Jimmy agreed, but any sympathy he might have for the poor-little-rich-girl-turned-murderer would have to wait, if ever. Instead knowing his sister was safe, he dug for his phone, which had been in his pocket all along. He switched off the record button, satisfied it had captured her confession. He then dialed a number from his list of contacts. He heard a sleepy voice answer with a gruff bark.
“McSwain? This better be good.”
“It’s is. Sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, Detective Barone, but we have a fugitive on our hands.” He paused, “A double murderer.”
Chapter Sixteen
Friday arrived, the end of a challenging week for Jimmy. The workweek was done for most others. The weekend awaited with people ready to be entertained especially during the holiday season, when parties abounded and gifts were exchanged. That was not the case for those who worked in places other than offices, who defied a nine-to-five existence like firefighters, some of whom still sifted through the wreckage at Rocco’s Garage, or cops, who still examined clues to the whereabouts of a fugitive heiress and murderer, or for that matter a theatre professional, be it on stage or front of the house, where the rigorous performance schedule stole Saturdays and Sundays. And what of a private investigator, who often operated in the darker hours of the day. Did a day off even exist?
Jimmy McSwain had just escorted his mother to the Calloway Theatre for her Friday shift, pecking her on the cheek.
“Sunday, after the matinee, we get the tree. Monday we set it up, a McSwain tradition.”
“You got it, Ma.”
“Which means no cases, not that night. We treasure our time with family. We learned that.”
Indeed, they had. “I’ve got an appointment now, Ma, to put the final touches on one case.”
He left her to her work and started down 47th Street toward Broadway and then threw himself on the mercy of this mass of humanity that filled Times Square during the holidays. The pedestrian malls were wall-to-wall people, rows of tourists lounging on the rising red steps of the TKTS booth, snapping pictures with Elmo and Olaf and the Statue of Liberty or just standing on crowded street corners, aimlessly pointing.
Jimmy found it far safer to walk in the street, preferring to take his chances with cabbies and drivers than with people who failed to understand you had to keep things moving. Time didn’t stand still there, and he had six minutes remaining to get to 44th and 6th, to the corporate offices of Help Is Here. Melissa Harris-J’Arnound was waiting for him, the final wrap up of Jimmy’s investigation into the murder of Henderson Carlyle. At last he skirted the busy section of Duffy Square, started down 45th Street, passed the historic Lyceum Theatre and a row of Irish pubs, and finally came to 6th Avenue.
After another block he entered the high-rise office building, where a security guard was on duty. He called up to announce Jimmy, who was then waved over to the elevators a moment later. Jimmy emerged into the familiar hallway, having been there just days ago for their holiday party. “Merry Christmas” signs still hung from the walls, drooping a bit like a hangover effect. Jimmy found Melissa waiting for him behind the glass door. She pressed the access button, and Jimmy stepped in.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me here and after hours.”
“My hours are yours,” he said.
“I wanted to speak in private without the other volunteers or employees.”
“Not like what happened is a secret.”
She pursed her lips before saying. “Even those living under a rock know what happened.”
Serena Carson’s disappearance hadn’t yet made the front page of the Post or Daily News, as her escape had taken place too late for the presses, but that didn’t stop their online editions from proclaiming the heiress a murderer, even though they continued to use the word “alleged.” Jimmy knew differently as did the police.
The night before he had handed over his phone to Barone when the detective arrived at the brownstone late. The recording had been downloaded, all while an APB had been put out on her. Airports, train stations, and bus terminals were all on alert. Serena might have won a self-defense trial for Henderson’s death but not so for Robbie Danvers.
Serena was no longer his problem. He did imagine her from the other night, the wistful way she had watched while the children unwrapped their gifts. It had been her final gift to Help Is Here, and then he realized that wasn’t true. There was one last surprise, and Jimmy carried it with him.
But that would have to wait a moment. Melissa escorted him into her tasteful office, and while the other offices and cubicles were darkened and deserted, it didn’t mean the two of them were alone. Her husband, Dr. Philippe J’Arnoud stood and nodded.
