Barone wrinkled his nose, his bushy handlebar mustache brushing against his upper lip. “What do you mean, still?”
“Saw you earlier. With Lieutenant Frisano. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Not really, but I suppose you’re gonna learn it soon enough. Pillow talk, they call it?”
Jimmy chose to ignore the remark. “Moving on up? Let me guess, Lieutenant Barone.”
“Special Advisor to the Commissioner. Working out of One Police Plaza. Nice raise.”
“Which means you’re replacing the retiring Lawrence Dean.”
“You think quick.”
“What about his son? The inept one?”
“Larry’s being transferred out of the 10,” Barone said, taking a drink and not sounding like he was disappointed to lose his partner of the last several years. “Not sure where he’s going. Maybe Brooklyn. Heard rumblings about Bed-Sty.”
“Hardly a promotion,” Jimmy said. “I always did find his appointment to detective curious. Makes me think you being assigned with him wasn’t such a coincidence, not after learning today you’ve been working with Frisano down at OPP. Your way of keeping tabs on…”
“Leave it alone, Jimmy. If you were at the Lew’s house today, then I think you know more than you should.”
“See, that’s what Sal said, too. Except I still don’t know what I want to know. You’re going to tell me.”
“I’d sooner kiss you than tell you anything.”
Jimmy foraged in his pocket, pulled out a small device. “Sorry, I’m spoken for. Something tells me you’ll change your mind.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Your meal ticket. First day on the job in your role as Special Advisor, I see you leading a task force to take down a notorious crime syndicate operating in the shadow of One Police Plaza.” Jimmy held up the flash drive he’d retrieved from Paddy. The one he’d hidden in the cash register. “Accolades will follow. Mayor’s office press conference. Delaware beaming beside you. Maybe you even get the key to the city.” Jimmy paused, then said, “Ever hear of a man named Mr. Wu-Tin?”
“Everyone in the NYPD has. Nothing sticks. He’s been investigated before.”
“Well, you don’t have to investigate. It’s all here, straight from his computer. Documents, files, information on his various holdings, both legal and not so. It’s all yours…if the price is right.”
“Where did you get that?”
“Not important right now. You want it?”
Jimmy could see the fever in Barone’s eyes. A career cop, he had a passion for truth, justice, obeying the law. Pity the men and women who didn’t, because Barone had no patience for them. Nothing satisfied a man like him more than closing out a difficult case. Jimmy knew the feeling. So he played his trump card here and now, dangling the flash drive before him.
“It’s Dean, isn’t it?” Jimmy said.
“Jimmy, don’t say another word. You won’t be able to take it back.”
“I’ll say two words. Blue Death.”
Barone’s eyes darted around the room, as though looking to see if anyone was watching, Or worse, listening.
“That’s over. Buried. Internal Affairs has taken care of it. Quietly.”
“Except for me it’s not over till I have the final answer. Yeah, I might have the names of my father’s shooter, but not so the name of the person who initiated the hit. Though I’m beginning to think I’ve got it figured out without any help. Because this is all too much of a bad coincidence. Three men in the last few months were murdered, each executed with a bullet to the forehead. A thug, a cop, a fence. The cop, Denson Luke, was supposedly killed by Decca, the fence, who then was conveniently murdered thanks to a sale gone wrong. But what no one seems to care about…is Mickey Dean. If this is true, Barone, then it’s the biggest cover-up in NYPD history.”
“Except none of it ever happened,” he said.
“That’s revisionist history. Not the same.”
“Like I said, Jimmy. Leave it alone.”
“I won’t breathe a word. Besides, it’s not like you ever spoke his name. Only I did.” Jimmy leaned forward, the space between himself and Barone mere inches. “All you have to do is nod. Lawrence Dean was Blue Death.”
Barone swallowed hard, closed his eyes as he looked down at an empty glass.
Jimmy felt a rush of air around him. An unbelievable weight lifted off his shoulders. Fingers tingled. Quickly he got up from his stool, the legs scraping against the wood floor. Barone looked at him, worry in his eyes.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Jimmy.”
