Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  They met during his last major case, and a spark had existed between them.

  But Frisano was a cop, and an ambitious one at that. He’d had his hands full getting acclimated as the new captain at the 10th, while Jimmy had been filling his days with cases of cuckolded spouses and one case of identity theft. He’d done so little to fill his nights, his heart as empty as his bed. He had a reason to reach out to Frisano now, the murder of the deli owner down in Chelsea. But of course he could do nothing about that, not at this hour. He could do nothing to help Rocky either, who was locked behind bars and first in need of a lawyer. Meaghan clearly didn’t need interference at the moment from her older brother.

  So here he sat, alone in an office that looked nothing like a home, and he wondered, as he contemplated his encroaching thirtieth birthday—less than three months away—just where life was taking him. In the end, he had no answers, as always, and he ended up falling asleep without even having opened up the sofa or turned on the air conditioner. He awoke in the wee hours of dawn, as an oil truck noisily chugging on the street stirred him, his body drenched in sweat. Sure, the heat swirling around the apartment added to it, but his dreams were what truly got his heart racing.

  Even with his eyes wide open, he could still see a body lying on the floor, covered in blood. It wasn’t the victim from last night.

  It was Rocky.

  He hoped it was just a case of transference, not a preview of the future.

  § § §

  Saturday morning found him before he found it.

  When he did stir after finally falling back asleep, it was only because of the vibrating cell phone at his side. Jimmy rarely had the phone on any other setting, since he never knew when his business would require a bit of silence, or discretion. Nothing ruined a stealth stakeout like a blaring cell phone. His eyes blinked, and he washed away the salty sting of sweat, all while he pressed “answer.”

  “This is Jimmy,” he said without even looking at the caller I.D.

  “Finally, I called you three times.”

  “Ma?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The office.”

  “Come home,” she said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Rosie Martino is here. Rocky’s been arrested.”

  Yeah, he knew. “Yeah, Ma, I know.”

  “You know…Jimmy. What, you’ve picked up the newspaper already?”

  “Newspaper?”

  “Front page of both the News and the Post.”

  Shit. “I’ll be over in ten minutes,” he said.

  He realized he must have been on speakerphone because the reply came not from Maggie McSwain, but her long-time friend, Rosa Maria Martino. “Make it five,” was what he heard, her familiar phlegm-filled voice echoing in his compact office. Jimmy threw himself into the shower for a New York minute, and then tossed on the same pair of jeans he’d worn the day before, finding a fresh T-shirt in the drawer. He was out in the door in eight minutes, not exactly Rosa Martino-time but good enough. The sun was climbing into the sky and already the warmth was stifling. Today was going to be another scorcher. Jimmy felt like his wet hair had just dried instantly.

  By the time he arrived at his mother’s apartment, his T-shirt was soaked, not just from the walk, but the climb up the five flights of stairs to the uppermost floor of the West Side walkup. If the fit Jimmy sought his breath it wasn’t from the exercise, but from the lack of fresh air; the hallway was not air conditioned. His footsteps must have given him away because as he rounded the final set of stairs, the door to his home swung open and there stood Rosa, her black hair set in its usual helmet, her eyes darting down to the watch on her thick wrist.

  “It’s been fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “Yeah, I had to wake up first,” he said.

  Jimmy entered the apartment and felt the blast of cold air from the air conditioner. Even with Rosa here, he thought he might never leave. As he closed the door behind him, his mother came out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming cup of coffee, a wide smile on her face at the sight of her son. The contrast in her greeting to Rosa’s was not unlike that of the blast of air conditioning and the hot coffee. He accepted the cup, as well as a peck on the cheek from his sixty-two-year-old mother.

  “You look tired, Jimmy,” she said.

  “Long night.”

  His eyes found the dining room table, where he saw the two daily newspapers.

  LOVERS’ SPAT GOES SPLAT? screamed the Post.

