Jimmy decided to keep things professional. “If we could get down to business?”
“Oh, right, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way…Kellan was nice. Too bad he’s only visiting.”
Jimmy entered the small apartment, noticing how tidy it was, a decorative place dominated by wall sconces and candles, a series of pillows tossed over the love seat and chair. He guessed there was a bedroom in the back, since Kellan had stated she had a roommate. Again he thought of Steven’s luxurious brownstone, so much room for one person. So tight here, it was almost like having a threesome with your neighbor.
“Can I get you some coffee, a drink…?”
“No, I don’t want to take up much of your time. Is Ranch your name?”
“Oh God, no, what a horrible stage name that would be. That’s my roommate, Hannah. It’s her place. She’s on the lease. I’m just crashing here til I get on my feet. Sally Hendrix, straight out of Omaha and taking on the big city and failing miserably.” She took a seat on the edge of the chair, a worried look then crossing her face. “You said something happened to Kellan?”
“He got jumped by a couple guys. He’s a little bruised.”
“My God, I’m so sorry to hear that. Do they know who did it?”
Jimmy decided to keep certain information to himself, see how it played out. “No.”
“Well, it was late. I guess we all need to be more aware of our surroundings.”
“Even inside your home,” Jimmy said.
“I know, it wasn’t the smartest move on my part, inviting him here.”
“And me.”
“Look, Jimmy…I’m really sorry Kellan got hurt, but I certainly didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I hadn’t suggested you did.” His tone had taken on a certain edge, a hint of suspicion.
“So then what is it you’re doing here?”
“Do you know a guy named Mickey Dean?”
She paused then answered, “No. Is that who attacked him? I thought you said you didn’t know.”
“He’s a suspect. That’s all.”
“So did Kellan hire you?”
“Family doesn’t need to hire me. They get a free pass. I’m just exploring all angles.”
“Kellan and I met at the bar owned by his father, I thought he was cute and sexy and funny. I took him home with me, and we had sex. There’s no crime there, is there?”
“Not at all.”
“So then what is this about? Who is Mickey Dean?”
“You remember his name,” Jimmy said.
“I’m an actress. I’m good at remembering lines.”
“Indeed.”
She didn’t like that veiled response, her bodily visibly bristling. She stood up, smoothing down her sweats. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Of course. I thank you for your time.”
Jimmy made his way to the front door, opened it. Sally hadn’t moved.
“Be careful out there, Sally. New York can not only steal your heart, it can stab it.”
As he journeyed down the steps he heard the turn of the lock again, two of them. He hoped his visit had scared her a bit. While she hadn’t really provided any helpful information, he felt he’d done her a favor. Still, he was left wondering why Mickey had targeted Kellan—was it really just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or had Mickey waited for him and Sally to finish their business? To what end? Kellan was no threat to him. He didn’t even live here anymore. Why use an innocent to send a message to Jimmy, and stay out of what business? Jimmy didn’t like this development one bit. It left an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He returned to the sidewalk, skirting past afternoon couples with baby strollers and other pedestrians who were busy texting and not watching where they were going. Jimmy wasn’t sure of his next move, so he decided just to return home to his mother’s. He turned down 50th Street toward 10th Avenue, which was where Kellan said he’d been attacked. Jimmy gazed about, making sure he wasn’t attracting untoward attention to himself. He bent down, inspecting the sidewalk, looking for droplets of blood and finding them. He took a photo with his phone. Then he was about to put the phone away when it suddenly rang, taking Jimmy out of the mode of violence and into the sunshine of the day.
“This is Jimmy,” he said.
“Dr. Steven Wang.”
“Oh,” Jimmy thought. Oh…
“I just wanted to call and say I had a good time, meeting you and all…”
“Me, too.”
“I saw the news about Serena and Henderson. Awful business.”
“Yes, it is.”
Jimmy was wondering what the reason for the call was. “Look, Steven, I’m working…”
“Sure, sure, sorry to disturb you. I’m calling, um, to invite you to dinner.”