“Fifteen years. I’ve waited fifteen years. I think that’s long enough.”
Jimmy was about to run out of the dank bar but then paused, went back to the table, where he set down the flash drive in front of the newly minted Lieutenant Roscoe Barone. “I believe this is yours. You bring down that killer, I’ll take care of the man who killed my father.”
Then he signaled that Barone should get a refill. He would need it. Promotions were tough.
§ § § §
How had the answer been in front of him all these years? How had he not seen it?
Those questions, and so many other thoughts, consumed Jimmy as he waited out the cab ride up 10th Avenue. Thankfully traffic was light, so the cab was moving fast, making the lights, as though destiny was playing a hand in getting him back to Midtown, to Hell’s Kitchen, the place where life began for Joseph McSwain, where it ended. His father had probably walked that corner at 10th and 46th Street thousands of times, never knowing it would be the location where he would meet his death. Jimmy got off on that exact corner, stood there to reflect. The deli was open, Habib beyond the counter, its fluorescent lights beaming through the streaked glass of the window, landing on the very spot where Jimmy had held his father while he bled out. Standing beside that light was Jimmy’s own shadow, smaller somehow. Like the fourteen-year-old was still inside him.
“Got it, Dad.” He exhaled. “I got him.”
Jimmy started down 47th Street, heading toward Ninth Avenue. Midway down the quiet block he came to the stoop of number 323. The building where the Dean family had lived for generations, not unlike so many families, not unlike the McSwains, who had refused to move out. Once they had been friends. Kids who played together. Had it all changed with the events about Cassie Dean? Was her tragedy part of why Joseph McSwain was targeted, or had he known of the origins of Blue Death? Had he threatened to expose Lawrence Dean as the leader of deep-rooted corruption? It was no coincidence Frisano had come clean about Blue Death being done and Dean retiring. It was his exit, his banishment. But where, Jimmy wondered, was the justice? Could the NYPD just turn a blind eye to his crimes?
Jimmy rang the buzzer for Apartment 4A. Rang it again, wailed on it.
A voice crackled through the intercom. “Who the fuck is this?”
“McSwain. Open up.”
“Go away, boy.”
“You can buzz me in or I’ll break down the damn door.”
“I’ll call the cops. I’m not without influence. I’ll see you locked up.”
“Don’t threaten me, Dean. The cops won’t lift a finger to help you. You’re finished.”
There was no reply. Jimmy buzzed the door again. Again. He banged on the door, the glass splitting. A shard fell to the ground. He could slip his hand inside and turn the knob. But just then he caught sight of the bloated Lawrence Dean bolting down the stairs, buttoning a shirt as he did so. Jimmy stepped back as the man threw open the door.
“The cops are on their way. Leave now, maybe I won’t send them after you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You fucking murderer.”
Dean laughed. “What the hell are you babbling about?”
“It was you. You killed him.”
“Oh, shit, McSwain. You still wailing like a baby about your wuss of a father? He’s gone. Deal with it.”
Jimmy rushed at the man, took a hard swing. His fist conne
cted with the burly man’s nose, where he felt a splurt of blood gush out. Dean fell back against the cement steps, crying out as his head hit the corner. Dean was dazed, but fine. Good, Jimmy thought. Don’t die on me. Not yet. He wanted to hear the man say it, admit to hiring Assan and Clark to ambush an off-duty Joseph with the express purpose of shooting him, murder him in cold blood. Jimmy stood over the man, whose chest was heaving. Jimmy didn’t care what happened to this man later. Have a heart attack, feel unbelievable pain. Whatever. He deserved it. Just how much awfulness had this man perpetrated for his own satisfaction? Intimidation, fear, retaliation, death. These were the motivations that lived inside his dark heart.
Jimmy kicked the man, not caring that he was already down.
The man grimaced in pain again. “Fuck you, McSwain. You’re insane.”
“Did you get some kind of perverse pleasure when you heard he was dead. Did you salute at his funeral, all while knowing you were responsible for it? Shake my mother’s hand and express your sorrow? Live as neighbors for the next fifteen years, knowing what you had done. Damaging the lives of others in the process, too. But it finally caught up with you…
“Shut up, McSwain. Someone’s coming. The cops, a neighbor.”
