Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  “Nice to know NYPD’s finest detectives can take a moment to relax.”

  “What do you want?” Barone asked.

  “Let’s talk Serena Carson.”

  “We told you, McSwain. Lay off this case,” Barone said, taking a sip of his beer and wiping away some foam on his handlebar mustache.

  “Besides, it’s closed. We’ve moved on.”

  “Really, Larry, arresting Serena Carson for those murders? Sloppy police work.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Barone signaled his partner to ease up. No need for harsh words or for visible antagonism.

  “Let the courts decide,” Barone said. “It’s in their hands.”

  “She didn’t do either of them.”

  “The evidence says otherwise. Come on, McSwain, even you’re not that dumb. The broad killed her ex, had her new boy toy help cover up, and when he got cold feet and threatened to go to the cops, she iced him too. Good thing you’re a homo. Keep your dick far away from that one, or else you’ll be the next victim. You saw them. They might be pretty boys when she screws them. They ain’t that way when she’s done with them.”

  “Pretty crude imagery there,” Jimmy said.

  “She paints it in living color.”

  Jimmy sipped his beer. “Speaking of Serena, I need a favor.”

  “No way she gets any special favors,” Larry said.

  “Shut up, Larry,” Barone replied. “Favors usually produce leads. Let’s hear him out.”

  “Help Is Here, it’s a charity Serena sits on the board of. They have a holiday party for kids. She wants to attend.”

  “She’s under house arrest,” Larry said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “You think she’s going to slaughter some kids? Be real. I just saw her. She’s got gifts for those kids. She needs this, guys. Let her attend. Send a cop to be by her side. I’ll be there and will keep an eye on her. She’s not running away. No matter what’s going on personally, I know this is important to her. Helping out troubled kids is probably her mission in life, because no one helped her.”

  “Money did,” Larry said.

  “Larry, I said shut up,” Barone said. “When is this holiday party?”

  “Thursday, early evening. She’d be back home by ten.”

  “I’ll talk to the prosecutor. I’ll make it work.”

  Jimmy raised his glass, but didn’t receive a cheer in return. Still, he said, “You’re not so bad, Barone.”

  “It’s the holidays. Call me a sucker.”

  “I’ve called you worse.”

  That’s when Barone clinked his pint glass with Jimmy’s. “Back at ya.”

  Jimmy thanked the two detectives and was getting off his barstool when Dean stopped him with an unexpected twist.

  “What the hell do you think you’re up to, talking to my mother?”

  Jimmy righted himself. “I only saw her a few hours ago. Word travels fast.”

  “My mother is off limits, Jimmy. She knows nothing about anything. Mess with her, that means you mess with me.”

  “Not to mention your brother.”

  “Forget Mickey.”

  “I can’t. You talk killers, you got one right there in your family. He killed my cousin.”

  “That was a murder-suicide, case closed. Midtown North should have told you.”

  “They did, except Frisano is the one who delivered the news. Not exactly his jurisdiction, which tells me something else is going on,” Jimmy said. “Just like Serena Carson is getting a bum deal, so too is my cousin, even as he rests in his grave. I don’t like unfinished business. I don’t like cops who don’t seek out the real truth. You guys can sit here and have your beer and laugh off the day’s events. Not me. Too many lives are in flux, and too much is going down. Christmas might be around the corner, but that doesn’t mean everyone is getting presents under the tree. Some people are looking at the world like it betrayed them. Some are just looking up, empty-eyed. I put a family member into the ground the other day. I swear on your life and your brother’s, Larry, the next person to meet their maker is going to deserve it.”

  Jimmy didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t even finish his beer. He hit the outside, encased suddenly in the darkness of a falling night. He welcomed it and walked along 23rd Street, while he tried to simmer the heat that had boiled up inside him. He hated that he’d let his emotions show, hated too that he’d threatened a cop in front of another cop. He might have scored a success for Serena, but he’d done himself no favors. Obviously Maureen Dean had called one of her family members about Jimmy’s visit, whether husband or one of her sons. Word had spread fast. Jimmy had poked a wounded animal, but he wasn’t sure which one it was: Maureen, her high-powered Lawrence, their detective son, or the other son who lived his life on the wrong side of the law. Didn’t matter. Jimmy knew he had pissed off the Dean family.