  BLOOD ON HIS HANDS was a more understated Daily News.

  A photo of the outside of the bar accompanied each article, as well as a mug shot of the accused, Rosa Marie Martino’s son, Rocky. Jimmy would read them later to discern what details they got wrong. Instead, he turned to Rosa and said, “Has anyone been in touch with you?”

  “Rocky, he got his one phone call this morning.”

  Jimmy nodded. “What did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t do it. And that he told you that, too.”

  Ah, so that explains the phone call this morning.

  “Jimmy, why were you there? Rocky said it couldn’t have been coincidence.”

  “No, it wasn’t, Mrs. Martino. Look, why don’t you sit down, I’ll try to explain.”

  “And who is that man the police say my Rocky shot? As if he could do something bad.”

  He’d sold drugs on the street, gotten busted, served time. Nope, not a bad guy at all. But Jimmy knew not to push anything right now; Rosa was a wounded mother, her only concern now to care for her cub. Jimmy led her over to the sofa, setting down his coffee after taking a healthy gulp. A shot of caffeine would give him the fortitude to get through this. They sat.

  “Mrs. Martino, where did Rocky say he was calling from?”

  “He was still at the precinct, I don’t know which one. He’s being transferred to Rikers.”

  “It’s the weekend. They’ll keep him there until his arraignment, probably Monday.”

  “So my boy is back behind bars? He just got out.”

  Well, at least she knew that much. Not as if Rocky could fib about being away on a desert island for almost two years. As his mother fussed in the dining room, pretending to dust, Jimmy focused on the woman beside him, busy wringing her fingers. Rosa Martino was probably sixty-five-ish, she dyed her hair jet black, and a collection of wrinkles had creased her face over the last few years. They were more pronounced this morning. Otherwise, Jimmy had known her as a hearty woman with a good left hook.

  “Since he’s still on parole, any suspicion of a crime, they need to hold him.”

  “You mean he might not make bail.”

  “Doubtful, unless the cops pull some other suspect out of thin air.”

  “But that’s not likely. I watch Law & Order.”

  Jimmy nodded. Most cop shows fudged the rules. That one was authentic. “Right.”

  “Jimmy, you’re a private detective. Can’t you steer the cops in a different direction?”

  “If they think they have the right man, there’s little chance in changing their minds.”

  “But he says he’s innocent.”

  “I think he’s innocent, too. Something doesn’t add up.”

  Just then, Maggie edged in closer, a curious look on her florid face. “Jimmy, what do you know?”

  “Just what I saw,” he said. “Look, Mrs. Martino, I was following Rocky yesterday.”

  “Following him? You mean, like trailing him?”

  Jimmy smiled. He couldn’t help it. Everyone was a cop. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Was that your stakeout you mentioned?” Maggie asked.

  “A stakeout? For my Rocky? Jimmy, what’s going on?” Rosa asked.

  Explaining the details might get Meaghan in trouble with their mother. But easing Rosa’s mind took precedence, so he said, “You know Rocky and Meaghan had started seeing each other lately…okay, right, so, he broke their date last night, and Meaghan feared he was seeing someone else. Tur
ned out, that was the case.”

  Rosa shook her head. “The Martino men, always with the wandering eyes.”

  Jimmy thought Rocky had wandered with more than just his eyes.

  “So, was it true? Was he stepping out with another woman?”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “Jimmy, can you get to the point?” Maggie asked. “I’ve got a matinee to get to.”

  Of course, it was Saturday, the Calloway Theatre had two shows today, at two and eight, just as most shows on Broadway had. The limited engagement of the classic play “You Can’t Take it With You” was ending its successful run this weekend, going out on a high note after having won the Tony Award for Best Revival of a Play. Maggie had to get her staff organized by one pm, and right now, it was closing in on eleven thirty. Some Saturdays, Jimmy liked to walk his mother over to the theatre, and he figured he’d do so today. So first, he had to wrap up his talk with Rosa.

