Forever Haunt

by Adam Carpenter

  Without much coaxing, Jimmy convinced Ranuel to not act until they had time to figure out an effective strategy. With Jimmy taking possession of the flash drive, it hopefully ensured the hunted man wouldn’t act impulsively. Ranuel had done one daring thing in his life—perhaps one stupid thing—leading now to the predicament he was in, so Jimmy wasn’t about to allow him to repeat his foolishness. Stay put was how he put it, his tone indicating negotiation wasn’t an option. The man had little choice. If he went to confront Mr. Wu-Tin on his own his life was over. Maybe that of his innocent son, too, and maybe that of his wife. Jimmy was determined not to see an entire family wiped out.

  Before he left, he asked one last question: “Where is Carmen?”

  “In hiding. Once I learned they had taken Sonny, I knew I had no choice but to come back and protect the woman who changed my life, who gave me my treasured son. It’s all about saving Sonny now. We want to finally be a family.”

  “If I have anything to say about it, you will be.”

  They were words filled with bravado, and with belief. Still, Jimmy wasn’t convinced what the right approach was, or whether he was still getting the full story. But he’d already put himself out there, and in the process antagonized the menacing Kenji. He’d been warned away after his meal that night, not to mention being accosted in Chelsea by their hired thugs. All of which meant Jimmy would only insinuate himself closer. Dangerously closer. Men like Mr. Wu-Tin had a shelf life. Evil came with an expiration date. Jimmy had to believe that.

  He finally ventured out into the sunshine of this late February day, two cases continuing to pull at his priorities. Which to concentrate on, he thought, standing on the corner of 48th Street and 10th Avenue. Should he venture down to Chinatown to do further snooping, or should he follow up on some aspects of the case of Officer Denson Luke? He felt he owed Dahlia Luke an update, but truth was, he had nothing to tell her right now. All he had were his suspicions about the similar death of a pawn broker who may or may not have been part of whatever was going on. Indecision fueling him, he felt frustrated at his next step, but then the universe came calling.

  Actually, it was just his cell phone.

  He picked up on the second ring. “McSwain.”

  “I’m out, paroled.”

  “Ralphie? You should have called me when they were ready to release you.”

  “Happened suddenly. Because I insisted on it.”

  He bet. “You okay?”

  “I am now. Damned doctors, they don’t know anything.”

  Jimmy wasn’t sure that was entirely true. “Did they actually sign release papers?”

  There was silence on the other end before he heard, “Well, I can be pretty persuasive.”

  “I’m on my way. I’ll be the judge of that. If I don’t like what I see…”

  “Jimmy, I’m fine. A man like me, he either thrives or he dies. Come tell me the latest.”

  “You’re home?”

  “Of course not.”

  The entire subway ride to Brooklyn, Jimmy thought non-stop about his friend, his father’s partner, and the dangerous game of roulette Ralphie was playing with his own life. Sure, he was in his seventies, he’d lived a full life, if not one that had gone the usual route. He’d never married, never had kids, had lived his life on his terms, first in uniform, then in plain clothes, badge forward his motto. Was he giving up, or was he just continuing to play out his ending as he saw fit? Jimmy knew there was little sense in trying to convince the man to take care of himself if he wanted to stick around this planet, so why waste breath?

  Thirty minutes later, Jimmy walked into dark, familiar surroundings. Ralphie was already seated in his now-usual booth at Lou Limerick’s, the new watering hole he found after the closure of Eammon’s. A half-empty beer was in front of him. It was just after noon.

  “Doctors give you a prescription for that?”

  “Hasn’t killed me yet.”

  “Something nearly did.”

  “Nearly doesn’t win you ball games, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy slid into the booth. Signaling to the bartender for a beer of his own, Jimmy stared across at the old man. By the time his beverage arrived, he’d assessed that Ralphie looked older than even a week ago, and none the wiser from his recent health scare. With the idea of the bottle calling the kettle black, Jimmy took a sip of his beer.

  “You still like boys?” Ralphie started out with.

  It was a familiar routine. “I still like Frisano, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “How’s that going over with the Lew?”