  Hadn’t that been his intent?

  He considered his next move. Both cases seemed to be putting equal demands on his time. One minute he was following a lead on Mickey Dean and the next responding to Serena Carson’s call. Neither was giving up any answers just yet. Mysteries piled upon mystery, and what Jimmy really needed to do was compartmentalize, to decide not just which was his priority but which case he had the best lead on. The Henderson Carlyle/Robbie Danvers case would give him a hefty payday, yet it was Mickey Dean who fired him up the most. He wanted to take him down. Family ruled.

  As he continued along 23rd Street, unsure of his destination, he took out his phone, placed a call to Serena, in which he informed her she would be attending the Help Is Here holiday party. Jimmy would be her escort. As she thanked him for giving her a reason to get up in the morning, Jimmy took the phrase and wrapped it around the issues of his own life. He thought about Steven Wang and how he’d left him well before morning. He’d heard nothing from the handsome doctor, not since he’d abruptly left. Jimmy realized it was possible Steven would be at the holiday party too. No case was ever solved, not even his personal ones.

  Phone in his hand, he impulsively shot off a text.

  CAME TO 10. WANTED TO THANK YOU RE: KELLAN.

  The reply came through almost immediately. U R WELCOME.

  A second later, the phone was ringing, the same number as the text coming through.

  “Hi,” Jimmy said.

  “Still at the 1-0?”

  “Near. Saw Barone and Dean.”

  “The Westside? I’m home.”

  Nearby, Jimmy knew. He’d been there. He felt his body respond. His mouth went dry, and his loins stirred.

  “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Jimmy, we can just talk. I think we need to.”

  He agreed with that. He also agreed to come over. His legs were already ahead of his brain, walking down 8th Avenue to 19th Street, where Francis X. Frisano had taken a studio sublet. Jimmy approached the building, pressed the buzzer, and gained admittance without having to announce himself. Frisano knew it was him, expected him, and wanted him, he supposed. Jimmy tried to fight all the urges swirling within him. It was business, a professional call. Nothing existed between them anymore. Two months had passed since they had shared anything intimate. Nothing could happen. His body spoke otherwise, even as he knew his heart couldn’t handle the complication. It was beating hard as he made his way to third-floor apartment. He thought it skipped a beat when the door opened.

  Frisano was standing there in a pair of blue jeans and a V-neck shirt. He was sexy as hell, of course, the dark shadow of his beard highlighted by whiskers, evidence of his day off. A tuft of his thick chest hair poked out his shirt, almost as if it was drawing Jimmy within the premises. He knew it was the entire package that captured him:, the sexy allure, the hot body, the remembrance of their heated lovemaking. Once upon a time Jimmy had appeared at this door and was pulled into Frisano’s arms, his lips. Their bodies suddenly, hotly entwined.

  That didn’t happen today.

  “Hi, Jim.”

&nbs
p; “Frank, hi.”

  “Come in.”

  He did so, entering an apartment he’d once felt comfortable in. They had shared dinner, a bottle of wine, given in to an explosion of lust. Jimmy had never stayed overnight, but what they had shared had taken them too close to the moment when night gave up the fight to the light of morning. Jimmy remembered hailing a cab while the sun rose, conflicted by his inability to remain sleeping beside the sexy cop all night. Why did regret always seem to ride shotgun whenever he left the home of someone he’d fucked?

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know why I’m here. I said what I wanted in the text.”

  Frisano nodded. “Except here you are.”

  “Mostly I wanted to thank you on behalf of my uncle. You handled the news about Kellan with such sensitivity, almost like a family member delivering the bad news. You came to the bar yourself, and it wasn’t even your jurisdiction…well, you won points with the entire Byrne family.”

  “I heard it over the dispatch radio. I asked to deliver the news.”