  “Mrs. Martino, Rocky wasn’t seeing another woman. It was a guy.”

  She blanched, her brown eyes widening like a cartoon character. “You?”

  Jimmy shook his head, trying to hide his smile. “Uh, no, not me. The man he was seeing, that’s the man who was shot and killed.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying my Rocky is…”

  She couldn’t say the word. Even in the presence of a woman whose gay son was talking to her right now. It wasn’t the ideal coming out party for Rocky, especially on top of the murder charge he might be facing. As though the former was a larger offense than the latter.

  “Look, I really haven’t had a chance to talk to Rocky…about anything.”

  “Will you, Jimmy? I’m afraid I’m a bit overwhelmed. Rocky’s Dad…Sal gave up on him so long ago, even before the drugs. This news would only make things worse. He’s got three daughters and one son, and if he finds out…well, Rocky’s been a lost cause for so long. I thought after his release, he would at last get his life on track. Meet a nice girl, have a kid. Continue the family name.”

  “I think he was trying, Mrs. Martino. I think he was trying to admit the truth to himself.”

  “That he…that he liked…”

  “Men,” Jimmy said. “You know, that’s not a crime.”

  Just then, Rosa wiped away a tear before taking hold of Jimmy’s hands. She rubbed them, and he wasn’t sure if that was a gesture of support for him or a desire on her part to reach out to someone proudly out of the closet.

  “You were always so much stronger than Rocky. I think he looked up to you, Jimmy.”

  If true, that would explain a lot.

  “I’ll tell you what, if the NYPD will allow it, I’ll go visit Rocky at Rikers,” he said. “But what he really needs now is a lawyer.”

  “Not the public defender who did nothing but help send him up the river.”

  Jimmy looked up at his mother, saw her nod her head. “I’ll talk to Mallory,” he said. “If she can’t do it, I’m sure she can recommend someone at her firm.”

  Rosa nodded, a smile brightening her face for the first time since he’d arrived, then stood up. She went over to Maggie, again taking her hands in her grasp. Jimmy watched as the two old neighbors bonded over their sons, each of them on opposite sides of the law, connected by the past, by family, and by friendship. “A private detective and a lawyer, all in one household. Why Maggie McSwain, it’s like one-stop shopping, right here in your home.”

  Jimmy didn’t want to add the fact that Rocky had gone shopping here too, for a pretend girlfriend.

  Whether they liked it or not, the McSwain siblings were in the thick of a murder.

  Again.

  Jimmy wanted a solution this time.

  But in the back of his mind, he wanted a conviction on another case. It was always there, usually triggered by someone else pulling a trigger.

  CHAPTER THREE

  His request to visit Rocky at Rikers was denied; he was still being processed through the system. So there wasn’t much Jimmy could do right now for Rocky, and with his mother busy at the theatre for the matinee, he realized he could concentrate on his own matters. Clad in blue jeans, his sweaty T-shirt dried thanks to the air-conditioning at home, he ventured back out into the blazing heat of the afternoon. In Hell’s Kitchen, locals ran errands while wearing as little as possible on this late June Saturday. Guys wore tight shorts, some eschewed shirts, showing off gym bodies and tans, Jimmy happy to look but not touch. He got a couple of looks back, the guys noticing that they were being noticed. It was like the daytime version of the atmosphere at Gaslight. Today came without the pulsing beat of music.