  “Frank’s father is fine with it, so long as it stays private. That’s progress.”

  “You in love?”

  Jimmy paused, drank. “You getting soft in your old age? You never asked that before.”

  “Maybe one day I won’t be around. Want to make sure you’re happy.”

  “Something you want to tell me?”

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy. Everyone has a ticking clock. Mine’s just getting tired of ticking.”

  “That why you checked yourself out?”

  “I can live my life, or I can lay in a hospital bed all day. I know what I would choose.”

  “I think you already did.”

  Ralphie raised his glass, a cheer to himself. He drained the glass and awaited a fresh draft, which came without him having to order it. The bartender told him it was on the house on account of it being nice to have him back. It left Jimmy wondering what hour Ralphie had gotten here, and how many he’d consumed. Trying to exacerbate his own end game?

  “Engage my mind, Jimmy. Tell me what’s going on. Beyond your love life.”

  “You sure you wouldn’t prefer to go for a walk. Get some fresh air.”

  “You can walk me home when we’re done. Talk to me, Jimmy. I see conflict in your eyes.”

  “A familiar expression,” Jimmy said, taking a small sip of his beer. It tasted sour, perhaps the keg needed changing. Perhaps his tongue was off. He thought about saying something but decided maybe there was too much discord affecting his mood, and his senses. “You ever hear of a pawn broker named Bobby Decca?’

  “The guy who was killed the other day?”

  “You haven’t lost a step, Ralphie. Tell me what you know about him.”

  “Oh, he was infamous. Been around forever.” He paused. “Forever doesn’t last, I guess.”

  “Single gunshot wound to the forehead.”

  “It’s like a trend,” Ralphie said.

  “Yeah. A pattern. It’s like…”

  “Like what?” Ralphie said. He wasn’t going to spoon feed him. He made him think.

  “Someone’s eliminating people. Problems. Mickey. Officer Luke. Decca.”

  Ralphie nodded slowly. “A career criminal, a naïve cop, a notorious pawn broker. Three men who should have nothing in common.”

  “That what my thinking, too. Except for the method in which they were killed, what ties them together? All murdered in recent months.”

  “You must have a theory. Stream of consciousness. What’s your gut telling you?”

  Jimmy laughed. “Got any more clichés?”

  “There’s truth in them. Stereotypes exist, like them or not.”

  “You’re getting philosophical in your old age.”

  “Am I not your sage, Jimmy McSwain? You need to start thinking for yourself. I won’t be around forever.”

  “Stop talking like that,” Jimmy said. “But fine, you want to play the role of the fatalist, do it. I’ve still got a lot to accomplish on this planet, and I’m going to dot every I and cross every T before I see that proverbial white light. Sure, I think those three murders are related, and that they have a connection with my father’s case. All of it related to the Blue Death. I’m just not seeing the path yet. But like I said, people are being eliminated. It’s like…I don’t know, like someone is trying to tie up loose ends. I can’t help but think of Rashad Assan, and I still wish I’d been able to interrogate him…�
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  “Except Frisano shot him dead. Nearly cost you your dream man.”

  “And then Assan’s sister appears, only to disappear into witness protection.”

  “According to whom?”

  Jimmy frowned. “Lieutenant Salvatore Frisano.”

  “Who is now on a task force assigned to solving Officer Luke’s murder.”

  “Not just that, but I was staking out Decca’s pawn shop a couple nights after the killing, and there was the elder Frisano checking out the crime scene. I tried to hide in the shadows. I don’t think he saw me. Although if he did, maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I spooked him.”

  “As if sleeping with his son hasn’t already done that,” Ralphie said, a smile crossing his tired features. “All kidding aside, Jimmy, it does seem Frisano Senior is turning up everywhere in your life. And in your investigations. The sixty-four-thousand dollar question is, what are you going to do about it? He already tried to shut you down after the Assan case, then warned you to stay away from anything involving the NYPD. Doesn’t seem like you’ve listened.”

  “You think I’m that easily intimidated?”

