Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  Romantic thoughts turned him toward Francis X. Frisano and what might have happened the night before had Jimmy stayed. He might have awakened in that man’s bed instead of his own. Would that have been so terrible? What it wouldn’t have been was fair to Frisano, or to himself.

  Jimmy suddenly turned off the shower nozzle, himself as well, re-energizing himself for the day ahead. Relationships would take a back seat to what should occupy his thoughts. He was being paid good money to find out who had killed both Henderson Carlyle and Robbie Danvers, and to uncover the truth he had to find the link between the two of them, a link other than Serena Carson, he hoped.

  Jimmy finished getting dressed, grabbed his jacket, and was ready to head out for a full day. He paused at the entrance to the apartment, because from where he stood he could see his mother sitting alone at the kitchen table in her usual seat, her cup of coffee keeping her company. Opposite her was her husband’s empty chair just like it always was. He felt a wash of sadness soon overrun by a fresh determination. He quickly went to his mother and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Love ya, Ma.”

  “You be careful out there, Jimmy.”

  “I always come home,” he said, words he hoped he could live up to as long as she lived.

  Outside winter was making another attempt at an early arrival, the temperatures in the low twenties. The weather forecasters on the local stations were all talking about a Polar Vortex, which sounded like the city would soon be a floating iceberg. He zipped up and saw his breath advance steps ahead of him. He realized he didn’t have a plan. He remembered his idea to compartmentalize his cases, to take one matter at a time. It’s how he got results. Suddenly he turned further west, headed over to 11th Avenue, and then uptown a few blocks. He knew where he going: a morning stakeout at Rocco’s Garage, the chop shop where he’d seen Mickey and his goon. Surely ten a.m. was too early for whatever business they had going on there. Mickey enjoyed the night.

  Jimmy came to the garage from the other direction, walking east that time. For a city with so many people, he didn’t really see many about. It wasn’t the most populous part of town, and it worked to his advantage. He slipped his hands in his pockets, having forgotten gloves. He just looked like a regular guy trying to stay warm. As he approached, he noticed the fence was closed, a padlock ensuring it stayed that way. Service stations were usually open at that hour, mechanics working on damaged cars in need of repair. There was no such activity then, which only reinforced Jimmy’s thought the place was a front, Mickey Dean’s headquarters. He walked past, considering his options. Trying to scale the fence was risky, given the coiled wire spiraling across the top.

  An alley separated the garage from the apartment building next door, an old brick tenement that didn’t appear to be habitable. More evidence past lives were being closed down, making room for a Hell’s Kitchen of the future, whitewashing history, and adding a sheen to a place usually known for its grit. But there were still little nooks to be found in this neighborhood, and Jimmy found one when he darted down the narrow alley between the two properties.

  The metal fence followed him, almost taunting him. There was no way to gain entry except there was one, a slight rip in the fence about a hundred feet down. It was not enough for a man to pass through, perhaps created by an animal with determined paws. But Jimmy could channel his inner beast, and he did so. He stretched the pieces of metal fence apart, hoping to create a larger hole. The metal was cold to the touch. He strained, felt himself working muscles he hadn’t in a bit. Perhaps it was the cold or the fence was old, but a piece snapped off. Jimmy gained entrance, his body slipping through, a piece of wire catching on his jacket. It tore a one-inch scar across the smooth black leather.

  He stared at it, swore, but continued. Serena’s retainer would buy him many more.

  Darting behind the back of the building, Jimmy saw a window filthy with dirt. It was high up out of reach. He quickly grabbed a few tires, piled them up, then climbed. Once he was level with the window, he rubbed his jacket against the dirt, smearing it but clearing a view for himself. It was an office he was looking into on the second floor of the building. He punched his elbow against the glass, where it shattered. He then poked a hand in gingerly to avoid getting cut. He flipped the lock, and then the window swung open. Jimmy climbed in further, rolling onto the floor to help break his fall. It wasn’t pretty, and his jacket was probably ruined.

