Jimmy stood in front of the theatre, reading some of the placards posted on the building’s façade. Its tenant, Triskaidekaphobia, had received mostly positive reviews last fall, with some critics calling it “Clever,” “Challenging,” “Daring,” and “Slightly off-kilter, edgy, in a good way.” Jimmy marveled at some of the phrases people came up. A young couple came rushing down the street, obviously late, tickets flapping in the wet wind. They rushed into the lobby, where the ticket taker scanned them and admitted them. Jimmy nodded at him. Joe was his name.
Just then the access door to the theatre opened, and out stepped his mother. Jimmy watched as she said goodnight to Joe, then emerged, where Jimmy was waiting. She smiled.
“Ah, Jimmy, come to walk your old ma home? What a good son.”
“I was out and about and just got back to the neighborhood. Thought I’d swing by.”
She patted his scruffy cheek but said nothing about it for once. “What a pleasant surprise. Now what do you want?”
He laughed. “Ma, don’t ever change.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
She linked her arm with his, and the two of them began to stroll down West 47th Street. They passed two other theatres, the Samuel Friedman and across the street, the Brooks Atkinson; Maggie waved to the staff that was hanging out front. Maggie McSwain was a Broadway mainstay, a lifer, and as such she knew everyone. Everyone knew her. Jimmy liked that she had this world to rely on, thankful she had employment—a home away from home—after her husband’s death. She’d never dated again, even saying one night at Paddy’s that there “wasn’t a man fit enough to woo me.” Jimmy smiled at the memory, wishing he could turn the clock back to that morning after St. Patrick’s Day. But if Jimmy’s theory proved true, Joseph McSwain would have died another way, another day. Wasn’t because he’d gone on a bagel run. He’d been targeted.
“You’re awfully quiet for a man who wanted to talk the other night.”
“Just thinking. It’s gonna be fifteen years. Should we do something?”
“We’re gonna do what we always do. Live our lives, Jimmy. Like he’d want us to.”
“If that’s true, maybe we can have a celebration on St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe more than just the four of us?”
“You talking Paddy and Taran, and your grandmother? Or are you telling me something.”
“Maybe all of that. Yeah, maybe, I don’t know, we’ll see where we are in a month.”
“You like this cop, huh?”
“Is that okay?”
“Your father would laugh his ass off. You dating a cop.”
“He’d be all right with it, I mean…”
“Being gay? Your father might not have understood it, but he’d have loved you anyway.”
Somehow during their talk they had already crossed Ninth Avenue. Past the park where he and Carmen had talked recently. They made their way down the side street, a series of walk-ups and townhouses like quiet soldiers beside them. Forty-seventh street was a mix of old and new, many of the buildings occupied by the same residents who had lived in them for twenty, thirty years. And as if on cue, one of their old-time neighbors was sitting out on the porch, smoking a cigarette. Jimmy could see a tumbler of some kind of clear beverage; looked like gin.
“Well, Maggie McSwain, it’s been a while.”
“Evening, Maureen,” Maggie said, stopping before the stone steps. “You’re looking fine.”
Maureen Dean, also known in the neighborhood as Madame Mo, waved the fiery cigarette in the air, spent smoke dissipating in the wind. To Jimmy she didn’t look well at all, the wrinkles on her face pronounced, more so than when he saw her dressed in her flowing psychic’s garb at her shop a couple months ago. She had been heavily made-up that day, playing the part to the hilt. Tonight she was just Maureen, a lonely lady who allowed sadness into her eyes.
“Hmm. Jimmy, how are you?”
“Very well, Mrs. Dean.”
“He’s a good boy, Mags,” she said, a cough escaping her lips. “Not like my boy.”
“Ah, Larry’s doing good, made detective grade. You should be proud.”
“Larry’s got his father to thank for that one. No, I meant Mickey.”
“Well, I’m sorry for what happened to him. He was always an angry boy. Mad at the world for whatever reason.”
“What do you think, Jimmy?”
