“What…”
“Don’t play dumb with me, McSwain. The papers might not have included your info, but I’ve got feelers all over the NYPD. Someone up at the 24th mentioned a local P.I. stumbled upon the crime scene. I did a little digging, and lo and behold…there you were. Detective Rand was less than pleased. You sure have a knack for showing up at the wrong places at the right time.”
“Depends upon your point of view.”
“I’m a cop, McSwain. Crooks will do as they do, whether we exist of not. Better that we do.”
“Campaign speech?”
Frisano chose to ignore that remark and instead escorted Jimmy back through the inner workings of the precinct, bringing him behind the closed door of his office. His name had been stenciled in black letters, a feature Jimmy didn’t remember from his one other visit here. He’d still been new. Perhaps it had given Frisano a vote of confidence, that this precinct was his…for now. He was on the fast track to One Police Plaza. At least, that was the word along the NYPD grapevine. For now, he was here, and he was being cooperative with Jimmy. Of course, more than cop vs. private eye existed between them. Frisano had suggested they have a drink some night. Frisano’s dress uniform wasn’t the only thing hanging inside his closet.
“Coffee?”
“Nah, I think I’ve peed about a gallon today already.”
“On such a hot day.”
“Don’t hot beverages regulate your body temperature better in the heat?”
Frisano raised his eyebrows again. Jimmy realized his comment was laced with innuendo, and he felt a flushness hit his cheeks.
“Okay, Jim, talk to me,” he said, easing down on the edge of his desk.
Jimmy noticed the shift in how he was being addressed. McSwain in public, but Jim in private. He decided he liked it. But that’s because he liked Frisano, liked how his large frame filled the small office, how his fit body looked in uniform, and how sexy was the heavy dark shadow of his beard. His slicked-back black hair was thick and full. If it wasn’t already hot outside, all Frisano had to do was step beyond this building to make the heat index boil.
But he had to focus. Nothing had happened between them. Nothing should. This was all business.
“Any leads on the perp who killed the deli owner?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I saw the video footage on the news, I saw the police sketch in the paper,” he said, “Not a kid.”
“No, you got that right.”
“He looks to be around forty, forty-five?”
“Depends. Life is hard on some people. Might be ten years younger than that.”
“Is that fact?”
“It’s all speculation at this point. What’s your interest?”
“My father’s case,” Jimmy said, matter-of-factly. He buried the emotion.
Frisano nodded. He’d done the research. He knew all about Jimmy McSwain. And what there was to know about Joey McSwain. “You think there might be a connection.”
“The M.O., it’s similar.”
“Deli robberies are a dime a dozen, Jim. Some go bad.”
“This one went real bad. Guy shot after going out onto the street. Same M.O.”
“We find the guy, I’ll do some digging. What’s your theory? You must have one.”
“Guy was sent away for a crime, got released, went back to what he knows.”
“You don’t think you’re reaching?”
Jimmy shrugged. Maybe he was. “Let’s just say my father’s case is the opposite of today. Time to change things, take it from cold to…”
“It’s hot outside,” Frisano said, his dark eyes catching Jimmy’s.
“Yeah, you got it.”
Silence fell between them. Jimmy swallowed a lump that lodged in his throat. Not only had they found common ground on the case, their connection had slipped beyond business. There was something in the way Frisano had looked at him. Jimmy wanted him to look at him that way more. Maybe in the night, maybe in the morning, too. Something palpable had passed between them. Jimmy wished it wasn’t so. Frisano was a cop. He swore he’d never date a cop.
“So, who’s this Rocky Martino?” Frisano asked, shifting gears.
“A friend from the neighborhood. My Mom and his family are neighbors for years.”
“He did some time for drugs.”
“You know a lot, given it’s not your case.”
“I like to be informed. Offer help when I can.”
“He didn’t do it,” Jimmy said. “Can you help with that?”
“Got proof?”
“I was there, or I was, just after the shooting happened. Something doesn’t add up.”
“Detective Rand will find out.”