  “It was appreciated.”

  Their talk, so formal and stiff, was taking place in the space between the entrance way and the living room, leaving Jimmy and Frisano in a state of flux, not quite staying, not yet leaving. Jimmy shifted from one foot to another, unsure why he was there. Yet there he was anyway, mere inches from the man who had consumed his world the last summer. He was so close, Jimmy knew he could reach out and kiss him, entice him. It would only take a second, one without thought, only action.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here,” Jimmy said, turning back toward the door.

  Frisano stopped him and grabbed his hand. A spark lit the room, and eyes shot toward each other.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Frisano said.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “What did you really want?”

  “I don’t know. Too much going on.”

  “Another guy?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.”

  “A case?”

  “Two of them, overwhelming me.”

  “Tell me how I can help.”

  Jimmy didn’t know how to answer. Was that offer of help one of physical release, or was it out of professional courtesy, his way to assist Jimmy with a case, like last fall when they discovered the warehouse in Queens? His mind swirled with possibilities, knowing whatever he said next would impact the way the night played out, how his present cases would progress.

  “I need your help,” Jimmy suddenly said.

  “With?”

  “I need an appointment with your father.”

  Even Jimmy was surprised by what he said, but once he’d said he knew it had been waiting inside of him. He’d only met Lieutenant Salvatore Frisano once, last fall during the Seetha Assan case, which in his mind was an extension of his father’s murder case. Why was he going down this path now? Did he need the added twist on top of the Carlyle case and Mickey Dean, or did his inner self know there was a connection somewhere? He thought of the Blue Death symbol, knew he needed to take advantage of this moment.

  “About what?”

  “You told me, back in October, there was something fishy about Seetha Assan. She led us down a path, Frank, where we discovered the Blue Death symbol. I saw it again, the other night.”

  “Where?”

  “Another warehouse, a chop shop,” he said “Mickey Dean was there, late night, after hours. He’s the man I believe killed Kellan.”

  “Dean, the same guy who was threatening you that night at Paddy’s?”

  “The one and the same, son of Lieutenant Lawrence Dean.”

  Frisano whistled. “My father’s counterpart at the NYPD.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Get me in to see your father. You can even be there, if necessary.”

  Silence hovered between them. Jimmy watched as Frisano considered the idea. Finally, he said, “I’ll talk to him. I’ll make it work.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jimmy went to leave only to find himself held back. Frisano had grabbed his wrist.

  An explosion waited to detonate between them. They stared, and they lingered. They failed to speak. Suddenly Frisano pulled him and planted a deep, hungry kiss on Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t resist, and in fact felt his body falling into the man’s arms. They embraced, and they kissed passionately, the scrape of Frisano’s dark scruff sending ripples of desire through him, and Jimmy felt his body responding. He was losing himself here, now, about to give in to the moment. It would have been the most wonderful thing in the world to allow himself to be loved by the man who claimed his heart, but then he pulled away.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I…can’t do this again…”

  He opened the front door, and he escaped into the stale air of the hallway, finally back into the welcoming cold air and dark shroud of the Manhattan night. It was what he needed to cool off his heated body and to hide it, because what might have happened upstairs was what he didn’t need to happen. Not now, perhaps not ever.

  Jimmy was good at solving cases. He eventually found the answer, the killer.

  He couldn’t say the same about the mystery of his own heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Oh, Jimmy, I’m so pleased to hear that. I know this party is the highlight of Serena’s year, so it’s wonderful she’ll be there, and you will be most welcome, too. I’m sure you’ll learn a needed thing or two about our, uh, mutual interests. I will ensure you are introduced to the other board members, and best of all, you’ll also get to meet my esteemed husband, Phillipe, as well, who is in town for the holiday party. Oh, how very wonderful.”

  Those were the surprisingly upbeat words of Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud, when Jimmy phoned her at the end of a long day to inform her he would be attending Help Is Here’s holiday benefit on Thursday, alongside Serena Carson. Melissa acted like he was Santa Claus himself, her voice filled with exuberance, as though the real reason for their association was for less-than-sinister reasons. He’d gone to sleep later with the thought that rich people dreamed in different colors than regular folk as though the ramifications of their actions really didn’t affect their daily lives.