“I suppose I should say congratulations on a job well done, McSwain,” he said certainly more graciously than their first encounter at the holiday party. Jimmy was reminded he’d considered Philippe a likely suspect in Henderson’s murder, but the famed doctor’s only fault seemed to be his arrogance. What had killed Henderson and Robbie was something far different, a deep-rooted anger.
Jimmy nodded. “The police already had their person. I just, well, got her to confess.”
“May we get you a glass of wine, Jimmy?”
He saw an open bottle of red, two glasses already poured. “I’ll pass. I’ll let you two enjoy your evening.”
“It’s a rare time when we get to do that,” Philippe said. “I’m back to France in the morning.”
Melissa bustled about behind her desk, where a simple white envelope with the Help-is-Here logo was printed on the upper left corner. She picked it up and held it across the desk, waiting for Jimmy to take it, payment due for solving the case.
“Help Is Here will survive the scandal, but it won’t be pretty, especially after the authorities find Serena and bring her back. The truth will come out during the trial how Henderson Carlyle preyed upon our entire board…my goodness, what needy women we are.”
“I think it was less about need and more sport for people with too much time and money on their hands,” Jimmy said. “I wouldn’t pass too much judgment on your fellow board members. People make mistakes. Don’t let that lessen the good work you do here. What I witnessed at the holiday party was pure joy, something you can’t put a price on. Just seeing the faces of those kids is what counts. In fact, I have something for you as well.”
“Jimmy, there’s no need…”
“Regardless, I’d like to. First of all, I’m offering my help in the future free of charge. If any family you aid is in need of investigative services, I’m your man. You have my number.”
“That’s very generous of Mr. McSwain,” Philippe said.
“We all have something we can offer. I’m happy to do my part. Which includes this.”
Jimmy withdrew from the pocket of his leather jacket an envelope, not printed on as fancy a stock as the one he’d been given, but its contents were much more valuable. Melissa wore a look of confusion. He told her it was okay to open it He wanted to make sure she accepted it. Her eyes widened at the size of the check.
“One hundred thousand dollars? Jimmy, you must be a remarkable private eye.”
He laughed, a happy sound that matched the colorful decorations around them, like he was playing the role of Santa Claus not dressed in red but feeling as jolly as he could nonetheless under the circumstances.
“Serena tried to buy my silence. She doesn’t need the money back. I can’t accept it.”
“I’m not sure I can either. It’s blood money.”
“Sometimes an ill-gained fortune can be used to good effect. Help Is Here does amazing work. I only have one request, if you’ll indulge me, that the money be placed in a special account and that it carries with it a name: The Kellan Byrne Memorial Fund.”
“Can I ask?”
“A man who deserved better,” he said.
Melissa shook his hand and thanked him again for his professionalism and his sense of duty.
“And your honor,” Philippe a
dded.
A few minutes later Jimmy returned to the outside world, the darkness of December just a little bit brighter. Perhaps it was because he felt he’d done the right thing, that he’d been given a chance to let Kellan’s star shine. It could have just been from the harsh glow of the lights of Times Square, which he was once again busily crossing. He skipped 45th Street, since it was 7:45, and the eight theatres that occupied that busy block were all lit, all welcoming holiday theatregoers for the drama and song found inside. Jimmy instead took 43rd Street, made his way to 8th, then to 9th, where he considered stopping into Paddy’s, and telling him what he’d done for Kellan, but it would wait. It was a Christmas gift he wanted to present at the right time.
So he continued down the street. He knew where he was going, the place he always liked to go when he was feeling introspective. The piers on the west side were all locked up, and the dock workers were all gone, but Jimmy gained access as he always did, climbing the fence, and in the night’s cold he felt his shoulder ache. It had been a while since his body had reminded him of his injury. Perhaps he’d had too much on his mind to worry about himself.