“Dinner.” The word fell flat on his tongue.
“Yeah, like a date, like we discussed.”
A date, Jimmy didn’t do dates. He didn’t do well at relationships. “Date” sounded like a four-letter word, filled with pressure, intent.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to just throw that out there. It’s okay, I can realize last night was….”
“When?” Jimmy found himself asking.
“Wednesday?”
Before he knew it, he’d accepted. “Wednesday it is.”
“Great, I’ll be in touch, you know, with the details.”
“Oh, okay.”
Steven then said good-bye, and Jimmy was left standing on the street, still near the droplets of blood that had dripped off his cousin’s face. He realized that red was also the color of romance, and the word sounded so foreign to his tongue, more so to his mind. He started walking down the long street, his mind going over the concept that he had an actual date. For once Jimmy McSwain wasn’t thinking about death or murder or the conspiracies that had consumed his daily life. He also thought he was more scared than ever.
He’d sooner endure an interrogation at the police station than twenty questions with a man who just wanted to get to know him better.
Chapter Four
Monday morning found Jimmy being awakened by the ringing of his cell phone. Curled up in the blankets in his bedroom at his mother’s home, he had enjoyed a rare uninterrupted night of sleep. He might have even dreamed, good stuff. He rarely remembered. His eyes opened when he heard the first ring, because it was true that a private eye was always a phone call away from his next case. Instinct combined with survival. The time was 7:35, and the caller ID said simply, “Barone.”
“This is Jimmy,” he said.
“You’re up early, McSwain. Changing your bad habits?”
“Actually, you woke me up.”
“Well, since you’re awake then, how about you come in and answer some questions.”
“Regarding what?”
“Did you forget about a certain high-society type who met a bloody end?”
The body of Henderson Carlyle flashed in his mind. “When would you like me there?”
“How about ASAP.”
“New development?”
Barone didn’t reply. Jimmy hadn’t expected one. He had his next question ready.
“It’ll take me a bit to get down to One Police Plaza. That okay?”
“At the 1-0 this morning. Easier for you.”
Nothing was ever easy when it came to visiting a precinct. It meant you had dealings with the law, and that often led to even bigger trouble. Murder certainly topped the list when it came to trouble, but for Jimmy there was an even greater complication about walking through the doors of the 10th Precinct in Chelsea, namely their sexy, complex commanding officer, Captain Francis X. Frisano. Jimmy hadn’t seen him since that day in October on the docks, when they once again said a tortured good-bye. Prior to then, Jimmy had indulged in the hot, carnal delight that was Frisano, and he still found himself conflicted over the reasons they were apart. Obligation to family, a sense of betrayal, the juxt
aposition of private detection over public duty, all of those issues winning out over the obvious desire which flooded between them. Jimmy blinked away the image of him and Frisano naked in his bed, kissing, touching…making love, living in their own cocoon.
“Hey, McSwain, that a yes?”
Barone’s voice popped his bubble. “Sorry, yeah, give me time to grab a coffee.”
“We’ll have one for you, NYPD special blend.”
“Will Larry be there too?”
“He is my partner. Why, you need him?”
“Yeah, another matter.”
“Sounds like a busy morning. We’ll be waiting.”
Jimmy heard the disconnection of the call, set the phone down to charge, and then got out of bed. He showered, he considered shaving since it was a new week, and he skipped it. Time was of the essence. Soon he was dressed and grabbing an apple from the kitchen. All was quiet inside the apartment. Monday was his mother’s day off, so she tended to stay in bed longer. He would see her later. The McSwain Monday dinner night was tradition, attendance mandatory. Soon he was outside, where a bright, blue sky hovered above with nary a cloud, which meant in the month of December that it was freezing outside. Jimmy zipped up his jacket. He didn’t have a hat or a scarf. He wasn’t one much for accessories.