  But he was in. It was time to see what he could find.

  Walking slowly along the creaking floor, Jimmy listened for any sounds of life or of activity. Nothing. Rocco’s was all quiet, as closed up inside as it was on the outside. He opened the door, emerging into an exposed hallway that looked out over the entire main floor of the greasy garage. Two sports cars hoisted upon the racks appeared to be the same ones he’d seen the other night, not much progress. Perhaps they were for show, hollow carcasses that had been stripped of their valuable guts.

  Jimmy made his way down metal stairs cautiously, still keeping an eye out for anyone. Did they hire a guard to keep watch? Was he asleep in some chair in the corner, or maybe one of Mickey’s goons was near? But again there was no one. The place was quiet Nothing stirred, not even a mouse. Jimmy crossed over the grease-stained floor to where he’d seen Mickey through the front door’s window. A desk stood in the corner, made of wood and scarred by knife markings. The chair was industrial metal, stuffing sticking out. Jimmy thought they should fire their decorator.

  He pulled open a drawer, saw just the usual stuff: mismatched pens, a ruler, a letter opened, random office supplies that were not exactly the weapons of a master criminal. Jimmy tried another drawer and found it was locked. He pulled at it again, felt more resistance, but given how old this desk was, perhaps he could work the lock. He grabbed the letter opener, stuck the tip into the old-style lock, and twisted it while pulling again with other hand. A minute of work produced results. The lock gave way, and the drawer opened, nearly causing Jimmy to flail backwards. He caught himself and held the drawer in his hand as it came away from its slip. Its contents spilled onto the floor. There were only two items, one of them a bag of white powder and the other a gun, a simple Glock .45 caliber not unlike the one that had been found beside Kellan.

  Jimmy stared at it, transfixed. He hated guns. He hated what that they did.

  Sure, people killed not guns, but they were certainly accessories to the crime.

  As for the bag of powder, he assumed it was cocaine. He left it on the floor not surprised.

  He looked around for something with which to pick up the gun. He didn’t want to get his fingerprints on it. An old rag had been tossed in a corner, so Jimmy grabbed it, wrapped it around the imposing pistol, then placed the entire wrapping in his jacket pocket. He felt the weight of the metal, though it was heavier than it should have been. He hated its proximity to his body, but he needed it. He would have it examined and tested. He doubted it was registered.

  He had one last item he wished to accomplish there. He walked over to the back wall, where his eyes zeroed in on the symbol he’d noticed the other day: the gold shield and the blue stripe. What did it really mean, and why was it even necessary? It was clearly in the shape of an NYPD police badge, the same design as the one he’d seen earlier this fall in Queens during the Seetha Assan investigation. Seeing it up close sent a shiver through him, knowing he’d stumbled upon something bad, something evil.

  He imagined blood, and he heard the shattering blast of a gun, not unlike the one in his pocket. It shook him to the point where he wasn’t paying attention to the fact he was there illegally and didn’t need to be discovered. Thankfully the arriving voices were loud, shaking him from the dark place he’d gone. He stole a quick picture of the symbol, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He had to move fast.

  He heard the lock turning on the front door. He spun around and dashed quickly, bounding up the stairs to the second floor while sweat broke out over his forehead. He slipped behind t
he door of the office just as two people entered the garage. He could see them, one of whom he knew. Of course it was Mickey Dean, no surprise, but it was who accompanied him that shook Jimmy to his core, not the person himself. He had no clue who the man was. It was what he wore: the uniform of the NYPD, but the implications of that would have to wait.

  “Son a bitch,” he heard Mickey exclaim.

  That’s when Jimmy realized he hadn’t put the drawer back in the desk. He hadn’t picked up the packet of coke. He was too transfixed by the Blue Death symbol.

  “Trouble, Mickey?”

  “Fuck, someone’s been here,” Mickey said, his voice seething with anger. “Someone who doesn’t belong, and I know exactly who it was. He’ll regret that. Fucker doesn’t know how to learn his lesson.”