  So it was on an early Wednesday morning that Jimmy awoke with an ache all the way down to his inner core. It wasn’t his shoulder, which hadn’t bothered him lately. He had, for the first time since Kellan’s death, slept in the comfort of his own bed in his home. He had needed the familiar. He staggered into the kitchen, trying to wash away the events of the day before and embrace the new day. Seeing his mother brought a sense of calm to his soul.

  “Morning, Ma.”

  Maggie was pouring a cup of coffee for herself and got one for her son. She handed it to Jimmy.

  “You got in later than me,” he said.

  “I kept Paddy company ’til close,” she said.

  “Makes for a long night, Ma. You’ve got two shows today.”

  “I’m made of strong stuff, Jimmy. No reason to worry.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “I need a sub for Thursday night. Darien is out. Want to pick up a shift?”

  “Can’t. Got a party to attend.”

  “A party?”

  “It’s work, a case.”

  She sighed, took a drink from her own cup of coffee. “One of these days, you’ll tell me it’s a date, and that you’re happy.”

  “Ma, I’m happy. I’m here.”

  “Hmmph,” was her response.

  “Ma, let me ask you something.”

  “You’ve had a question on that tongue of yours for days. Speak your mind, Jimmy.”

  “Cassie Dean, why didn’t I know it was Dad who discovered her body on the sidewalk?”

  Maggie grew uncharacteristically quiet, taking the moment to refill her cup. He could smell the hickory like the woods up by Peach Lake, but it was the city. Life was tougher, answers harder to come by. She drained the pot, no more coffee. There was n
o more evading the question either. She shifted in her seat while staring across the table like she was looking at her husband.

  “A man who dedicates his life to helping others…when he can’t, it has an impact.”

  “Did the Deans blame him?”

  “For what? Poor girl had already leaped from the window. Troubled girl, she was.”

  “How so?”

  “Jimmy, this is ancient history. What could it possibly matter now?”

  “Because Mickey Dean is back in town, and Kellan is dead.”

  “Surely you don’t think the two are related, an eye for an eye? My Joey was not to blame.”

  Her use of the phrase “My Joey” reminded Jimmy of the style in which Maureen Dean referred to the men in her life, her husband and two sons. Was it a cultural thing, or just a way to keep tight hold of a strained relationship? Did Maggie ever refer to Jimmy as “My Jimmy”? He’d never heard such a phrase, yet here was a possessive word being used to describe her long-deceased husband.

  “Ma, never mind. You know how I get.”

  “Conspiracies around every corner. Sometimes people die. It’s their turn, God’s will.”

  He went to her. He held her in his arms from behind. “You don’t believe that.”

  “It’s what gets me through the day. Listen to the Lord. You might sleep better.”

  Maggie patted him on the cheek. “I slept fine for once.”

  “Faith is like air: it’s there. I know.”

  “You need a shave,” she said.

  “Uh, I haven’t showered.”

  “Like that would get you to clean up nice.”

  Jimmy grinned, not sure why he continued to be amazed by his mother’s insight. She knew him. Maybe all mothers knew their sons, what made them tick and what made them happy, what circumstances broke their hearts. Jimmy finished his coffee and felt energized by the shot of caffeine and realized he was ready for a full day of investigating. It was his job after all, and he feared too many questions remained to be answered. He wanted progress that day.

  He returned to his bedroom, stripped down out of his shorts and T-shirt, then hit the shower. The warm spray felt like its own wake-up call, refocusing his attention on the matters that mattered. He thought about his two concurrent cases. On the Carlyle case, he would meet more of the board members the next night at the holiday party, and in his mind he was forming questions for whoever might have held a grudge against Henderson Carlyle other than Serena. The special event would also reunite him with Steven Wang, and that idea swam inside him while the shower continued to cleanse him like it was one issue he couldn’t soap away.