He decided to make things simple for himself, so he hailed a passing cab, where it turned onto 48th Street then down 9th Avenue. Traffic wasn’t so bad. They made steady progress through Midtown and into the mecca known as Chelsea. Jimmy got out at 8th and 20th and walked the final steps to the cement structure that was the 10th Precinct. He hesitated before the doors, steeling himself for whatever awaited him inside: an interrogation, talk of murder, the possible sighting of Frisano. A blast of frigid wind whipped past him and forced him inside.
“Well, I heard a rumor, but you can never believe those…”
“Not until now. Hey, Wren.”
Wren Parker was in her usual spot behind the dispatch desk, that morning sipping on a cup of coffee and playing with the apps on her cell phone, nice to know things were all quiet at the 10th. The ebbs and flows of police work no doubt came with a lot of downtime, even in New York, but when the crooks started acted up, the uptime surely turned intense, late-nights, weekends, when the crueler part of human nature tended to bare itself. Jimmy had seen it up close and personal just the other night, two-fold with Henderson Carlyle and Kellan Byrne. Wren flipped her blonde hair, smiled at Jimmy.
“Where you been keeping yourself?” she asked.
“Fortunately, my cases have been relatively simple lately. No need for police.”
“That’s changed?”
“You heard about the slaying on the Upper East Side?”
“The sleazy rich guy, yeah.”
“Killed on my client’s front steps.”
She nodded. “I’ll let the captain know you’re here…”
“Uh, not Frisano…uh,” Jimmy said, his words a jumble of sounds. He felt his face go flush. “Barone called me. He’s expecting me.”
“Okay, chill.”
“Can’t but on this cold day.”
Jimmy took a seat on the wooden bench, watched the activity of officers going about their duties, both plainclothes and uniformed, some just reporting for duty, holding their clothes in their hands as they went through the barrier that separated cop from civilian. A young man was waiting near Jimmy, tapping his knee nervously and shifting about, looking uncomfortable. People didn’t like associating with the cops. He didn’t look like a perp.
“They don’t bite,” Jimmy said, an effort to settle the guy.
“No, they’ve been great. My fucking ex stole some valuables from me. They got it all back, so I’m here to pick it up.”
Jimmy nodded. The guy was cute and slim, black-framed glasses turning him more hipster, probably twenty-five or so, probably gay, but who was Jimmy to assume. A moment later Jimmy noticed Detective Roscoe Barone emerge from the back, nodding his way. Jimmy rose, wished the kid well, got an inviting smile back. Seemed he was already over his ex. He’d be just fine. There were always future exes around unknown corners.
Jimmy went through the gate, full admittance to the inner sanctum of the precinct his. Barone said nothing, not even a simple thanks for coming in such short notice. He just took Jimmy to an interrogation room, where he was promptly left alone. Jimmy rolled his eyes. Why they went through this nonsense with him, he didn’t know. He knew it was deliberate, and they knew Jimmy knew. Posturing only wasted everyone’s time.
Jimmy’s phone buzzed, a text message coming in. Glad for the distraction, he opened it up.
TARAN FLEW HOME TODAY. TOOK YOUR ADVICE. I’M STAYING FOR A BIT. KELLAN.
Jimmy hoped his cousin wasn’t staying in town out of some sort of need for vengeance.
OK. DO NOTHING.
Another text. JOINING YOU FOR DINNER TONIGHT AT YOUR MOM’S.
Jimmy was getting ready to reply, when the door reopened and in stepped the mismatched team of Barone and Dean, and from their ragged appearance, it didn’t seem as if either of them had made good friends with sleep in the last couple of days. Was it the Carlyle case, or the other reason they had been reassigned to One Police Plaza? Jimmy hoped to use their tiredness to his advantage. It was not necessary with a dim bulb like Larry Dean, but Barone was rarely not his sharp, suspicious self. He had seasoning. Dean just had connections.
“Morning, detectives,” Jimmy said.