“He seemed rather content with his and Rodrigues’s easy collar.”
“So you’re going to get in their way and prove otherwise?”
“If they’ve got nothing to investigate, how am I in their way?”
Frisano rose up off his desk, approached Jimmy until he was barely a foot away. Jimmy felt he was so close he could see the whiskers on his cheeks pushing their way toward their five o’clock shadow. It was only three. He could smell the man’s cologne; it was sweet, with a hint of musk.
“Be careful out there, Jim. Remember last time you pissed off the wrong guy.”
“Yeah, the wrong guy got killed. Trust me, Frisano, I live with that. I lie awake with it.”
“The world, it’s all on your shoulders?”
“Just my part of the world.”
Frisano nodded. “Sounds like you could use some relaxation.”
“When the job is done, maybe. Not easy for me.”
“How about a temporary solution?”
Jimmy felt his mouth thicken, go dry. “What do you have in mind?”
“We finally have that drink. It’s been months since my invite.”
“Life got busy. For both of us, probably.”
“So for one night, let’s unbusy it.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“My mother makes her famous lasagna. I’ll be in Brooklyn.”
Jimmy grinned. He got that one up on Wren. “Monday.”
“Tell me when, tell me where.”
“I will. I’ll…what…”
Frisano reached over to his desk, pulled out his business card and jotted down a number. “My cell. Text me. I’ll see you, Jim.”
“Yeah, sure, I look forward to it, Frisano.”
Jimmy started off, but he was stopped by Frisano grabbing at his hand. Jimmy spun back.
“Something else?”
“Yeah, after I kiss you for the first time, you better start calling me Frank.”
§ § §
“Earth to Jimmy? Hey, you in there?”
There were two reasons Jimmy didn’t hear his sister’s remark. First, Paddy’s Pub was busy on this Saturday night, the decibel level high as partiers and revelers alike downed beers, told off-color jokes, cracked billiards, or just watched whatever sports were playing on the many flat screen televisions that blared through the small bar. But as Jimmy and Mallory sat at the far edge of the wood bar, he was staring forward, lost in thought. She called to him again, and then she punched him on the bicep. He’d been holding his beer, and a bit of it sloshed onto his arm.
“Oww,” he said, turning to her.
It hadn’t hurt, her move just took him by surprise. “You invited me out, least you could do was make conversation.”
“Sorry, just thinking.”
“Yeah, so I heard.”
“Haha,” he replied.
It was almost eleven o’clock; they were awaiting the arrival of Maggie, who had been on the late shift at the Calloway tonight. The show ended a short while ago, so they had saved her a seat and Paddy, their uncle and Maggie’s brother, knew to have her martini at the ready. Mallory was sipping at a white wine, and Jimmy had a Smithwicks, or at least, what was left of it. He grabbed a napkin and dried the hair on his forearm before orderi
ng up another beer.
“Let me guess, it’s a boy.”
“You know, Mal, you say it that way, it makes me sound creepy.”
“Oh, sorry. You got man trouble?”
“No, not trouble. Worse, a date.”
“Geez, Jim, you’re the only guy I know—straight or gay—who thinks that’s a negative. So, who is he?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Well, if your date goes as well as ours tonight, I won’t need to know.”
Mallory McSwain was his oldest sister, and she never let him forget it. She was the one who “got away,” out of the Hell’s Kitchen the McSwain family had been born into, living and working on the East Side of Manhattan. When she’d landed the job at Acton, Sutter and Hartley, Jimmy had sung the Jeffersons’ theme song. Except, she really hadn’t moved on up. She lived in a studio in Murray Hill, which was actually southeast of where she’d come from. She’d taken a cab through Times Square—on a Saturday night, where the meter went faster than the ride— which said everything about her change in station.
“By the way, you’re buying tonight,” he said.
“No new cases?”
“Oh, I’ve got one. He just can’t pay.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of taking on Rocky Martino as a client,” she said. “After what he did to Meaghan.”
“Hey, it’s only been twenty-four hours. We don’t know, specifically, what he did, or did not do.”
