“You sure you want to go with me?” he asked.
“Jim, this isn’t just about your case. It’s mine, too. Come on, let’s take one car.”
“Then what?”
“Depends on what we find. Either I go back to the city, or we come back here until the sun comes up.”
“Captain Francis X. Frisano, are you asking me to spend the night with you?”
“Just don’t expect me to hold your hand,” he said.
“Oh, I expect much more.”
Their suggestive bantering ended as they opened the door to the outside, all they shared inside this room relegated to memory. The sun was still bright at six o’clock, but thankfully they would be traveling east and it wouldn’t be in their eyes as they drove. Each slipped on sunglasses anyway, and they slid into the seats of Frisano’s gray SUV, a surprising choice Jimmy noted. A family van for a single guy. Frisano’s eyebrows rose when he said there was a lot of room in the back, and then as they laughed, they set out to resume what they had come to upstate for: truth, justice, and an elusive thing called resolution.
“So, Jim, this case you’re working,” Frisano began, “you believe some clues exist up here for clearing Rocky’s name?”
“You know, wherever an investigation leads you, you have to pursue it. Any stone left unturned…”
“Right.”
“Truth be known, I find the whole thing strange, this so-called relationship between the victim and the family he wronged. Duvan killed Alicia McDonald, even if he didn’t mean to. He hit her with his car, it was rainy night, and he claimed he didn’t see her. He left, not knowing he’d even hit someone. He turned himself in, pled guilty, and went to prison. That should be the end of it, justice served. But it didn’t end there. Suddenly, Eaton McDonald, a high-powered real estate broker and property owner in Manhattan, is concerning himself with prison reformation, notably that of ex-convicts. He opens up Alicia House—named after his daughter, oddly enough. He also goes so far as to offer Duvan a place to live upon his return to Manhattan.”
“That’s not exactly how most victim’s families go about healing. I take it you’ve spoken to this Eaton guy? And what the hell kind of name is that?”
“Upper East Side, born and bred. It’s another world up there.”
“Far from Brooklyn,” Frisano said. “So, what do you hope to learn at Alicia House?”
“That’s the thing. I just need to ask questions, see where it takes me. I’ve heard enough of the bond between Rocky and Duvan, Warden Daniels confirmed that it was true love. So why is Duvan Ahkbar dead, and Rocky awaiting trial for his murder?”
“Good questions,” he said. “But this visit isn’t just about them. Assan interests you.”
“In the beginning, when the deli robberies began, it was just another crime. When Assan killed his first victim, it became personal. You know my history, you know about Joey McSwain. Roscoe accused me of reaching on this one, trying to force a connection. But then once you had ID’d Assan as the killer, you dug deeper and found out he was ex-NYPD. To me, that’s a double connection to my father. Delis and NYPD. I have to see this through, to look Assan in the eyes after he’s been captured as I ask him if he killed my father. And if he did, why?” Jimmy paused, taking a deep breath. “Frank, I’ve never felt closer to the truth.”
“You said you were there the day your father was shot. Does Assan look familiar?”
“It was fifteen years ago. His image has blurred with time. Remember, there were two of them that day, an accomplice who served up a distraction, and the killer. I saw them both, yes, in my fourteen-year-old eyes. Once I confront Assan, I’ll be able to see it in his. I have to.”
“Just be cautious, Jim. You don’t get what you want, especially something this big, you might be setting yourself up for a major fall. Yes, the past needs to be rectified, but not at the cost of your future. Remember that.”
Jimmy’s response was to point to a road sign. “You sound like Ralphie.”
“Ralphie Henderson. Your father’s ex-partner.”
Jimmy marveled at how much the people in his life knew about him. He wondered if he should be suspicious. A road sign took him out of the moment.
“This is our exit.”