Walking down along the pier, Jimmy sat upon his regular perch on the back of the bench. He clasped his hands together and stared out at the rolling water of the Hudson. In the distance he could see ferries whisking people across the river over to Weehawken. North of him he could see the Intrepid looming against the horizon. He had hadn’t been so much intrepid as lucky with the case, but sometimes that’s how it went. He had to read the signs, interpret, and solve from instinct rather than evidence. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing his part in the Guardian Angel case was over. It was up to the international authorities to apprehend Serena Carson. He would have to testify, no doubt, and Mallory too upon her return. He’d worry about that later. For then he no longer had to compartmentalize. He had one case on his docket, a series of questions like Russian nesting dolls. Just when he got one answered, another opened up.
There was little left of Rocco’s Garage. Autopsies were still being done to identify the two men found there. One of them could have been Mickey Dean, but Jimmy thought that would have been too easy. Guys like Mickey didn’t go out that quickly. They tended to leave more carnage in their wake before fate caught up with them, but so far the neighborhood bully turned master criminal had eluded a warrant for his arrest, and it was possible he’d slipped out of New York just as mysteriously as he’d returned to it. It still ate at Jimmy why Mickey Dean had come back and why he’d targeted Kellan, what he hoped to achieve, or worse, avenge.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Jimmy spun around, and the sight before him sent an unsettling chill through his body.
A wide-grinned Mickey Dean stepped out of the darkness, he and his shadow bathed under a lamppost like there were two of them, one less friendly than the other. Jimmy stood up, hopped off the bench. His body tensed and coiled. They stood, facing off as though ready to duel to the death, and wasn’t that the case? Jimmy took a quick inventory of Mickey’s hands. They were empty. If he had a gun or a knife, he hadn’t revealed it yet. Jimmy was unarmed. He always was. Guns were never a tool used in his investigations.
“I told you to say out of my business,” Mickey said. “You just couldn’t. Fucker.”
“From what I see, your business went up in flames. Did you manage to clear it first before you set it on fire?”
Mickey allowed a tiny laugh. “You think you know everything, McSwain?”
“I know enough. I know you’re finished.”
“You should never have messed with me.”
“I’d say you started it, but that would just be playground talk. We’re too old for that.”
“Unlike others, whose lives were cut short.”
“Like Kellan’s.”
“Like Cassie’s. He could have saved her. He chose not to. He hated my father.”
“Mickey, you’re delusional. There’s no way Officer Joseph McSwain would have allowed a young girl die, anyone’s. Unlike you, he valued life and devoted himself to it, and eventually he gave his own life. Blaming him all these years later, I don’t know what you hope to achieve. I’m sorry for what happened to Cassie, falling out of the window…”
“Shut up, McSwain. It wasn’t an accident.”
“Are you saying she was murdered? Who would do that…”
“In a sense, she was murdered, driven to ending her own life.”
Jimmy didn’t want to know anymore. What happened inside the Dean home, now or back then was their business and no one else’s. It had nothing to do with the McSwains. Except he couldn’t shake his mind from venturing down that dark path. What had driven a young, pretty teenage girl to the point of suicide? What made her mother turn to tarot cards, to the art of fortune telling hokum to help her process it? She believed it was her only way to keep her daughter close and to keep her protected even in the afterlife, but which of the Dean men was to blame, if indeed it had been one of them. The father or a son who’d always been seen as weak, a son as mean as they come.
“Mick, I think this is between your family. Leave the McSwains out of it.”
Mickey stepped forward. “You still don’t get it, you stupid fucking faggot.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Saint Joseph McSwain, right? Isn’t that what everyone thought of him? He could do no wrong. The sun shined on his shit. Except he did do wrong. Why do you think he was on the scene of Cassie’s jump so quickly? Because he was already there. He’d already done his damage. He let her die, so she didn’t talk.”
What Mickey was implying was horrific, and it was impossible to absorb. Jimmy felt tears well up in his eyes, even as roiling blood rushed through him. It was the worst possible truth he could ever envision, except he didn’t believe it, not for even a millisecond. Mickey grinned like a devil, one who had landed a fiery torch upon his victim, searing him for eternity, sealing him into a private hell he’d never escape. Jimmy refused to accept it. There was no way his father had molested anyone. Even thinking the word sent a shudder of disgust through him.