“The cops arrested him. They said he was holding the murder weapon.”
“See, that’s where you come in.”
“Oh no. First of all, Jimmy, I’m not a defense attorney. I do wills, estates.”
“So recommend someone. Your firm is big enough, they can afford a pro bono.”
She took a sip of her wine, winced. Paddy’s wasn’t known for attracting oenophiles. “I’ll ask.”
“Tomorrow, please. His arraignment is Monday morning.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday. It’s one thing if it’s billable hours, another…”
“Mal, it’s simple. He just needs someone to help him enter a not guilty plea. There’s no way he’ll make bail. It’s just a formality. He’ll never get to trial.”
“And why is that?”
“Because, I’m Jimmy McSwain, private detective extraordinaire.”
“If only you approached your dates with such confidence.”
“What’s this about a date?”
Both McSwains turned to find their mother standing behind them, her purse dangling on crossed arms.
“Hi, Ma, nothing. Mallory’s just being…Mallory.”
“Hmph. That must mean Jimmy is being Jimmy.”
Mothers rarely chose sides. What she did choose was the bar stool in between them, and as she settled in, her brother appeared, setting the martini glass before her. She leaned in and took a sip before taking hold of the glass so as not to spill any of the precious liquid. It was made with gin, the right way, she often said.
“Ah, perfect. Thanks, Paddy.”
“Anytime, Mags.”
Paddy Byrne was a few years older than Maggie, with a shock of white hair and a sunny smile, the perfect disposition for a lifetime spent behind the bar. Paddy’s Pub was one of the few surviving independent establishments left in the neighborhood. It helped that he owned the entire building, so he was his own landlord—which was one of the reasons Jimmy kept his office right above the bar. Paddy’s—both the pub and the man—was a neighborhood tradition, keeping alive the Irish heritage of Hell’s Kitchen. He went off to serve others, content that his family was at his side.
“How was the show, Ma?” Mallory asked.
“Busy. Sold out, standing room. They would have sold seats in the apartment up above the theatre, but that would be pushing the bounds of partial view. One more to go, then we close up for the summer.”
“Anything announced yet for the fall?” Jimmy asked.
“Not yet. Those Calloways, they like to keep things close to the vest. They don’t play like the other theatre owners.”
True, the Harold Calloway Theatre on West 47th Street was one of the last independent theatres on Broadway, still owned by the family that had built the showplace back in the 1920s. They had received offers over the years by the major chains like the Shuberts and Nederlanders to acquire the theatre, but so far they were holding back. It was a grand old theatre, restored to its former glory about five years before. The apartment above the theatre had been renovated too; once it had been the home of famed actor Harold Calloway, its namesake. Maggie had worked the aisles for the better part of thirty years, the seats and boxes like a playground for her kids.
“So what’s your plan, Ma?”
“I wasn’t sure, but with this heatwave, I’m thinking of going up to the lake.”
“You mean…”
“Yes, I may spend the summer…or part of it. We’ll see how long I last, with Hester.”
“Ma, if we ever called you by your first name, you’d slap us upside the head.”
“Your grandmother Hester is different,” she said. And then she took a healthy gulp of her martini.
Jimmy hid his smile by drinking his own beer. He stole a look around the bar, where he noticed some regulars. Guys he’d gone to school with, some of whom worked now as stagehands on Broadway, others who worked the docks like their fathers and grandfathers had before them. They looked tired, some of them, grizzled and portly, with gray in their beards already. Life was hard for some of these regular folks, and a Saturday night at Paddy’s was as much a part of their schedule as were rehearsal calls and early-morning ship-loading. But they knew how to laugh and enjoy themselves despite the hardships. Jimmy took care of himself, he worked out and he walked the tough streets as much as he could. He looked good, fit, handsome. He was a catch, Maggie would say, if only he learned to let go of those demons.
Jimmy liked the demons just fine. They motivated them.
“So, Mal, you’ll let me know?”
“My associate and I will be in touch. In the meantime, I’ve got to run. Sorry, Ma. Have to meet someone for a drink.”