Alicia House was located on a side street in the small town of Gavin Hills, a place of not more than 2,000 people. Jimmy had to imagine the residents were none too pleased about having a halfway home for ex-cons in their midst, but when the benefactor is a man as rich and powerful as Eaton McDonald, protests no doubt fell on deaf ears. They cut through the main street of town and passed by several stores, including a grocery store, hardware store, and a diner, the latter of which called out to them. They had worked up quite an appetite in the afternoon. But they did not want to delay their visit any further, and so continued on, turning right onto a narrow street called Hudson Road, and from there it was just two more blocks until they pulled up to the curb in front of a large, gray-painted Victorian house.
“Geez,” Jimmy noted, “it’s nicer than where I live.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to share the space with ex-cons.”
“Point taken.”
They got out of the SUV, walking up the pathway that cut through a freshly mown front lawn. A black man sat on the wrap-around porch, gently swaying on the swing, whistling to himself. Another man, pale and emaciated with flat hair plastered against an egg-shaped skull, was positioned along the rail, his body leaning against a post. He stared forward, his eyes blank. Neither man looked all that interested in the fact they had company, odd, considering one of them was dressed as a cop. Maybe they thought Jimmy was a transfer, and maybe they thought Frisano was a prison guard, charged with getting him settled here.
“Evening, fellas,” Frisano said. “Director Nichols around?”
“Why’nt you knock, find out,” said the one against the post.
Jimmy and Frisano exchanged looks. With that attitude, perhaps he’d just arrived too.
They boarded the steps, then did as suggested. They knocked.
A moment later a man in his mid-fifties, with a belly that would make Santa Claus thin, creaked his way to the other side of the door. In his hand he held a chicken leg, half eaten. “Help you, gentlemen?”
“Are you Hanson Nichols?”
“Director of Alicia House, that I am. Who are you?”
“I believe Warden Daniels phoned to say we’d be stopping by. I’m Captain Francis X. Frisano, NYPD, Tenth Precinct. This is an associate of mine, Jimmy McSwain. Whatever you say to me, you can say to him.”
“Hmmph, don’t see that I have to say anything to either of you.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Director Nichols,” Frisano said with sudden authority. Jimmy noted the change in his tone, and he liked it. Deep, sexy, and commanding. He’d heard it this afternoon. He’d done as asked. He expected Daniels would fall in line, too. “But doesn’t Alicia House fall under the jurisdiction of the New York State Penal system? And if so, you are required to cooperate with law enforcement. Unless you’d like to see a few more cars in front of the house, all with swirling lights and loud sirens, I suggest you open the door and invite us in. That chicken sure looks good.”
The screen door opened, and they entered, the smell of fried chicken overpowering them. The large living room was warm; either they had no central air conditioning, or the temperature was regulated to reflect the living conditions they had endured for however long their sentence had been. Society wasn’t alone, comfort was also something you needed to ease back into, luxury an added indulgence. Jimmy looked around at the other residents, two white men who were playing a harmless game of checkers, another watching the news on the television. He had no idea how many men stayed here at one time, but given the place was a spacious Victorian, he imagined it could house several men in need of reintegration.
Jimmy made eye contact with one particular man, a brown-skinned man who might have been Middle Eastern, perhaps African. He thou
ght instantly of Duvan, whose coloring had been similar. Had they known each inside the walls of Parsons Hill? He knew races tended to gravitate toward each other in such confined spaces.
Nichols brought them to the dining room, inviting them to sit. A few empty plates with leftover food remained on the table. “Sorry, some of the guys, they haven’t learned how to pick up after themselves. At Alicia House, re-integration is an important component in assessing if a man is ready to resume his regular life. May I offer you a plate?”
Despite their hunger, Frisano said no, they would prefer to get on with business. Jimmy passed too. He didn’t like the smell of this place. And he wasn’t talking about the grease.
“And what business would that be? Warden Daniels didn’t elaborate on your visit.”
“What can you tell us about Rashad Assan?”
“Oh, I see. This mess down in the city. Of course I’ve heard of it. I’m quite disturbed.”
“So are his victim’s families,” Jimmy said, his voice carrying a personal edge.
“Alleged,” Nichols added with a touch of annoyance. “It’s important for anyone listening that we enforce the theory that the legal system works. Trust in the law is implicit in rehab.”
