Forever Haunt

by Adam Carpenter

  “That’s a lot of theories. Some might call it paranoid.”

  “I call it a case. It’s called Forever Haunt. My father, as you well know, was gunned down. Eliminated. Executed. That was fifteen years ago. It’s still happening, Lieutenant. How many lives were taken in the name of whatever this is…how many families ruined? And you sit idly by, letting it happen. While adorning your wife with expensive—and stolen—trinkets.”

  Sal Frisano’s nose flared and his fists curled. Jimmy braced himself. Was this going to turn violent? Was he suddenly in the den of the man responsible for all of this? Had he found the origins of the Blue Death? Sal approached him, leaving barely an inch of space between them. Jimmy saw the fire in his eyes.

  “You know too much,” Frisano said. “And you also don’t know shit.”

  Jimmy decided to take a chance, he’d come this far. Where was the younger Frisano? Had he not returned? Had his mother held him back? Whatever the case, he was on his own, and he realized this was going to get worse before it got better, if that was possible. Had he just had his last meal? If so, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “What I know is there exists a secret organization, goes by the name of Blue Death,” Jimmy said, hesitating on those last two words only because he wasn’t sure whether he should be playing one of his last cards. The words sounded haunted on his lips; they darkened the room. Or maybe the afternoon sun was waning, keeping its distance amidst all this talk of death, of murder. Jimmy felt a chill as he waited for Sal’s reaction. Suddenly the powerful lieutenant’s puffed chest deflated, his face growing newly pale. He backed away, finally sat down in the swivel chair at his desk. He still hadn’t said anything. As though the words didn’t exist.

  “That’s not anything to mess with, Jimmy McSwain. Nor to speak of.”

  “It’s too late. I know that whoever is behind it, he was responsible for my father’s murder.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I suspect it, and have since Rashad Assan went on his crime wave last summer. I’ve been investigating it since then, have found too much evidence that not only does this organization exist, but that it has done awful things. Why, I’m not sure. Greed? Power? The usual motives. But it’s also a betrayal of trust—the NYPD is supposed to be where the public can turn to for help, not be the center of corruption. My father, he must have learned about its creation. And while he lies in his grave, the Blue Death rose to power and influence within the ranks, perhaps all the way up the corridors of power at One Police Plaza. It’s going to stop. I’m going to crush it.”

  Sal stood back up. He’d regained his composure. Jimmy felt he’d said too much. Especially if this man was its leader. Had he put his own life on the line? The words of his mother came back to haunt him: at what cost?

  “I’m going to tell you something, Jimmy. You listen good.”

  “I can’t wait, sir.” The last word came out with an intentional air of sarcasm.

  “You may think I’m your enemy, but I’m not. Never have been. What I’ve done—and am doing—has been for your protection. For some reason, my son cares for you. And for some reason, you like him back. I can’t begin to understand it, it’s just not a choice I’m comfortable with. But that doesn’t mean a father doesn’t love his son. Or a son love his father. I’m sure you know all about that. Hell, boy, aren’t you the one who wakes up every day wanting justice for his father? Isn’t that what you say, what motivates you? Everything I’ve done over the past several years has been to protect my own family, my son. To ensure he didn’t get caught up in…this.”

  “This? You won’t even dignify it by saying its real name? Blue Death. Which means dead policemen, at the hands of…guns, triggers pulled by other policemen. Partners they should trust, superiors they fear. Ridding the force of men and women who won’t play along in a system-wide corruption scheme. I admit, whoever they are, they’re good. Because not one inkling of this group has ever been in the press, there’s not even speculation.”

  “And there never will be,” Sal said.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it. You, all of you, will be exposed.”

  Sal got up, paced the room, frustration growing inside him. Should Jimmy try and escape now, make a run from this confinement? Filled with commendations for a man who’d run a secret organization that gave insult to the oath he’d taken? And what did this truth mean for himself and Frank; how could he love a man whose father had killed his? It was chilling, awful, the culmination of all that was important to him, brought together now in a conflict he’d couldn’t have envisioned. Maggie had been right: the cost was too high.