“At this hour?”
Mallory gave no indication of who it was, or where it was taking place. One thing about getting out of the neighborhood, you learned new tricks. Like not revealing your hand. With a quick peck to each of them, Mallory was out of the door like a shot, leaving mother and son with their empty drinks.
“Another, Ma?”
“Yes. I want to talk to you.”
“Okay, sure, what about?”
She wanted her drink first, and Paddy had it ready a moment later. Jimmy refilled his. They cheered, not really saying what they were cheering. Maggie set her drink down.
“Do you really think Rocky is innocent?”
“Of murder? I think so. I need to know more.”
“Who was this man? The one who got shot.”
“Police were withholding his name until next of kin could be identified.”
“But you know.”
“His name was Duvan.”
“What kind of name is that? Foreign, sounds like.”
“Ma, we were foreign once.”
She frowned, a crease coming over her eyes. Over by the cash register, Paddy laughed. It could have been from Jimmy’s comment or Maggie’s reaction.
“Rosa is so confused. She doesn’t understand why Rocky would be with this man. Or why the police think he shot him.”
“I don’t know why he would shoot him, either Mom. They looked perfectly in love.”
“No matter how this turns out, Rosa Marie Martino will not be a happy mother.”
“Lucky me, I’ve got one.”
“Speaking of being happy, so who’s this boy you have a date with?”
Like sister, like mother. Jimmy allowed a smirk, as close to a laugh as he got.
“If there’s anything to tell, I’ll…”
“Still not say a word. I was right, Jimmy being Jimmy.”
/> “Love you, too, Ma.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The arrival of a new week hadn’t done much in the way of killing the heat wave. It was already in the mid-eighties at nine thirty by the time he emerged from the subway in Lower Manhattan. Mallory had phoned the night before to tell him they’d meet outside the Criminal Courts building on Centre Street, and then together, they would meet with Rocky. Jimmy spent the subway ride reading the Post, where the murder of Duvan Ahkbar had been relegated to the inside pages. Just a small follow-up was needed; when the cops have their man, what else was there to report? Jimmy did learn that Duvan was originally from Senegal, Africa, but had lived in the States since college and had run afoul of the law, a hit and run accident that had him spending time at Parsons Hill, a minimum security prison located in Rockland County.
Jimmy knew the place. It’s where Rocky Martino had served his time.
So that must be where they met.
The air down in the subway was oppressive, so when he went topside, it almost felt like his lungs had been freed from their own jail. But after walking two blocks, sweat formed on his brow. He’d worn his usual jeans and T-shirt, but he’d also donned a blazer out of respect for the legal system. He hoped the courts kept things cold. As he crossed Centre Street, he saw Mallory in a smart navy business suit, a briefcase in one hand, a man’s hand in the other. Jimmy didn’t recognize the guy; he was in a suit as well, and he wore glasses. He was tall, about six two, which made Mallory seem smaller. They were an attractive couple. Was this the guy she’d gone to meet Saturday night? Or was this guy supposed to be representing Rocky at his arraignment? Or both? Jimmy waved as he hit the wide steps of the courthouse, noted that the two lawyers dropped their hands upon his arrival. Oh, so this was a secret relationship. Jimmy was intrigued, but he kept things all business.
“Jimmy, this is Taylor Hendrix. A top litigator at our firm.”
“Taylor, nice to meet you. Jimmy McSwain.”
“I see the resemblance,” he said, shaking Jimmy’s hand. “Shall we get inside?”
The three of them went through the revolving door, then through metal detectors, before grabbing an elevator to the ninth floor. They rode up with several other people, none of whom spoke. There was none of that awkward elevator silence. These people had cases to try, no sense revealing any details to any potential witnesses that might be listening. At last, the doors opened and they stepped out into a large corridor. Men and women in suits swept passed them, while the great unwashed sat on wood benches outside various rooms. They looked like they’d been called to the executioner. He knew they were potential jurors reporting for duty. Civic duty on apathetic display.
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