Jimmy didn’t like this guy. He spoke with big words, even while saying nothing.
A scrape of a chair in the living room caught his attention, noticing one of the residents get up and leave the room. Jimmy’s eyes followed him. The man appeared nervous, with darting eyes that gazed upward as he came to the staircase. He started up them, his feet heavy against wooden steps. Jimmy elbowed Frisano, who turned away from what he was saying to see what had interested Jimmy.
“Who’s he?” Frisano asked, pointing toward the stairs.
“Oh, Melvin Essen, a harmless enough guy.”
“Harmless enough to be in a prison halfway house?”
“Not all of our residents are violent criminals, some just can’t function in society. Melvin is loyal though, been so since the day he arrived four months ago.”
“Four months, at Alicia House? Seems an awfully long time.”
“Like I said, he’s special. He’s not ready for real life, but he’s done with prison. Frankly, I can’t imagine running this house without him. The men who pass through, they like him, trust his innocent nature. He cooks a good chicken.”
“Would the men who trust him include Rashad Assan?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Nichols said. “Officer Frisano…”
“It’s Captain. Tell me, Mr. Nichols, when was the last time you saw Assan?”
Nichols’ eyes shot toward the stairs, a fresh bead of sweat forming on his broad forehead. From upstairs, a commotion could be heard, running feet thundering along the hallway. Frisano sprang into action, Jimmy following after him. Nichols tried to object, his voice falling on deaf ears. He was too large to chase after them. Soon, Jimmy was trailing behind Frisano as they made their way up the stairs two at a time. Jimmy felt tension grab at him; was Assan here, had he chosen Alicia House as a place to hide? Was Nichols aware of it? His expression seemed to indicate his assumption was correct.
Frisano dashed down the hallway, bursting through closed doors. They were all empty. Jimmy went to the far end, where he found another door, which he opened. It led upstairs to the attic, and it was there he heard footsteps again. He called after Frisano, and just as he approached, a shot rang out. Frisano dropped, Jimmy pushing himself up against the wall. A bullet went wild, smashing into the wood floor.
“Great rehab, huh, Jim?”
“You think it’s Assan?”
“Got to be. You heard Nichols, he’s loyal to his people, suspicious of the law.”
Frisano then charged into action, running up the stairs of the attic, his gun drawn. Jimmy considered his next move; of course, he didn’t have a gun. He never carried. It was tucked away in the file cabinet back in his office, right alongside The Forever Haunt file. He would be no good as a backup to Frisano. So he turned back around, racing down the stairs and thrusting open the front door. Nichols stood on the porch, gathering his residents together, telling them to just go inside to the living room.
“You knew he was here. A man wanted by the NYPD for murder.”
“I know nothing…”
“Shut the fuck up. We’ll deal with you later.”
Jimmy, anger fueling him, jumped off the porch, getting a better view of the upstairs. He saw a figure easing out of an open window, scaling the slanted roof. Though he couldn’t see his face, Jimmy knew he was darker-skinned, his body wiry, not unlike the footage he’d seen down at the 10th Precinct; he had no doubt that this man was Rashad Assan. He was trying to escape. But Jimmy would be ready for him.
Just then Frisano poked his face out of the window. Jimmy saw Assan point his gun.
“Frank, back in, quick.”
The bullet went wild. Frisano emerged again, his gun primed. He got off a shot.
“Don’t,” Jimmy cried out. “We need him. Alive. Let him climb down. I’ll stop him.”
Assan heard Jimmy, and he got off a shot at him. Jimmy ducked beneath the porch, but before he’d done so, he’d gotten a good look at the man’s face. It was the same man he’d seen at the deli on Tenth Avenue. So this was the second time he’d been shot at by this fucker. He would be waiting for him. He continued to watch as Assan crawled across the roof, heading toward the rear of the house.
“Come on, you bastard. Come to Jimmy.”