  He walked along West 44th Street to Eighth Avenue, and then he slipped down the stairs of the subway entrance just across the street from the Majestic Theatre, where The Phantom of the Opera was still running, now and forever. Wait, supposedly a different show had used that slogan. Yet the Phantom was proving it all too true. Maggie had taken the family to the show so many years ago, comps thanks to a friend in the box office. Jimmy still heard the music in his head, but mostly because some guys liked to sing selections from it on Musical Mondays at Gaslight. So, down once more to the subway he went, feeling the oppressive heat swirl around him the instant he hit the platform. Countdown clocks hadn’t yet hit the Eighth Avenue line, so he waited for whichever train showed first, the A, C, or E. It was the E, a local, that took six minutes to arrive, and he hopped aboard the cool car with a throng of others, grabbing a lone pole while others sought out seats too confining for him. Why in this heat would you want to be pressed up more against the sweat of humanity? The E jostled along, and it was only two stops to 23rd Street, one more to 14th. His destination was between the two, and he opted to stay on for one more stop. Get your money’s worth from the MTA.

  The doors opened at 14th Street, and since he was at the back of the station, he emerged above ground at 16th Street and Eighth. One block more and he was walking past Happy Man Deli, a terribly ironic name given what had happened here last week. The owner gunned down in “a senseless robbery,” said the papers. Jimmy hated that phrase. All crimes were senseless. Just live your life, don’t piss off others, let everyone go about in peace. Nope, some assholes had to use guns and kill people for no reason beyond stupidity. Jimmy stared at the sidewalk in front of the deli and pictured the man who’d lost his life here; there was no sign of a crime, just heat rising off the baked cement. The deli was open for business, people buying bottled water and protein bars before heading to the local New York Sports Club for a workout. Life continued, even if for some it was only on a treadmill.

  Jimmy walked north three blocks, then turned east. He was met with a long line of blue-and-white police cruisers, parked at an angle in front of the entrance to the 10th Precinct. A few off duty cops leaned against cars, sipping coffee in their short sleeves. A couple of them nodded at Jimmy. This was Chelsea, an upscale gay mecca, and Jimmy had worked for several clients in this hood. He was known, and not just for his detective prowess.

  Jimmy pulled open the front door and was met with that thankful blast of cold air.

  His tax dollars at work, he mused.

  Behind the dispatch desk sat Wren Peters, a cute blonde with an inner snark. It seemed she was never off duty.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said. It was her standard line.

  “Heat getting to you, Wren?”

  “Actually, I think it just got hotter in here, and I like it.”

  He smiled. “Keep those dreams alive. Frisano here?”

  “On a weekend?”

  “It’s not Sunday, Mama Frisano’s not yet making her lasagna. Yeah, I think he’s here.”

  “Hmmm, stereotype much?”

  “Bitch,” he said, with intentional attitude.

  She laughed before saying, “I’ll see if he’s around. Got a case?”

  “Want to talk about one of your existing cases.”

  “Wait over there.”

  Jimmy didn’t take a seat on the wooden ben
ch, but he did step away, choosing to use the wait time to look at the bulletin board. It was all harmless stuff, community events mostly. A few random photos. For a cop shop, it was rather tame. He watched as a few cops walked by, each of them in crisp uniforms. Jimmy tried to imagine himself dressed similarly. Had Joey McSwain lived, he would have seen such a sight. But life had other plans, and so here stood Jimmy in his denim and T-shirt, turning to face Captain Francis X. Frisano, dressed in his uniform, wearing it with obvious pride. It wasn’t the uniform that gave Jimmy pause, though, it was the handsome face that stared back at him with a mix of curiosity and intrigue.

  “McSwain,” he said, the deep baritone of his voice drawing Jimmy in.

  “Captain Frisano, thanks for taking the time to see me.”

  “I haven’t fully decided that yet. Short notice, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “I bet you were,” Frisano said.

  With such a biting remark, Jimmy knew that the captain was putting on a show for the troops. As their leader, he had to make good in front of them, not let them think that some streetwise P.I. could waltz into the precinct at any moment and command immediate attention from the top brass. Not without some gentle ribbing that came at the cost of Jimmy’s sexual preferences. If they only knew what was really going on between them.

  “So, do you have a minute to spare? It’s about the deli murder.”

  That caught Frisano’s attention, and his thick eyebrows rose. “Thought this was about the other murder.”