“It’s Sunday night, the side streets are quiet. And I don’t hear any sirens. It’s just you and me. Tell me about it, Lieutenant,” Jimmy said, spitting out that last word. “Was Joseph McSwain a threat to you? Had he uncovered your underground network? Stealing from the evidence room, convincing naïve officers all throughout the city to do the same. Bring you their spoils and watch criminals be set free. All for your personal gain. I bet Bobby Decca was real good at his job, until he’d been discovered. Did Officer Luke grow a pair and turn you in? Frisano’s task force took you down, silenced you. You had to clean up your mess before anyone else could turn state’s evidence. Right? Including your own son. Mickey was threatening to take over your operation, wasn’t he? Thought you were getting too old for this? But then you burned down his chop shop, removing all traces of your secret society.”
“What the hell are you talking about, McSwain?”
“Blue Death. It’s was you. It was yours from the start. But now it’s over.”
“Don’t speak those words. Not if you want to live.”
“Lying won’t help you. My father uncovered the truth about Blue Death. And if someone didn’t play along, you got rid of them. First Assan, shipping him off to prison as an example to the others who wouldn’t fall in line. Except one man wouldn’t. My father. Officer Joseph McSwain. He was going to turn you in. So you had him killed. Used Assan, and then shipped him off for a murder your orchestrated.”
Dean shifted nervously on the hard stairs. Jimmy saw the man’s dark eyes focused on him. “Listen to me good, kid. Joey and I had our differences, but we grew up together. Our families, friends once upon a time. Yeah, I held him in check, blackmailed him into staying silent. He would have been better off doing as I asked.”
“Are you listening to yourself? That’s crazy. You blackmailed him, how…?” Jimmy asked, but the answer came to him so fast Dean didn’t have time to respond. “Cassie. Shit. The speculation of what my father had done to her...”
“Speculation my ass.”
It wasn’t Dean who said that, at least not Lawrence. Jimmy looked up at the front entrance of the stoop, where he saw Maureen Dean standing there. Madame Mo, the neighborhood psychic, whose shop was nothing more than a memorial to her deceased, troubled daughter. Was she saying that Joseph was guilty, or only that she believed he was. Perhaps her husband had convinced her. The truth had been altered over time.
“Mrs. Dean…it’s not true. About my father, at least. Your daughter accused another man.”
“Of course he denied it. Why would he admit to it when it would ruin his career, his family? He would go to jail. And why would he accept being blackmailed if he was so innocent?”
“Because, he was protecting his partner.”
“That pesky Ralphie Henderson. Damn nigger,” Dean said.
Jimmy lashed out again, a fist landing into Dean’s sizable gut. “Watch your mouth,” he warned as the man doubled over.
“Hurt him again, you’ll answer to me,” Maureen said, suddenly holding out a pistol. It was aimed directly at Jimmy.
“I don’t want trouble, Mrs. Dean. Just the truth, for once. Finally.”
“What truth?”
“That your husband authorized the hit on my father fifteen years ago.”
She laughed aloud at that. “Oh, stupid Jimmy, I used to say how smart you were. Smarter than the two dumb-heads for sons I landed. Told Maggie so often, how lucky she was. She had the good kids, well, except for that mouthy Meaghan girl, who was always trouble. Not sensitive like my Cassie. I was always jealous of the McSwains. The ideal family, while behind my closed doors was nothing but fighting. No one got along. All I heard was arguing. Fist fights between Mickey and…hell, anyone who got in his way. No one lives a perfect life; some get it cut short. Like my Cassie, like your father. She didn’t deserve it. He did.”
“Maureen, shut up,” Lawrence said.
“You can’t tell me anything anymore, Lawrence. Your power is gone. Your so-called pal Frisano saw to that.”
“I have the power now,” Jimmy said. “I can expose the Blue Death at any time. And damn the consequences. Call the TV stations, the papers. Hell, shout it from the deck of the Empire State Building if it gets people’s attention. It’s a story the city might never recover from. So, either I get my confession, now. Or I walk. And destroy your family like yours did to mine.”
