Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  Still, nothing.

  “Parsons Hill was where Duvan Ahkbar served out the last months of his sentence.”

  Eaton continued to stare forward, almost as though he feared losing his poker face had he looked over at Jimmy. Jimmy shifted in his seat, facing the powerful man, whose hand rested on a compartment that separated the two men. His fingers tapped against it, a hollow sound filling the back of the limo.

  “Oh, Ephraim,” Jimmy said. “When you get to one-oh-seven, pull up. Park in front.”

  He didn’t need to say where. It’s often said killers return to the scene of their crime.

  Usually not in a limousine and with a private detective in tow, breathing down their neck.

  Jimmy wondered how all this would play out. He knew the truth. He just had no proof.

  “You know Duvan was talking about getting married,” Jimmy said. “Talk about a fresh start. It would have been nice to see him and Rocky say their vows, kiss to seal their bond. To share a life together. But they can’t. Someone destroyed the happiness that had somehow found Duvan again. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Eaton? Your daughter, Alicia, she had tomorrow to live for also. A tragic accident took her. But it’s not like it was premediated murder. No, if Duvan had deliberately set out to kill Alicia, he’d still be behind bars. He’d have no chance at parole, and no chance to find love.” He paused, noting they were closing in on their destination.

  “You do see the difference, don’t you?”

  “You are quite the teller of tales, McSwain.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started. Look, here we are.”

  When the two men emerged from the limo and onto the street, Manhattan was still eerily quiet. Just a couple people were on the street, walking their dogs, picking up newspapers or bagels, their morning coffee from their local Starbucks in their hands. It was peaceful, the normal rhythm of life. What they were not doing was going to a bar, not at this hour. The Tomorrow Lounge was not even open, its lights doused, a gate pulled down on both doors, the one that led to the bar, plus its cabaret entrance.

  Jimmy turned to Eaton. “The key?”

  “Why would I have a key…”

  “Must we endure these unnecessary delays, Eaton? The sooner we do this, the sooner you get to the Hamptons to the wife and daughter. Right, you do have another daughter? The one you over-protect by having her driven to school in a limo, her mother clinging to her. A rich man like you who’s lost something valuable, it’s easy to understand your motivation. Money is no object. You’d do anything to protect their well-being.”

  “Is that what this is, McSwain? A shakedown? You want money from me?”

  “No, money doesn’t interest me. Money doesn’t buy truth. It only keeps lies alive.”

  “You’re quite the philosopher.”

  “My job isn’t always pleasant. I meet killers. Sometimes I need hope.”

  Eaton McDonald dug into his pocket and came up with a keychain that befitted a janitor or maintenance man. Jimmy had seen him take it from the compartment in the back of the limo, almost as if he was prepared for what was transpiring. He fiddled through it, finally coming up with a silver key and inserting it into the locked gate. The padlock came off, and Jimmy stepped forward to raise the gate, the rusted, screeching sound offensive in the morning quiet. A second key opened the wooden door to the bar, Jimmy remembering the square window where he’d seen the blood smeared. Too bad the cops had it tested and proved to be Duvan’s. It would have been a nice piece of DNA, some proof. Again, he had none.

  At last, the two men entered the bar, Jimmy telling Ephraim to wait outside. “You know, like you did that day.” Then he turned the lock, ensuring that he and Eaton remained alone. It was better one on one.

  The room was dark, Jimmy able to make out shapes from the faint light spilling in through the small window. He searched for a light switch, found it, and flicked it. The room suddenly was awash in light, a harsh glow. He stared around the room. A blanket was over the piano to keep it from getting dusty. Chairs were upended over the tables, the room ready for cleaning. A lone microphone stand was in the corner, as muted as Duvan Ahkbar. It was odd, being here again. It was Jimmy’s fourth visit. He hoped never to return. He avoided the spot on the floor where Duvan’s body had lain, blood seeping out of him. He noticed Eaton did the same.

  “You were already here that day of course, lying in wait,” Jimmy said.

  Eaton said nothing. His arms were crossed, his expression stern. He was accustomed to being the boss, the man in charge. He wasn’t now.