“About Mickey? I’d rather we keep the conversation polite. So, I think nothing.”
“Police still don’t know who killed him. Not that they care. They think the world is better off without him.” She paused. “Mothers think differently. They love their children no matter what they do.”
“I hope you get closure, Maureen.”
“The Good Lord doesn’t seem to fancy giving me closure, Maggie. Not for my Cassie, so why should Mickey get special treatment?” As she took a long drag on her cigarette and a healthy swig of her gin, Jimmy felt a hard tug on his arm. Was his mother signaling him she wanted to leave, or had her body reacted to what they’d just heard. Jimmy gazed at his mother, but it was too dark and he couldn’t read her eyes. There was something she knew. Something she wasn’t saying.
Before any of them could exchange another word, the front door opened, and out stepped Lawrence Dean, Sr. Dressed in slacks and a white T-shirt that didn’t hide his swelling belly well, he wiped his nose when he saw Jimmy and Maggie.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” Jimmy said.
He ignored the greeting. “Mo, get your ass inside. McSwains, find another family to ruin. You’ve already decimated mine.”
“Well I never, Lawrence Dean. If my Joey could hear how bitter you’ve become…”
“Well he can’t. Goodnight.”
“Ma, let’s go,” Jimmy said, and thankfully his mother didn’t put up any further argument. They walked a bit faster now, to distance themselves from the horrible domestic scene unfolding behind them. Jimmy heard Lawrence’s gruff voice again, heard Maureen whimper as she gathered her vices. No wonder she needed them.
“Awful man, always was. I don’t know how Joey ever struck up a friendship with him.”
“They haven’t been right, not since Cassie’s death.”
“Now, let’s not get into that again. I told you what I can, and that’ll be the end of it.”
Jimmy hated to be silenced by his mother, but he had too much respect for her to try and manipulate her emotions. All this talk lately of the past, was it awakening feelings inside that she didn’t know how to process? Was regret fueling her quick step right now? Or just plain anger? As tart as her tongue could be, her words were usually directed at others. He wondered what Maggie said to herself in private, in the quiet of night when sleep evaded her.
Would it be why she had given up on finding her husband’s killer?
They arrived at the building on 10th Avenue and 48th Street. Maggie stopped in front of the entry.
“You don’t need to see me upstairs, Jimmy. It’s Saturday night, I’m sure you have plans.”
“Ma, I could stay with you.”
“Hmmpph, you’ll be itching to get out within twenty minutes. Go, leave your Ma to herself. Head on over to Paddy’s if that’s what you want. I’m gonna take two aspirin and turn in early. If Meaghan will let me. Lord, that girl…wait till she sees what it’s like to raise a child.”
“She will soon enough, Ma.”
“That child seems to be resisting coming into the world. Probably smarter than her mother already.”
“What if it’s born on March 18th?”
Maggie smiled, put a hand to Jimmy’s cheek. “God works in mysterious ways, Jimmy, but if I have to hear Meaghan’s caterwauling for another yet month, I might just go plumb crazy. Good night, my boy, thank you for walking me home.”
“Anytime, Ma.”
She kissed his cheek. “And for goodness sakes, buy a razor.”
“I have one.”
“Not that you’d ever know.”
He let her have the las
t word, and set off down the street, still laughing. Paddy’s Pub did sound like a nice idea. Take his mind off everything. Process all he’d learned today. Carmen had said she had to continue to work, which tonight included the overnight shift at the hospital, so he’d check in with her tomorrow morning about his findings. He hated the lack of urgency on this case, which left him as unsettled now as it had when he left the Imperial Dragon. No news wasn’t necessary good news, but at least he hadn’t heard anything bad.
Jimmy thought of Sonny Ramirez, out there somewhere. Lost, uncertain.
Sometimes all boys felt that way, even when they grew up.
Chapter Eight
“We’re going where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Jimmy McSwain, last I knew you don’t do surprises.”
“For you, maybe I do.”