  “No, it’s why we get along. But Jimmy, listen up here,” Ralphie said, leaning in closer as he scoped the room. Once a cop, always a cop. You never knew who was listening. “It’s not what you suspect, or what connections you think you might have. You are treading in dangerous waters. Three people have been killed in the last few months. Both good guys and bad guys. I’d hate to see you become a statistic.”

  “That’s not in the plans.”

  “You think your father planned on dying young?”

  It was a quick cut and it slammed Jimmy to the back of the booth. He felt his breath escape him like an exorcism. It left his heart hurting, his soul aching. He looked down at the beer, either half full or half empty and what he did was push it away. Thoughts ripped through him, a tear shed from his eye. He finally looked up. Ralphie stared back at him, and he too had a tear in his eye. Jimmy wasn’t sure what to say. Their conversation had taken a sudden, dark shift. Morbidity was winning out here.

  “I don’t have long, Jimmy,” Ralphie finally said. “When you came to see me in the hospital last week, there was something on your mind. You said it could wait. I’m here to tell you it can’t. Whatever you wanted to ask me, now is the time.”

  “Did the doctors give a timeline?”

  “Forget that,” Ralphie said. He suddenly was sitting up straight, a mirror of his tone. “Ask.”

  Jimmy tried to formulate the right words. They were hard to say, harder even to admit to. The scene unfolded from recent memories, of his final argument, fight, with Mickey Dean, on the docks back before the holidays. The awful accusation he’d thrown at Jimmy about his father. The rumor that had snaked its way through the NYPD and the neighborhood. That Joseph McSwain had abused a young girl, Cassie Dean. So innocent, and dead even longer than the man accused of drawing her to her death. Maggie had shot the topic down, but Ralphie seemed primed, as though he’d been awaiting its reveal. Still, Jimmy found he couldn’t go down that path. No matter where it took him, he was fearful of its destination.

  Finally, Ralphie spoke. “It’s not true.”

  Jimmy gazed at him, his eyes wide and focused. “You talking about what I think you are?”

  “Cassie Dean,” he said.

  “What do you know, Ralphie?”

  “Everything. Which is too much.”

  “As you said, time is running out. No more hiding the truth.”

  Ralphie nodded solemnly, like he’d known this day would come sooner or later. Turned out to be later, but eventually it had found its time slot. “Oh, but she was a sad girl, always had been. Growing up in that household, two older brothers, a mother who had no backbone, a father who was angry at the world and ambitious. Keep in mind, Lawrence Dean worked Midtown North alongside your father and I. He made detective first. He wasn’t on the beat very long, that wasn’t his ultimate goal. One Police Plaza was, as high as possible. And he got there, despite the irony of having two sons who were essentially Cain and Abel—the one who would follow in his footsteps, and the one who would contradict what Lawrence was supposed to represent.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “Everyone on the force knew Lieutenant Dean was as corrupt as they come,” Ralphie said. “But we’re not talking about his track record in the NYPD, we’re talking about the blind eye he turned when it came to protecting his family. Remember, it was a different time then, a less evolved world when it came to, shall we say, lodging accusations against powerful men.”

  Ralphie paused for longer than was usual, his body seemingly frozen. Jimmy wondered if it was a side effect of the stroke. Worry struck him. He shouldn’t be pushing him. But nor could he lose him, not when he felt so close to finally finding peace for his father. Facing another loss wasn’t in the cards.

  At last, Ralphie resumed. “It was a summer afternoon when your father and I first got wind of what was happening inside that home. We were, as usual, walking our beat in Hell’s Kitchen, when out of an apartment building on 47th Street came a young woman, running, clearly distraught. Screaming is the only way I can describe it. She smashed right into Joseph, hugged him while she sobbed. I stole a look back at the entrance, where I saw a man standing in the door frame. He was in shorts, nothing else. He was smoking a cigarette and wore an expression of pure hatred.”

  “Her father?” Jimmy asked. His body wracked with coldness.

  He shook his head. “Mickey,” Ralphie said.

  “Fuck.”

  Sometimes a single word summed up a myriad of emotions. Four letters said it all.