  Jimmy would have loved to stay around and listen for more, but what if Mickey started a search of the garage and confirmed his suspicions that Jimmy had nosed around? It wasn’t the time for their destined confrontation. Jimmy needed more evidence. He hoped the gun in his pocket was the clue he needed.

  He slipped out the window as quietly as he could then back through the hole in the fence.

  Back in the safety of the outdoors, he walked as fast as he could from a world where danger lived, but then again, wasn’t danger tucked into all the shadowy corners in this city, in unexpected places, perhaps even among the ranks of those entrusted with the name of New York’s finest? The chilling phrase hit him again like a punch to the gut: Blue Death. Jimmy knew about one of those. He might not have been in uniform when he was gunned down, but Joseph McSwain defined the slain cop. He might have bled red, but his death was blue.

  § § § §

  “These old bones, they don’t like the cold.”

  “I needed privacy not Lou Limerick’s. No other people.”

  “Then I hope this won’t take too long. Wind is picking up. Polar Vortex they say.”

  “They say a lot. Half an inch of snow, and the city panics.”

  Jimmy was in the company of Ralphie Henderson, the two of them sitting on a park bench along the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights. It was late afternoon, a time when the sun had begun to dip below the sky, leaving a growing cold to swirl recklessly in the air. As they talked, their breath hovered around them. Ralphie was wrapped in a long dark coat, a hat, and gloves. Jimmy was still in his ruined leather jacket. He wasn’t cold. He thought he was numb.

  “You still like men?” Ralphie asked.

  “Now’s not the time.”

  “Sensitive. Not that captain again, is it?”

  “There’s too much going on. I can’t even think about men, about Frisano, or…”

  “Ah, so there is another one. That date you had last week?”

  “Like I said, a relationship is the last thing I want to talk about. This is important.”

  “Happiness should never be discounted, my boy.”

  “I’m all about happiness, helping others achieve it. I’ll worry about myself later.”

  Ralphie nodded, a sage mentor knowing when to listen. “What’s got you in a snit?”

  “You heard about Kellan, my cousin.”

  “I did. Once my knees are working better, and I can get around better, I’ll make my way to Paddy’s to express my condolences.”

  “He’d appreciate that.”

  “The reason you called me, does this have to do with Kellan or with Mickey?” He paused, his brown eyes dancing at the thought of a fresh hunt. An armchair detective only these days, Ralphie’s mind could still analyze the evidence and provide insight. Instinct never aged. “Or something else, Joey?”

  “What if I said all of that, and they might all be tied together?”

  “I’d say you’ve stepped into something.”

  “Yeah, quicksand.”

  “Pretty unforgiving shit, it doesn’t usually give up its victims.”

  Across from the gentle flow of the East River, the lights of Manhattan were becoming more prominent as the afternoon progressed, the yellow glow emanating from the endless rows of office buildings offsetting the shroud of the falling night like they were doing battle. Jimmy could relate. You entered darkness. You hoped you found light. Just like any case, a day had its highs and lows, its ebbs and flows. Sometimes you needed to look beyond the shadowy edges to see where lay the demarcation line, what was real and what was reflection.

  A couple with a dog on a leash walked past them, nodding a polite hello their way. Kindness still thrived in these neighborhoods, despite the subject of violence Jimmy had brought with him. Once the young couple were out of earshot, not able to witness what was soon to transpire, Jimmy produced the reason for his visit.

  He pulled the rag from his pocket, uncovered what was folded within. The gun was silent, and in the haze of dusk it had lost its gleam. It didn’t make it any less dangerous.

  “Can you use your sources, run a check on this?”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Mickey Dean’s warehouse, an old place called Rocco’s on the West Side. It’s not unlike the gun found near Kellan from what the detectives on that case told me.”

  “Which makes you think that?”

  “Kellan was murdered by Mickey I’m convinced.”

  “Why beat him up first then? Why not just shoot him on the street?”

  “Mickey’s not dumb. He doesn’t need a murder investigation breathing down his neck.”