From down the street came the sudden blare of sirens, the sound breaking into Jimmy’s thoughts. Someone had called the local country sheriff, and whether it was a neighbor or Nichols himself, it didn’t dilute the truth that the situation was about to be taken out of their hands. Frisano had no true jurisdiction here, and Jimmy had no rights at all. Shit, he thought, let us grab Assan first, then deal with who had the bigger dick.
“Freeze, stay where you are.”
Jimmy turned, saw a gun pointed at him by a fresh-faced kid, younger than him. He was not about to take a chance with an inexperienced trigger finger. He held up his hands, watching as two other officers rushed the old house. He could hear stomping on the stairs, loud voices that echoed in the hallway. Soon he could see them from the attic window. He couldn’t be sure, but Frisano looked as though he was handing over his gun to the man in charge. Both he and Jimmy were rendered impotent, a far cry from this afternoon.
“But there’s a guy,” he said by way of explanation. “He’s wanted for questioning for murder…he’s getting away…”
“Save it,” the cop said, his gun still drawn.
And their prey, a killer named Rashad Assan, he’d probably by now escaped into the woods.
Gone, vanished into thin air, like the souls of those he’d killed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Moonlight shined down on the lake, but otherwise darkness swirled all around him. That was just fine with him. Jimmy McSwain was not looking forward to the arrival of a new day. If this one had ended as it had, just think of the disappointment he’d face tomorrow when he and Frisano woke to the awful truth that they’d let a vicious, wanted murderer escape their clutches. He’d been within their grasp, so close…and yet now, there was no sign of him. The unfolding drama at Alicia House had turned into a mess, with officials from too many factions being brought in to investigate what had happened and hopefully to prevent any additional fallout. Jimmy escaped unscathed thank to urging of Captain Frisano of the New York City Police Department, as he’d secured Jimmy’s release, taking full responsibility for his inclusion in what was an unauthorized search of government property. Jimmy knew not to argue and took his arranged exit. His defense of Frisano would only lead to more questions, none of which neither man needed.
So Jimmy had returned to Peach Lake, where a plate of food had been kept warm.
It was fried chicken, and he almost couldn’t eat it.
Now, it was almost midnight, and his family hopefully was sleepi
ng. Meaghan had turned in early, Maggie was watching television, and Hester had been reading a book on politics when he stated he was going out for a walk. Now, as he sat on the dock in only his shorts, his arms stretched back against the latticed wood, the breeze slight against his bare chest, he savored the rare chill. With his legs dangling in the water, he gave listen as the loons sang in the quiet of the night as he kept going over what they could have done differently and not liking the direction his mind went. What Jimmy came up with was simple: he and Frisano shouldn’t have strayed from such a vital case, they shouldn’t have holed up together inside a motel room all afternoon and screwed each other. They had given in to their basest desires, and while he had promised himself he would have no regrets over what had happened, that was just how he was feeling. It sucked, this guilt rummaging around inside his soul. These feelings always seemed to surface whenever happiness tried to find him. Fuck, he thought, didn’t his father’s memory deserve more respect? Wasn’t that his life’s work?
He heard a scuffling sound behind him, and he turned, half expecting some animal to be creeping up to devour him.
It wasn’t, just a woman with her hair in curlers and a robe around her body. “Ma?”
“Just me, Jimmy. Thought you were going for a swim?”
“If I went in, I think I’d just sink.”
“That’s what happens when you carry the world’s problems on your shoulders.”
“Cute, thanks.”
She made her way to the edge of the dock, Jimmy helping her down. As she settled in next to him, her legs joining his in the cool waters, he felt her arm slip around his torso and tighten. No matter how old you get, no matter what ailed you, the comforting embrace of your mother had no equal. He laid his head on her shoulder, continuing to stare out at the moon. Its light was deceptive; the night was supposed to claim you, give you a respite from the harsh glare of the sun’s exposure. But he felt tonight it was overly bright, exposing his indiscretions for all to see. He knew it was ridiculous. He was convinced they would have had Assan in custody if not for the arrival of the locals. They might have been interrogating him right now. Jimmy might have known the truth. Instead, Jimmy was being interrogated by his mother.
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