“You can cut the pleasantries, McSwain.”
“Detective Dean…easy. Mr. McSwain is here of his own volition.”
“If you count a wake-up call and an ASAP request the definition of own.”
Barone eased his bloated body onto the edge of the metal table. He grimaced in pain from the effort, like his knees were shot from years on the job. Dean set down a half-filled cup of coffee in front of Jimmy. At least they lived up to that promise. He ignored it for now.
“Let’s try and stay civilized, Jimmy. That okay by you?”
The shift in tone was even more noticeable than the use of his first name. It was a tactic that Barone had perfected. It meant he wanted answers, truth, and no smart mouth. Jimmy nodded.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Can you tell us where you were Saturday night, between the hours of one a.m. and four a.m.?”
It was Dean asking the question. His arms were crossed, his body leaning against the wall. It was a form of intimidation, but Jimmy wasn’t deterred by him. They’d grown up together, gone to grade school together, and had never liked each other then. The feeling escalated when they went through the academy together, and Larry pursued one career and Jimmy another. Even with justice their common bond, they could rarely see eye to eye, like now.
“Do you mean Sunday morning?”
“What?”
“Are you asking me about Saturday morning or Sunday morning?”
“Christ, Jimmy, when the body was found.”
“That was Sunday. A detective ought to know how to tell time.”
“Boys, both of you shut up. Jimmy, you know what he meant. Answer the question.”
“If you’re asking do I have an alibi, I do.”
“And who might that be?”
“It’s kind of personal.”
“So is murder. I don’t care if you were screwing the Carson broad herself—”
Dean laughed. “Yeah, like that would happen.”
Both Barone and Jimmy shot him daggers, and he folded his arms tighter around himself.
“I was with a man named Dr. Steven Wang. I was at his brownstone in the west seventies.”
“He’ll vouch for you?”
“I see no reason why not. Not like we were doing anything illicit.”
“Did you sleep with him?” Barone asked.
“How is that relevant?”
“Just trying to establish that you were otherwise occupied and thus couldn’t have done to Henderson Carlyle what was done to h
im.”
“Whoever did that, did it with a long-simmering anger. I’d met him once.”
“Serena Carson is a very wealthy woman.”
“No debate there.”
“A woman with her bankroll could have set the whole thing up. Her alibi is another of those Richie Rich-type guys, name of Robert Danvers, Robbie to his friends. Maybe she was paying off this Dr. Wang to be your alibi, which then gives you the opportunity to off this slime, who, by all we’ve been able to uncover, deserved it.” Barone paused. “I assume you knew Serena had an order of protection out against him?”
“It’s why she hired me. They often went to the same social events.”
“Like the other night.”
“Yes. He did try make one attempt to scare her, but I put him off. He was a bully, a typical one who backed down the moment someone went after him.”
“Which we understand you did,” Dean said. “You grabbed his arm.”
“I simply warned him to leave her alone, hardly a reason for me to slice him open like a living autopsy.”
The colorful comment brought a temporary halt to the conversation. Jimmy sipped at the coffee. It was cold and bitter, as unpleasant as the interrogation, one he thought was a complete waste of time. He knew they didn’t suspect him, but that didn’t mean they didn’t suspect Serena or her convenient boy toy of the night. Was it possible the two of them had orchestrated it all? Had Jimmy been used by the socialite, her hiring him part an elaborate plan? For that matter, had Steven been part of it, too? He doubted the latter. Steven Wang was good, an oncologist, a dedicated volunteer for a charity…and he’d also called Jimmy for a date. It hadn’t been just a hook-up.
“Okay, let’s talk about Serena Carson. Gut instinct, McSwain? Think she did it?”
“No,” he said, though his voice didn’t hold the conviction he might have had a few minutes ago. Barone let it go, but no doubt he registered Jimmy’s own doubt. Before either detective could get another question in, Jimmy tried one of his own.
Guardian Angel Page 6