  “I can only imagine you’d been keeping tabs on Duvan. You had been since his release. Perhaps there were cameras in the apartment you offered him, listening devices too. You knew his every move, you knew of his relationship with Rocky. You knew his secrets, his plans, his hopes for the future, which included performing here. Which of course was never going to happen. An eye for an eye, isn’t that the saying?”

  “Get on with this,” Eaton said. His tone was growing increasingly hostile.

  “Got it, sure. You knew Duvan and Rocky were stopping by the Tomorrow Lounge. They had just spent the afternoon making love as well as plans. Duvan had a surprise for him. Yet, he did not get a chance to deliver. You wasted little time, scurrying through the back alley while they walked the street. You got here first. They entered, and you pounced. Your revenge plot had finally reached its zenith. You had watched this man—this man who accidentally killed your daughter—get his life back. Now, the question that nagged at me was this: if you were going to kill him, why wait until after he’d served his time? He could have been dead all these years. You could have moved on.”

  “I thought you were a private detective, McSwain. Not a novelist.”

  “Oh, you think I’m spinning fiction here? Fiction is really a reflection of how far people will go. How altered their worlds can become after terrible things occur. So many stories begin with death. Don’t you think that’s odd? The end of someone’s life prompts a dark reflection on our universe, on just how far people will go.”

  While Jimmy talked, he kept his eyes focused on his guest. Eaton McDonald hadn’t gotten where he was by being meek. Like a snake, he could uncoil and strike at any moment. The gun he’d used to kill Duvan was in police custody, but didn’t mean he couldn’t have another. It could be in his pocket, or it could be with Ephraim, who might be just outside the door, reading to pounce. Jimmy had cornered himself with a killer whose patience had seen no limits.

  “Duvan went to prison—maximum security at first, given the nature of his conviction. Yet, he was transferred toward the end of his sentence, where he met Rocky. That’s how things happen. You never know what each day brings. That’s the promise of every morning. Duvan was given that promise, that hope of a better day. Little did he know, his life was on a countdown clock. He was released. He even got support from the family of his victim. Alicia House was created, no doubt a false front. If Eaton McDonald had forgiven his daughter’s killer to the point where he was helping get his life together, why would anyone suspect he actually murdered him? But he did…you did. You killed Duvan Ahkbar, laid in wait, not just that day here in the bar, but for years. You waited until he’d reached the pinnacle of happiness—the planning of a life with someone he loved. And that’s when you struck. You gave him a false sense of security. Then you took it away.”

  Eaton didn’t say a word just yet. He checked his watch. Time was indeed slipping away. “Are you done yet?”

  “That depends. How’d I do?”

  “I’d say you have a wild imagination.”

  “Of course you would say that. I understand, Eaton, your sorrow. Your loss. The death of someone you loved so much, you never get over it. You live to give their memory breath. Alicia deserved better, I’m not debating that. But as I said, Duvan never set out to kill her. You, on the other end, were quite meticulous in your planning. For years. How has it been this last week? To know that you’ve taken a life? Does
it eat at you? Do you sleep? Has your wife noticed how quiet you’ve become? Your daughter, does she…”

  Eaton McDonald sprang into action. He lashed out at Jimmy, his arms swinging wide.

  Jimmy was working on no sleep, his headache from being attacked by Ephraim still in his brain. As ready as he was for Eaton’s reaction, he was still slow on the uptake. Eaton got in a good punch to his face. Jimmy going with it, the impact lessened, but still effective enough to rattle him. He swung back, landed a punch to the gut, Eaton dropping to a knee. He might be rich, but he was soft, and like an alligator, he had power in his attack, but tired far too quickly. No death roll here. Jimmy kicked his legs, and the man spilled to the floor, his arms spread out, his body exactly where a body had lain here last week.

  “You son of a bitch,” Eaton said, wiping at a stain of blood at his lip. “That man, he did more than kill my daughter. He destroyed my family. You don’t understand, McSwain. He wasn’t the innocent man everyone assumed he was. Alicia’s hit and run was no accident. He hunted her down just as I did to him.”