Maureen Dean took a step forward, allowed her husband to stand up, cowering against the door frame. She still had the gun pointed at Jimmy. He knew he was taking a risk here, but this was sweet Madame Mo, who told the neighborhood kids and ladies what they wanted to hear: they would find love, discover untold wealth, live a long life. Not some gun-toting loon. Slowly, Jimmy backed up a few steps. Putting a bit of distance between himself and the trajectory of a bullet.
“I’ve used this gun before, Jimmy. Well, not me personally. But I do know how to shoot. After forty years married to a policeman, you learn a thing or two. I know how to release the lock. I’ve learned how to deal with the blowback. I’m not afraid to use this. Now, or in the future.”
“Frisano and Barone, they both know everything. You shoot me, your life is over. It all comes out.”
“My life ended when Cassie’s did. She was gone and I was left an empty shell. That’s why I did it. And maybe I wasn’t in my right mind, maybe I never have been. Grief is a terrible emotion. It eats your insides. Oh, how I used to dream of revenge. When I would see your father, sometimes with you. Walking to that deli. I wanted you to feel the same pain. That’s when the idea formed.”
Jimmy blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Lawrence didn’t tell those men to kill Joey. I did.”
“Maureen, shut up,” Lawrence said. “Don’t say another word…”
“It’s not like Jimmy’s gonna do anything with the information. He wants the truth, but it won’t see him free. Knowing that your father abused my little girl, that truth didn’t help me. Nor did sanctioning his killing. But I did it anyway. That Assan boy, he was here often in the night hours, talking secrets with a man he thought was his friend, his superior. Lawrence just knew how to manipulate him, let him think he’d found acceptance. In the U.S. Within the NYPD. All I had to do was give him this gun. I even told him the date.”
Jimmy’s mind was racing. Was any of this true? It felt like the words were bouncing off his brain, refusing to sink in. But if it was true, it wasn’t because of what he’d learned about the Blue Death. His father’s death wasn’t done for professional retaliation. It was a personal execution. Ordered by a woman who believed he’d violated her daughter. His father’s honor had gotten him killed.
“Mrs. Dean…if what you’re saying is true, you killed an innocent
man…”
“He raped my daughter.”
“No, no, he didn’t.” They were words Jimmy wanted to say. Lawrence beat him to them.
Her face faltered as she looked at her husband, a tear appearing down her cheek. “But Lawrence, you told me…”
“Because I couldn’t tell you the truth, not then. I can’t today either, or ever. It’s over. Her abuser is dead.”
“Tell me who?” Maureen said.
This time is was Jimmy who spoke. Wanting to inflict pain without violence. With fact.
“Your son. It was Mickey.”
Maureen paused, and then an echoing wail rushed out of her mouth, her body gone slack. Lawrence caught her, held her. Embraced her. Together forty years, bonded by lies, by corruption, by a series of deaths that should never have happened. It was a tragic situation playing out again on dark streets. The Kitchen was indeed Hell right now. Two families once linked by Sunday mass and stickball in the empty lot. By friendship and comradery, loyal to a neighborhood that always seemed in transition. Two families now facing the awful truths that had built up over fifteen years, longer.
Jimmy stared forward, watching the Deans. Watching them crumble.
He didn’t know what to do. He had his answer. He had his killer. Not who he expected.
It was the ringing of his phone that broke the moment. Its sound foreign, because wasn’t he living back fifteen years ago? When devices such as this weren’t as common, not as fancy. He stared at the Caller I.D. Maggie. The worst timing. But he wouldn’t not take the call.
He stepped back to the curb. Answered it. “Ma, not the best time.”
“Well make it the best time. Meaghan’s in labor, and this time it’s for real.”
No choice there. “See you at the hospital.”
Jimmy turned away. He would deal with the fallout of the Deans another time. He turned back to them once, saw them close the door to the apartment building. He was thinking of the new life about to be born into this world when the blast of a gunshot shattered the night. It was followed by a second. He hung his head. But he didn’t shed a tear. Injustice had righted itself.
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