Rage coursed through him. Suddenly Jimmy lashed out, his right fist hurtling through cold air, landing a direct hit on that supercilious smirk. Mickey went twisting back, his body crashing to the ground in a hard thud. Jimmy ignored the pain in his fist. He moved again quickly, a hard rush of his foot heading toward Mickey’s gut. He heard the man cry out from pain, and it filled Jimmy with an unstoppable lust for blood. He kicked him again and again.
“Fucking faggot, kick like a girl do you?”
Jimmy knew he was being provoked, but he didn’t care. He bent down, grabbed Mickey by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him back up. Mickey tried to swing at him, but Jimmy deflected it. His fist made contact with Mickey’s face, and he heard the crack of his jaw. Mickey stumbled, catching himself against the lamppost. Regrouping, he lunged hard at Jimmy, landing a direct hit, another, and another, Jimmy feeling the brunt of each blow like bullets penetrating his flesh, pinging throughout his body and awakening every ounce of pain that lived inside of him.
The next hit missed its target, and Jimmy was able to recover, swinging hard and making contact, sending Mickey backwards once again. Mickey grabbed the lamppost, hugging it with one hand as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. Jimmy stared at him, not caring about his own wounds. What consumed him was the question of whether he was looking, finally, into the face of the bad man who’d killed his father. Once and for all, was this the moment of truth, given to him on a starlit December night where most of the world readied for the birth of Jesus, one which also had Jimmy slowly dying inside because of the hurtful words Mickey had put out there? He tried to shut out Mickey’s harsh, hurtful, and untrue words and took a deep breath, trying to quell the anger.
“You killed him,” Jimmy said.
“Who, your precious father? Ha, if only.”
“Liar, it’s what you do. You might n
ot have pulled the trigger, but you put the hit out just like you did with Kellan.”
“McSwain, you are too fucking stupid for words, too busy fucking other guys to know how the real world works. If I had killed the sainted Joey McSwain, I would have shouted it from the rooftops. I would have told the world what he did. If I had, you might have been the next one jumping from a roof.”
“So who killed him. You know, don’t you?”
“McSwain, you are so far off. I told you to mind your own business.”
“Tell me about Blue Death.”
Mickey laughed, the sound carrying in the open sky out over the river only to disappear, as though it had fallen to the water drowned. Jimmy’s chest heaved. His mind was reeling from what Mickey had said and from what he wasn’t saying. Just what the hell was going on? Why was Blue Death so important, and what did it have to do with the fifteen-year-old murder of Joseph McSwain? Jimmy wanted to beat the truth out of him. He wanted this nightmare to be over once and for all. He had clung to the hope of finally solving the Forever Haunt case, since the day he’d graduated from the police academy. He was so close. He could taste it like the coopery scent of blood that hung in the air.
A weakened Mickey spit out some blood, a tooth going with it. Jimmy stalked over to him. The man had had enough, but Jimmy hadn’t. He smashed his fist one last time and watched as Mickey dropped to the ground, knocked out cold. Jimmy thought about what to do: Call the police and wait for them? Did he want to face assault charges? Did he want what Mickey Dean had said about his father to come out, true or not? Truth could be disapproved, speculation not so. Gossip lived and breathed differently, gave itself life. Jimmy would not allow a useless thug like Mickey Dean to soil the memory of a man who shouldn’t even be dead.
He looked around, searching for something to tie him up. A trash can caught his attention, and he dug through its contents, soiling his hands on discarded cups of coffee, empty soda bottles, and leftover food, but he managed to find string, the kind usually used by an Italian bakery to wrap up cookies. Not the strongest material, but it would hold him for now. Jimmy bent down, took Mickey’s hands, and tied them to the post, securing them as best he could. He stole one last look at the man who’d altered his world. He wished him dead, and he wished him life in jail, and he wondered if they weren’t the same thing. Then he walked away, his body and soul equally aching, leaving behind the scene but never the memory of the confrontation he’d endured. He made two phone calls, ironically both to the cops.
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