  “Dammit, McSwain, I’m trying to tell you the Blue Death is done, it’s over.”

  His words didn’t land anywhere, his body like a pinball machine. “That makes no sense. Officer Luke, his death is only two weeks old. Decca…less.”

  “That was the end. The final pieces I needed.”

  “Needed? Pieces? What are you talking about?”

  “You think I’m Blue Death, Jimmy? I’m not.” He paused, catching his breath. “I defeated them. I ended it. It’s over.”

  “Over? How…but…I don’t understand. Your wife, she has Dahlia’s Luke’s bracelet. You had to have retrieved that from Decca’s shop. Because I know Dahlia’s brother sold it to him—a hot item from some investigation. Lost evidence from a dismissed case.”

  “I’ll give you credit, Jimmy. You learned a lot, too much. Forget about the bracelet. The case you refer to had a different ending. The perp was released, yes, but he went out and committed another crime, got caught. He’s in jail. Justice was served. The bracelet…consider it a bonus for a job well done. It comes with the blessing and courtesy of the Commissioner. The provenance of that piece can never go beyond this room, not even Bev knows its history.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Even Frankie doesn’t know what I’ve been up to.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Like I said, McSwain, this goes nowhere beyond these walls. If it comes out anywhere, I’ll know who was responsible.” He stopped, looked around the room, at the medals, the history of his career. A dedicated one. Then he said, “I ran a special task force, me and two other members of the NYPD. And one of those was our Commissioner Delaware. He just wanted reports, so most of the digging was left to me and one other.”

  “Barone,” Jimmy said. “Detective Roscoe Barone. Who coincidentally, works at Frank’s precinct.”

  “Interesting observation. What makes you connect Barone?”

  “Last winter, Barone helped out on the Serena Carson Guardian Angel case. Said he was working some special task force for the Commissioner. That was the first clue that he wasn’t just any ordinary detective within the NYPD. Then, earlier today, I saw the two of you in your dress blues, right here. In a squad car in front of the house. Shaking hands like fellow conspirators.”

  “You were spying on me?”

  “And this time you didn’t see me.”

  Sal walked back over to him, placing both hands on his shoulders. “If the Blue Death was ever exposed to the press, if the public learned of its existence, it would bring about the downfall of the entire NYPD. What you suspect, it’s true, and it’s far-reaching, into precincts throughout the city. Young officers, like Denson Luke, seduced into sabotaging cases, stealing evidence, reselling guns, drugs, jewels, for profit. Criminals were put back on the streets because of a lack of evidence. The damage could be so widespread it would be an epidemic, cases tied up in court for years. Too many victims to count. The cost to the city, frankly, it would bankrupt it. Destroy forever the trust between the blue line and the public. I need you to hear this and absorb it, Jimmy McSwain. What you discovered, you have to forget.”

  “Forget that a criminal syndicate within the NYPD brought about my father’s death?”

  “Jimmy. Trust me. Your father’s killer has long been dealt with. He’s not even alive.”

  The words shook Jimmy. Were his
years of searching finally coming to an end, and if so, was this a truth he could live with? He wanted to confront the shooter, ask him why. Where was the satisfaction? With all that had gone down the past year, the various clues teasing him, leading him here, edging closer to the truth about the Blue Death and what his father might have known about it, could he settle for a climax with no payoff?

  “Who was it?”

  “One of the two men involved that morning at the deli, yes, was Rashad Assan.”

  “Why would Assan want to kill my father? Or was he just hired to pull the trigger?”

  “Assan was a victim himself. Manipulated by the leader of the Blue Death. As a Pakistani, he was often the butt of jokes in the NYPD, part of the hazing process. He did everything he could to prove how American he was; he would do anything. So he was sent out on an assignment with another man. Name of Clark Harold, a young, fiery officer with lots of ambition. He had disdain for Assan; thought the immigrant was inferior to him. You recall, of course, that Assan was shipped off to prison—for a bar fight in which he killed a man. His name? Officer Harold. Clark…he was the other man involved in your father’s shooting. He was the distraction. Assan was the shooter.”