  “Your father, he tried to do everything he could to protect her. Confronted Lawrence at the precinct. In front of witnesses. Joseph was pulled aside by another detective, worked with Dean. Tolliver was his name. I wasn’t in that meeting but as partners, we shared everything. He told me he was informed to leave the case alone. It was a family matter, private. Then two months later, it was November—her birthday, which is why I remember—Cassie Dean jumped off the building.”

  “So why did Mickey accuse my father of abusing Cassie, especially since he was the guilty party?”

  Ralphie hesitated. “Maybe we should take that walk after all. The air might do me good.”

  If it was a delaying tactic, it worked. Jimmy wanted out of this confining space anyway. He rose from the booth, helped Ralphie up, and after settling the bill, they were back out on the street. Brooklyn Heights was quiet on this Wednesday afternoon, with just a few strollers being pushed by either mothers or nannies.

  Jimmy smiled at one particular baby, his mind conjuring the little one that would soon be joining the warming embrace of the McSwain family. He still didn’t know if it was a boy or girl. Meaghan claimed not to know either. No matter, a new addition was coming. Jimmy imagined himself as the dutiful uncle, taking his niece or nephew out for a stroll. It meant responsibility.

  For now, though, his responsibility was to Ralphie, older and wiser, his need of help obvious while he cautiously traversed the uneven sidewalks. The two made their way down several tree-lined streets to the promenade, which gave off a picturesque view of lower Manhattan in the near-distance. The row of bridges that stretched north were like links not just to the two boroughs but to the past and the present. Cold air whipped past them. It felt both invigorating and chilling.

  “So, Ralphie,” Jimmy said, a hint of skepticism in his tone. “You obviously needed privacy. You got it. What part of this puzzle am I missing?”

  Another long pause was followed by a deep exhalation of breath. “It was me.”

  Jimmy hung his head, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to hear this. But he knew he had to.

  § § § §

  “She was aptly named. Cassiopeia. Consumed by her beauty, which was evident even at such a young age, vain to the point of boastful, but in truth she was a wounded child. She flaunted her looks, but also allowed people
to see the darkness in her eyes. It’s not a mistake that her mother later took up being a psychic. Always looking to the stars, always looking for her lost girl amongst the constellations.”

  “Pretty poetic for an old-school cop,” Jimmy said.

  Ralphie had no comment. Jimmy’s mind flashed a picture of Maureen Dean, aka Madame Mo, inside her small street-level shop in Hell’s Kitchen, offering up advice. Hope as she interpreted it. He wondered if, with each client who wandered in, was she was truly looking to guide them or just heal herself after her loss. Was it double-fold now, trying to find solace after the death of yet another child? Cassie, Mickey, one a suicide, the other a victim of the deadly lifestyle he pursued. Was there a correlation between the two other than a mother’s pain? Jimmy felt a wash of sorrow for the woman. She had lived a hard life, a cruel one.

  Suddenly he looked up, saw the strained look on Ralphie’s face. Just what was the connection here? What had he meant when he said, “it was me”?

  “Poetic, I suppose, but there’s lots of tragedy in the stanzas of poetry. It was an open secret among the police that Cassie Dean was promiscuous, even at her young age,” Ralphie continued. “Your father and I, we used to see her strutting about the neighborhood, talking to boys or…worse. She was young, too young, for such behavior. But given that her father was our superior, well, our concerns were pushed aside. Ignored, I suppose is the more accurate word. That’s where it all went wrong. Cassie was clearly rebelling against her father for not doing anything about the abuse she was suffering inside her own home. A place she was supposed to be safe, protected. So she sought out her own brand of happiness from…” and here Ralphie paused, “from others.”

  Jimmy felt a chill rip through him, his eyes darting toward Ralphie with sudden concern. Or maybe it was fear. For whatever the next words out of his mouth might be.

  “No, Jim, nothing happened…but it wasn’t for lack of trying on her part.”

  “Ralphie, you were…”

  “I was still a beat cop, but unlike your father, I wanted more. I wanted to be a detective.”

  “What does that have to do with…Cassie Dean?”