  “Except now he does. Things escalated. You think he’s running guns?”

  “Among other things.” Jimmy detailed the exchange he’d witnessed, money and guns, the packet of cocaine in the drawer. “I think what I saw that night was a hit going down. Someone was paid to use that gun. Mickey targeted Kellan because he thought he was weak, but he really wanted to get to me first by beating on Kellan, and then when I fought back, he upped the ante big time. My cousin paid the price. That doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “No, I can’t imagine it would.”

  “So will you help out?”

  “That’s a question that already has its answer.”

  Jimmy smiled. He knew it. He just needed to ask anyway. “Thanks, Ralphie.”

  Ralphie took hold of the rag, opened it up to examine the gun more closely, careful not to touch it. “Ballistics, fingerprints. From what I can see in this fading light, there’s no serial number. Been scratched off. Gonna be real hard to trace. Still there are ways today. I’m assuming you want to compare it with the gun found beside your cousin?”

  “Convince the detectives that Kellan’s death was no murder-suicide. Besides, whatever we can learn, it’s more than I knew before I found it. I want to give Paddy some peace.”

  “Do I want to know how you came upon this?”

  “‘No’ is probably the right response.”

  The wind whipped up, blew past them in a sudden rage. “Jimmy, something’s gone different here, like the wind has brought about a sea-change.”

  “Yeah, I’ve sensed that ever since I came home to see Kellan’s bruised face, since I learned Mickey had come back. It’s only gotten worse.”

  “What makes you think this ties in with Joey?”

  Jimmy pulled out his cell phone, his thumbprint opening up the screen. He opened up his photos and produced the last one he’d taken: the Blue Death symbol. He brightened his screen to showcase it better to Ralphie. The old man said nothing, staying as silent as the space around them, like a quiet respect had suddenly fallen over the city, at least the small park that hid them.

  “Just like the one you saw last fall.”

  “Right, in the warehouse Seetha Assan had been held in.”

  “Thought the cops said that was a ruse. She was part of a government sting.”

  “I think they lied. Captain Frisano thinks so too.”

  “Dangerous stuff, Jimmy.”

  “I’ve got an appointment being set up with Lt. Salvatore Frisano.”

  “What are you hoping to achieve with that?”

&nbs
p; Jimmy smiled. “Gonna stir the pot.”

  “Gonna show him that symbol?”

  “Maybe, probably. I want to see his reaction. He’s steered me away from my father’s case. It’s called ‘misdirection.’ It’s time I found out why. Mickey Dean, he showed up at his headquarters earlier, and he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a cop, One who might be on the take, working with the son of a high-powered lieutenant. Lawrence Dean has the commissioner’s ear, probably could be a future commissioner.”

  “Except…”

  “Something’s just not adding up. The Deans and McSwains, we were friends once.”

  “Now you’re not. Death changes people, Jim. The Deans lost their girl, the McSwains their father.”

  Jimmy stared ahead, watching the howling wind blow through some rickety trees, their thin branches devoid of leaves and of life. He sat and thought, and Ralphie let him, the man gently folding the precious evidence into his own pocket. Jimmy knew he should get the man home or at least somewhere out of the cold, and soon they had done that, walking the few blocks back to Joralemon Street to his basement home. At the door Ralphie put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I still have some contacts. You want me to ask around about that symbol?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not yet. Mickey’s downfall first, then we’ll go from there.”

  “You be careful, Jimmy.”

  “I promised Ma I’d always come home.”

  “That’s a good promise. Keep it.”

  Ralphie closed the door, leaving Jimmy on the sidewalk contemplating what came next. He knew there was no sense going home then, Maggie would have left for her shift at the Calloway even before he could get back to the city. He didn’t like the idea of spending a night at home with his sourpuss sister, Meaghan. Pregnancy had only made her more ornery. He started down the street, headed back to the #2 train at Clark Street. Just before he was about to swipe his Metrocard through the turnstile, he heard his phone ring. He stepped aside, answered it.