  “So why didn’t the Blue Death just get rid of Assan? Kill him?”

  “From what I’ve learned, Assan was made an example of during the early days of the Blue Death. The organization was still trying to assert itself by intimidating young recruits and bitter veterans into doing their bidding. Assan was a victim of their power. To kill him would have been easy. But the suffering he endured in prison, being beat up, ridiculed, solitary confinement for bad behavior. That was a fate worse than death.”

  “So when Assan was finally freed…”

  “Before he could be assimilated back into society, he went on a vengeful crime spree. Killing the men of his country, who thought they had come to America for a better life.” Sal paused. “Assan was sent to Alicia House, the rehabilitation center upstate, which is where I first came to meet him. I assured him our task force would do what we could to exonerate him. The damage had been done. Assan didn’t trust us, anyone really. His being killed was never supposed to be happen. We…my tiny task force, we were going to protect him. Except he went too far. Endangering the public, the taking of hostages was too much.”

  “So Frank shot him, dead.”

  “He was a loose cannon. Beyond fix.”

  “And his sister, Seetha? Everything she told me was true.”

  He nodded. “Seetha is fine. Living a new life. As is Dahlia Luke and her family.”

  Jimmy’s mind was reeling. Like the entire past year was playing on a loop in his mind. So many people, so much violence, so many buried secrets and horrible truths. If Sal was indeed speaking facts, then Jimmy was not in the hands of the enemy but amidst a friend, an ally. He felt a tear begin to well up in his eye. He had the name of his father’s killer. Rashad Assan. Except in reality he knew that wasn’t the full truth.

  “I’m not satisfied,” Jimmy said. “Who ordered the hit.”

  “The man in charge of the Blue Death. A name I’ll never reveal.”

  “But if I go to the press and tell them everything, it will eventually come out.”

  “I can’t stop you, Jimmy. You do that, the city you love will come to its knees. The outrage, the riots, the devastation from One Police Plaza to City Hall, it will all fall onto your shoulders. Something you may not survive, figuratively; and perhaps literally. So think before you act. Based on today, of what Frankie tells me, you seem to be a man of strong moral character. Can you truly say you could live with the decision to expose what you’ve uncovered? Just take some time and let your mind absorb the truth, Jimmy. It’s over. That haunting you have felt for fifteen years, you can finally put it to rest. Let your father rest. And maybe, someday, you can too, hopefully while you’re still breathing.” He paused. “Even if it’s with my son.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nightfall in Manhattan. To Jimmy McSwain, there was nothing more beautiful, more striking than seeing the patchwork of lights from the skyscrapers, those lit windows like an insight into the souls of the people who occupied them. Cars and cabs stopped and started on busy avenues and streets, honking their way to their destination. Headlights a contrast to the dark sky. The stars were often difficult to discern, hiding above a skyline that held its own glittering promise. Yet the moon was ever-present, and tonight beamed down on a city that beat with life. Even as its mean streets kept finding ways of stealing lives. Humanity was complex, heightened in this unrelenting pulse of a city rumored to never sleep.

  Sal Frisano was right. Jimmy did love this city.

  Could he really watch it crumble? A metaphorical 9/11, he its mastermind?

  It was ten p.m. on that Sunday. To say the rest of his time at the Frisano house was awkward was an understatement. The scratching of forks against plates of strawberry shortcake dominated, the conversation stilted. Jimmy kept getting questioning looks from Frisano, no doubt wondering what transpired between Jimmy and his father, but nothing was said. Beverly kept the conversation moving, asking about Jimmy’s life, his family. He remarked how she and Maggie would probably get along very well. Perhaps we can make that happen, she suggested. It was polite talk, but not as fulfilling as the sweet dessert. Jimmy left at five o’clock. Even now, as he walked up Ninth Avenue toward his office, he was recalling the talk with Frisano on the doorstep.