It was the only information Jimmy would impart about the ensuing evening he planned for himself and Frisano, and no amount of coaxing from the other end of the phone line was going to alter that. Jimmy, inside his office amidst a few open files spread out across the floor, looked away from the work of a dedicated detective and smirked like a man awaiting a hot night with his lover. All work made Jimmy a dull boy.
“Guess I’m going to have to be patient,” Frisano said. “Because right now Mamma Celeste is barking at me, telling me it’s dinner time.”
“Her name is not Celeste, Frank.”
“It’s Beverly, actually. Beverly O’Rourke Frisano.”
“Which is where you get your smoldering good looks from, being both Italian and Irish.”
He could visualize the knowing expression on Frisano’s face all the way to Brooklyn. “I’ll see you later, you said 7:30? But you haven’t said where.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs, in front of your building.”
“Oh, so it’s local.”
“Stop interrogating, Frank. You’re off duty.”
“I’m never off duty, and neither are you. See you soon, Jim.”
His words were spoken like a heated promise, a hint of intimacy gracing his voice. Jimmy hung up and tried to resume his work. It was Sunday, three in the afternoon. Frisano would, every Sunday, head out to his parents’ home in Bensonhurst, the same house he’d been born to and raised in, the apron strings stretching now across the Brooklyn Bridge and into Chelsea. Close family ties furthering all they had in common. While Frisano might be smacked upside the head by his mother, Jimmy would often be on the receiving end of a poke in the arm or a well-placed barb. Jimmy had never met Beverly Frisano, but that didn’t stop him from imagining what would happen if ever she were to meet Maggie McSwain. Frisano had yet to meet any of his family either, at least officially. They’d seen him. They’d teased Jimmy.
Jimmy pushed the crazy idea of a McSwain/Frisano dinner out of his head.
The files spilled on the floor called back to him, like an open wound. The Forever Haunt was never far away, its pages of notes, faded newspaper clippings, old photographs like sepia, each item was as familiar to him as the bushy mustache Joseph McSwain sported most of his life, Given his recent talks with his mother, Jimmy decided to jot down his thoughts, make notes, file them away in case they jarred some memory, a missing clue. With time on his hands, his fingers flipped through the pages, careful not to tear any of them. One of these days he would photograph them, copy them, preserve them digitally. For now, though, he wanted to touch them, feel their energy, and absorb the details, because strangely they made him feel closer to the case, the truth, even if that truth remained as evasive as it had from the day of the shooting.
A thought hit Jimmy, hard and fast, like a brick to the face. Something his mother said the other night about the police investigation. They had given up too quickly, they’d honored Officer Joseph McSwain and they’d buried him, and then they’d seemingly forgotten all about him. Jimmy flipped to the back of the file, to some of the earliest notes he’d jotted down. He had gained access to the cold case file years ago thanks to Ralphie, including the original incident report. He found it now, his eyes greedily reading the details, almost as if he’d never done so before. He shuddered at the memory it evoked, even if the report itself was rather dry, clinical…distant. Jimmy’s eyes went to the bottom of the page, noting the signature of the detective taking down the details.
Detective First Grade Jonathan Tolliver.
“Huh,” Jimmy said aloud, almost as though he’d discovered a previously unknown detail. Or maybe he just hadn’t thought to ask.
Tolliver was the detective who sat in the McSwain living room nearly fifteen years ago, drinking Maggie’s tea and offering up empty platitudes before cruelly telling a widow that there was nothing more the NYPD could do. The clues had dried up and Joseph McSwain would not see justice. Jimmy’s mind took him back to that day, when he’d listened from the stairwell. His world broken, learning that it was beyond repair. He made the vow that day, his father’s death would not haunt him forever because he would one day solve it. Yet the solution continually slipped from his fingers, clues presented, only to evaporate like smoke in the air.
He wondered now, was Detective Tolliver still on the force? Retired? Was he even alive?
Jimmy knew one person who could help him with this: Ralphie Henderson.
