. If the cops weren’t an option, a private eye was often the last-act alternative. Jimmy had seen the repugnant side to life: cheating spouses, nasty killers with no remorse, and everyone in between. He was hired to uncover truths others wanted to hide out of shame, regret, embarrassment, or, worse, out of pure evil.

  He wondered what he was dealing with there, with two murders that had left the bodies in such tatters he found himself hoping the afterlife truly restored you to your best self. Henderson Carlyle might have been an abuser of women, but no doubt he had a pathology that had led him down such a dark path. Jimmy knew nothing of Robbie Danvers’ life, and it was one he would need to explore. Was he just a victim of circumstance, Or caught in the middle of something bigger? Because if Serena Carson truly was innocent, then there was someone out there exacting a form of vengeance among the most brutal Jimmy had ever witnessed. He winced whenever he thought of both bloodied bodies.

  Foremost on his mind was ensuring Serena got to attend the holiday party. He considered calling Barone but felt a one-on-one might provide more insight into the case. So he went down the subway entrance at 5th Avenue and 60th Street and took an arriving R train to 42nd Street, where he walked through a maze of people and tunnels to the 8th Avenue lines. It took a few minutes for an E train to pull in, and he hopped on, taking it two stops to 23rd Street, as close as the MTA could get him to the 10th Precinct. He was walking through the door not ten minutes later.

  “Hi, Jimmy. Almost a week without seeing you. Business slow?”

  “Hey, Wren,” he said, “And no. Too busy. Barone here?”

  She looked up at the clock. The time
was 4:30, not quite happy hour but good enough.

  “Westside Tavern?”

  “With Dean.”

  “Thanks. Captain Frisano around?”

  “Later. Not sure where he is.”

  “No one I need is around. Not sure what that says about the tenth.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Wren said, her voice deadpan.

  “You, I depend on. Them, not so much. Take care.”

  “Call me anytime, sexy.”

  Jimmy laughed as he walked back out of the precinct. In front were several police cruisers, blue and white cars silent on a quiet, midweek afternoon. Jimmy slipped between two of them, a couple of off-duty cops nodding his way out of recognition. He might have been one of them, also dressed in uniform, protecting the citizens of New York from the criminal element. Life though had taken a different path, a darker tone, and it was up to Jimmy to navigate the complexities of the law and the recklessness of the bad. It was a fine line, he knew. Life-timers like Barone meant well. Crooks like Mickey Dean didn’t. Jimmy lived his life straddling the space between them.

  He walked along Manhattan’s sidewalks, finding the busy thoroughfare of 23rd Street. The Westside Tavern was found between 8th and 9th Avenues, a friendly spot that often housed the recreational activities of Detective Roscoe Barone. He was seated at a round table in the front, his partner Larry Dean at his side. A couple of beers kept them company. So did Jimmy, bringing with him his own beer. It wasn’t the first time they had met here.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen,” Jimmy said.

  “McSwain,” Barone said. His voice sounded like an indictment. Dean just glared at him.