  Jimmy paused, letting the word sink in. How was that possible? Why…

  “Why? What possible reason did Duvan have to want your daughter…”

  A lightbulb went off over his head. The room grew bright. But the world grew sadder.

  “Duvan was having an affair with her fiancé, Greg. Wasn’t he? That’s why you sent me to talk to him…to see him in his element. Duvan wanted Greg for himself, but Greg wasn’t ready to come out, not yet. But you knew. Why did you let it go this far? Why plot to kill Duvan?”

  “As you said, Jimmy, you have no proof of any of this.” He paused, his next words riddled with bitterness. “But forget me. Think about it. Duvan Ahkbar got away with murder.”

  Jimmy stood there in shock, the revelation rattling inside his brain. It was the one piece of the puzzle he hadn’t even considered. Rocky spoke of Duvan in such loving terms. But clearly Duvan had masked deeper emotions. For once in his life, Jimmy didn’t know what to do. Eaton McDonald was guilty as sin. He’d taken the law into his own hands, but he’d done so knowing he had no choice. Duvan had been tried for manslaughter, not murder, and he couldn’t be tried twice after serving out his short sentence. Eaton had no choice. And he wanted the satisfaction himself of setting the man up for an epic fall. Wasn’t this just what Jimmy wanted? Revenge on whoever killed his father? He and Eaton, they were not dissimilar in their hope for closure. They just went about it a different way. Jimmy did not want to pull a trigger. He’d seen the damage a bullet did. It stole life.

  But he did want justice.

  “So how does it feel, Eaton? Has justice been served for you? Can you rest easily knowing what you’ve done? Can your family? I may not have proof yet, but I will, now that I know the entire story. The NYPD will have no choice but to release Rocky. They will have another suspect. Your family…your remaining daughter, think how this will haunt her her whole life.”

  His words went unanswered, leaving Jimmy standing there when Eaton gathered himself up, dusting off his clothing. Once more wiping his mouth with his hand, a smear of blood stained him. He said not one more word, barely making eye contact with Jimmy. He headed outside, the door closing behind him just as it had when he’d made his fast escape after shooting Duvan. Ephraim had been lying in wait as well, the limo ready to whisk Eaton far away from the scene of the crime. Who would suspect the man in the limo had just killed someone? Didn’t we all want to live behind tainted windows, safe and protected from the horrors on the street? Eaton McDonald was to be envied. He had it all.

  That’s when Jimmy heard the recoil of the gun. It was muffled, the closed door blocking the harsh reality. He dashed outside and saw the shattered glass of the limo’s rear window. Ephraim was standing on the street, his head low, shaking. Jimmy ran to the back door and thrust it open, and that’s where he saw Eaton McDonald slumped over, half of his head blown off. The gun, not unlike the one found in Rocky Martino’s possession, was still in his hand. His pink pants had turned a shade darker. Blood was everywhere.

  Jimmy McSwain couldn’t look away. The sight of justice served sucked.

  § § §

  It was three days later, in the midst of yet another heave wave that found Jimmy McSwain back in Chelsea, and not for the reason his heart might want. No, he wasn’t going to the 10th, not to see Frisano. Instead, he was on the corner of Eighth Avenue and 19th Street, standing before the Dress-Up Club. It was two-thirty in the afternoon, an early hour for such an establishment in the middle of the week. But the Dress-Up Club was more than a cabaret joint; the building that housed it was also owned by Terence Black, and he acted as den mother to wayward young men. That was where he’d found his client’s son hiding out during the Hidden Identity case. He wondered if Terry could lead him to Greg Anderson. He felt they had some unfinished business.

  Fortunately, Jimmy saw Terry through the plate glass window, sitting on a black painted bar stool on the stage, a microphone in his hands while a white robe was wrapped around his body. Private rehearsal time, or was he about to audition a new star to what was now an empty room? Jimmy rapped his knuckles on the glass of the front door and saw Terry stir. He smiled when he saw him, turned the lock, and opened up. A blast of cool air hit.