He would go see him tomorrow in the hospital. See if he could stoke his memory. He had to hope the stroke hadn’t done any lasting damage. Because who knew Joseph the cop better than his ex-partner? Chasing the past meant going back in time, piecing the crime together once again. Retracing his father’s steps the last few days of his life, his beat, his participation in the St. Patrick’s Day parade, the hard partying afterwards at Paddy’s Pub. Ralphie had been there, too. He’d spent the night at the McSwain home rather than go home to Brooklyn.
Encouraged by a potential hot clue in this cold case, Jimmy closed the Forever Haunt file, which left two other thin files before him, cases in their early stages. Neither had he given a name to yet. The murder of Officer Denson Luke, and the abduction of Sonny Ramirez. Not to mention the ongoing hostility from the Dean family, which nagged at him. Both Lawrence Dean and his son, Larry Jr., had been thorns in Jimmy’s side for too long.
He’d not been in touch with Dahlia Luke since the day he’d ambushed her at her home in Rego Park. He wondered if she had received a visit from the NYPD like the one Maggie had: a detective saying there were no leads and that they were moving on from the investigation. Despite assurances from Commissioner Delaware himself about the creation of a task force being formed by his top aides, Lieutenants Dean and Frisano, no news had been forthcoming since then. Jimmy would contact Dahlia soon, hoping he would have an update on her husband’s case. Perhaps she had thought of something more that would assist him. He had printed out the photograph of the diamond bracelet. It and his early notes were all that comprised the file.
Moving on to the Ramirez case, he stared at an empty file, a blank piece of paper. He also stared at the still-wrapped fortune cookie. Once Carmen allowed the cops to get involved, it would be evidence, and as such would be dusted for fingerprints. He’d tried to learn as much as he could before getting back in touch with Carmen with any new news on her son. How to tell a mother that her boy had been taken hostage by a nasty, ruthless mobster was a new experience for him. Not an easy phrase to get out. It wasn’t the kind of news you wanted to deliver over the phone.
Jimmy got up from the floor, stretching his legs and feeling the pain in his shoulder He contemplated the remainder of his afternoon. Life had gotten complicated too quickly to the point he nearly felt overwhelmed. Perhaps what he needed was a night out, the chance to escape from the world of detection. Officer Luke could wait, and to act on the Ramirez case right now wouldn’t be prudent, it could needlessly endanger Sonny.
Jimmy had let Mr. Wu-Tin’s men know he was watching them, but it was their move, and he was certain it didn’t include jeopardizing the boy’s well-being. Besides Carmen, who he needed to talk to
was her husband, Ranuel. Just what had he stolen from his feared employer that had put his family in danger, and why were Mr. Wu-Tin’s men desperate enough to kidnap his son to get it back? Jimmy stole a look out the window, a bright February day beaming down from the sky. Very unlike the storm from yesterday, which had finally cleared out after midnight.
About to start getting ready for the evening, Jimmy’s phone rang.
He spun around, wondering where he’d left it. A second ring directed him to the cushions between the sofa. He grabbed it just before it went to voicemail.
“McSwain.”
“Oh, Mr. McSwain, I’m so worried, so glad I reached you…”
He didn’t recognize the number, but the voice struck a familiar tone. “Mrs. Inshan?”
“Yes, please, I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern bubbling up.
“I cannot find Carmen.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Where are you right now?”
“I am in her apartment. I called her earlier, to tell her I’d reached Ranuel.”
His mind swirled. Maybe if he was back in town, Carmen was with him. He could hope. “That’s good about your son. Has he come back to the city? Will he turn himself in to his boss?”
“Oh, he’s afraid, Mr. McSwain. Fearful that he will be killed. Very unpleasantly.”
“This has to be handled delicately…the police…”
“No, you cannot. It will doom us all, many family members.”
“Okay, let’s put that on hold. When did you last hear from Carmen?”
“Yesterday, after your visit. She was going to work. Please say you know where she is.”
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