  “I’m gonna stay here tonight, Jim. My father wants to talk to me.”

  “You should listen to him.”

  “You two okay? Seemed intense.”

  “Maybe someday we’ll talk about it. If I can. If you can.”

  Then he remembered how Frisano had held his hand. How his kiss had felt before leaving. The feel of his thick stubble stoking a flame inside him. If one positive had come out of this day, their bond was stronger than ever, maybe as good as it ever had been. Could Jimmy find happiness? Maybe he could let a man into more than his bed. His heart had a vacancy.

  He’d left the Frisanos, started walking. Not even sure where he was going. Bensonhurst was a long hike from the city, and eventually Jimmy jumped on a nearby subway, but got off near Brooklyn Heights, thinking of visiting Ralphie. He’d peered into the window of Lou Limerick’s, but didn’t see his friend. He opted not to disturb the sick man at home, the suddenness of his calling might wake him, or worse, hurt his pride. So Jimmy kept moving forward, heading toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The night was beautiful, perhaps a bit chilly off the river, but the view of the strings of lights across the expanse proved too spectacular to ignore. He made the crossing, re-entering Manhattan twenty minutes later.

  That’s when he found himself amidst the courts and office buildings of Lower Manhattan.

  City Hall, Federal Plaza, Park Row, the latter with a view of One Police Plaza. It was a blocky, imposing structure, the headquarters of law enforcement in New York City. All precincts led here, a blue Via Appia. He thought of the times he’d been called here in recent months, a meeting with Sal Frisano, a forceful confrontation with Lawrence Dean. Thoughts of what might have happened had Joseph McSwain lived swirled in his mind. Would his father have remained a career officer, or would he have sought out a grade of detective? Perhaps fallen into the world of red-tape and blue law inside these walls? Not even history could guess at that answer.

  One Police Plaza. Something nagged at Jimmy about this place, and that’s when he realized he had forgotten to follow through with one topic during his talk with Sal. What was the real story behind Lawrence Dean’s sudden retirement? And what Barone had to do with it, if anything. Ideas filtered through his mind with few answers washing out. He considered which course of action to take. He reached for his iPhone, dialed and hoped for the best.

  “10th Precinct, how call I help you?”

  “Wren, that you? Working late, huh?”

  “I could say the same, Jimmy McSwain.”

  “Aw, you recognized my v
oice.”

  “I hear it in my dreams, sweetie,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Any chance Detective Barone is around?”

  “On a Sunday evening? Be real.”

  “You’re there.”

  “Yeah. Cause I’m trying to make something of myself. He’s old school. Hey, Jimmy, guess what? I’m going for my detective badge, studying, got to take a test, the whole shebang.”

  “That’s great, Wren. Maybe we’ll get to work a case.”

  “Don’t go messing with my cases, McSwain. I’d hate to have to put you in cuffs.”

  “You sure? You sound like a pro already, good luck. Okay, gotta run. Till me meet again.”

  “My dreams are only a few hours away.”

  He laughed and hung up, considered his next option. He had Barone’s number, but he only liked to use it in an emergency. He wasn’t sure he’d reached that level, not yet. Still, he sought answers, so he went in search of Barone and figured he’d know where to find him. As he’d talked, he walked, and now he reached Broadway and Canal, where he hopped an arriving N train, which took him to 23rd Street. It was a hike across town, but no subway from downtown would have gotten him closer to 9th Avenue without a transfer or two. He made it to the Westside Tavern by eight o’clock, the city newly embracing the night. He found the man he sought, in his usual spot. When Detective Roscoe Barone saw him, his mustache fell upon his lip.

  “Ah, shit, McSwain. Can’t a man have a beer in peace once in a while?”

  “Gee, what fun is that?” Jimmy signaled for a beer of his own, told the bartender it was on Barone. Like always. Then he sat with his fresh pint, took a sip, gave the detective a once-over. While not as sharp as he looked this morning, Barone remained in his dress blues. His white cap situated on the table between their drinks. “Still in your fancy duds, I see.”