  “Do come in, my sweet. It’s awfully hot outside. But you bring your own heat.”

  Jimmy smiled as he took Terry up on his offer. The man was nothing if not a perpetual flirt.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Twice in two weeks? Are you considering an act?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I think Dick Stacy would be a nice name for you,” he said.

  “Clever. But I’ll pass all the same.”

  “Hmm, shame. So, what can I do for you, Jimmy?”

  “Greg Anderson. I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Ooh, he didn’t like you.”

  “He might not like me still, depends on his answers.” He paused, ceasing the banter. “Terry, it’s important.”

  “He told me. The suicide of that big shot real estate guy. His dead ex’s father. When did life get so messy?”

  Jimmy didn’t comment. He just said, “He here?”

  “Upstairs. He’s staying in one of the rooms as he works up the courage to perform.”

  “Thought he was comfortable in his own skin.”

  “We all evolve, Jimmy. We only stop when we die.”

  Terry was a bit of a fatalist, not unlike himself. Jimmy said so.

  “Ooh, something in common at last. Let me call upstairs. Have a seat while you wait.”

  Jimmy did both, sit and wait, and it was fifteen minutes before Greg Anderson came in through the back room, which Jimmy knew gave access to the hallway and the stairs that led to the upper floors. Greg wore shorts and tight T-shirt, but his face was caked with make-up. Bright red lips, eyes dark with purple shadow. It was like he was halfway between what he was and what he wanted to be.

  “Sorry to catch you at a bad time.”

  “I figured I’d see you at some point. Crazy about Eaton McDonald. He had a big ego. I never would have thought he was the type of kill himself.”

  “Big egos usually mask a lot of insecurity. He took the easy way out.”

  “So he really did kill Duvan?”

  Jimmy nodded, asked that he sit down. He appeared nervous, and Jimmy wasn’t sure if it was from being in front of a virtual stranger with his disguise on, or if he feared his questions. But he took a seat at the bar and leaned in, closing out a curious Terry, who busied about the place like a bee in search of pollen.

  “I knew nothing,” he said. “That Alicia’s death was…intentional.”

  “But you knew Duvan. You had feelings for him. Obviously he had feelings for you.”

  “I told him I had to marry Alicia. Too much was riding on our wedding. The money already spent, the invitations sent out. The respect the McDonald name carried. I was in too deep. I thought he accepted it.
Later, after the accident…ha, I always called it that, but I guess it was murder, huh.”

  “Premeditated.”

  “Scary to think that. Our…affair, for lack of a better word, had been over for a few weeks, but Duvan told me after court one day that he had come uptown to see me. He was parked outside the restaurant Alicia and I had been dining at. Unless he’d been stalking me, maybe what he did wasn’t so much planned as opportunistic. Alicia had had a bit too much wine, so she wasn’t in total control of herself. Duvan must have seen her crossing the avenue and…gunned the engine. He killed her for me, I suppose. To free me from the responsibilities I felt toward the McDonalds. But in doing so…”

  “No one was freed,” Jimmy said.

  He saw Greg lower his head, shake it. When he finally looked back up, tears were in his eyes. A woman he’d loved had died because he’d fallen for a man. Jimmy couldn’t help but think of his sister, Meaghan, her situation not dissimilar, and it chilled him to think it was the same man at the heart of both betrayals. Thankfully Meaghan was safe, but what if Rocky had chickened out of his relationship with Duvan and turned to Meaghan? Would Duvan have repeated his modus operandi? It made Jimmy sympathetic now.

  “I’m sorry, Greg.”

  “I’ve been fighting with myself for too long,” he said. “Time to be me. To be free.”

  “It’s the only way to live,” Jimmy said.

  He knew. Because he wasn’t.

  Satisfied with Greg’s answers that he hadn’t been involved in Alicia’s murder, Jimmy wished him well, then waved good-bye to Terry. As a way of thanks, he promised Terry a pair of comps to the show coming to the Calloway Theatre in the fall.

  “Only if you’ll be my date,” Terry said with a wink.

  “We’ll have to see about that.”