“Yeah, right around seven, and that’s when they showed up.”
“And not more than five minutes later, Duvan was lying dead on the floor.”
“Yeah. Still can’t believe it.”
“That second entrance outside, the one that leads to the cabaret room. Locked?”
“Always. I don’t use it, even when we’ve got some event scheduled. Even if I kept the connecting door open, I wouldn’t be able to see who was coming in. No, everyone uses the front door to the main bar, just as you did.”
“So someone was lying in wait. Someone else knew they were coming here.”
“You mean, someone was already inside the bar, waiting to kill Duvan?”
“How else do you explain it? Unless someone had a key to that second door.”
“No one does, trust me. Just me. I’ve got a spare at home.”
“So we have a mystery on our hands. The unknown assailant. You said earlier Duvan was staying with someone. Tell me about this roommate of Duvan’s. You know him?”
“No, never met him. Place Duvan was staying at said the guy was doing him a favor.”
“Got a name?”
“Eaton.”
“That a first or a last?”
“Eaton McDonald.”
Jimmy blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say McDonald?”
“I did. You know, like a Big Mac, fries, etc.”
“Yeah, got it. Amos, thanks so much. You think of anything else…”
Something was irking Jimmy. The name was familiar, but he was missing the connection. Jimmy slid a business card across the bar and Amos slipped it into his shirt pocket. He finished his beer, slapped down a ten spot and said to keep the change. Thanked him for his help. A moment later, he was out the door, standing at 107th and West End, just up the street from where his stakeout the other night. The brownstone was right there, and Jimmy had to wonder if this Eaton McDonald was home.
The name clung to his mind like the humidity did his shirt.
It was too much of a coincidence. McDonald, as in Alicia McDonald, Duvan’s victim.
He hated coincidences.
§ § §
Approaching the brownstone on this Tuesday afternoon, he noticed the street was fairly deserted, considering this was the land of eight million people. He took the steep steps two at a time, then gazed at the names adjacent to the door buzzers. He remembered taking a picture of it the other day, and he took out his iPhone to compare. Not recalling the name McDonald, he checked out his screen and the reality before him. Nothing had changed. Ahkbar was the only name listed for apartment 5A. Strange, considering Amos had said it was McDonald’s home, not Duvan’s. So why would Duvan’s last name be on the buzzer? Had the original tenant cleared out? Was he trying to hide from someone? It didn’t make sense.
Jimmy considered his next move, and before his mind had decided, his finger had pressed the buzzer. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, that was his motto, and sometimes it worked, and sometimes it went silent. Like now. There was no response from upstairs. He waited a moment, then pressed it again. Even from down here he thought he could hear its hollow ring throughout what he guessed was an empty apartment. Devoid of life, not unlike its last occupant. About to give up, he noticed a young man approaching the building, his steps slowing as he caught sight of Jimmy. The guy was probably early thirties, slim of build, about five eight. His eyes darted about, nervous, but he seemed to find the courage to continue. Jimmy waited to see how this played out.
“Can I help you?” the guy asked.
“Visiting a friend. Guess he’s not home.”
“Something tells me that’s not the truth. Nobody just pops in in New York.”
True enough. “Okay, I’m trying to find out who lives in apartment 5A.”
The guy’s tan face whitened a bit. “Look, I don’t know who you are. But you should leave.”
“Duvan Ahkbar, did you know him?”
“If you don’t leave now, I’m calling the cops.”
“I’m only trying to help. Clearly you know your neighbor was shot dead last Friday.”
“None of my business. I read he was ex-con. Those guys…they deserve what they get.”
“He served his time. No one deserves to be shot in cold blood.”
The guy’s eyes lowered, almost in shame. Jimmy was laying it on a bit thick, but he also meant his words. Every bullet from every gun was personal for him. It took lives, and it ruined so many more. If he could take one gunman off the street, well, it was a start.
“Did you know Rocky, his lover? He’s a friend of mine.”
“They say Rocky killed him.”
“It’s not true. I’m trying to prove it. Look…”
“Charlie Fray. I live on the third floor.”
“I’m Jimmy. Look, Charlie anything you can offer, I’d appreciate it. The bartender down the street, he says Duvan had been staying with a friend. Guy named Eaton McDonald. Does he sound familiar?”
“Eaton McDonald is not a person…well, he is, but not in the way you mean.”
“I don’t get it.”
Charlie pointed to a plaque on the side of the building. Jimmy turned, embarrassment flooding his face. What the hell kind of private investigator was he? He supposed this was why superheros tended to have sidekicks; they saw what he didn’t. Because there it was in gold leaf, the words, “This building managed by Eaton McDonald Properties.” Eaton wasn’t the roommate, he was the damned landlord. Which made things even more curious. Jimmy remembered a detail from the article he’d read online this morning, that Alicia McDonald’s family was involved in real estate here in New York. Which apparently included the building in which the man who killed their daughter lived in—post-prison term.
He thanked Charlie and watched as the guy entered his building.
He had his first solid lead, and he intended to use it to his advantage. Casting reasonable doubt on a case the cops thought was closed.
Jimmy made his way back toward Broadway, walked along the wide boulevard until he had reached 100th Street. There he turned toward Amsterdam Avenue, to where, on the northern side of the street he came to the 24th Precinct. It was a blocky, industrial-looking building, with a series of police cruisers and small NYPD motor cars parked in front. He stopped for a moment to consider his approach and realized it didn’t matter. Detectives Rand and Rodriguez had been less than thrilled at Jimmy’s involvement the other night. He doubted his presence had improved with age. He then approached the glass doors, where a young uniformed officer was stationed.
She looked at Jimmy warily. “Can I help you?”
“Any chance Detectives Rand or Rodriguez are around?”
The fact he knew names eased her stance a bit. “What’s this about?”
“I have some evidence in a case they’re working.”
Jimmy was told to wait inside the second set of glass doors but to not advance beyond the gate that got you fully inside. She told another officer on the other side of the wooden gate what Jimmy was requesting, and while suspicious eyes fell on him, the officer still did as asked. He disappeared into the back, leaving Jimmy to look around. A large room was in front of him, with a couple of glass-enclosed offices to his right, a dispatch desk to his left. On the wall beyond that desk were two rows of photographs; the staff of the 2-4, he imagined. He didn’t mind the wait. It was cool inside here, and it gave his body a chance to recover after his walk from 107th. Ten minutes slipped by before Jimmy saw a plainclothes gentleman with a ginger-colored buzz cut and matching mustache. His sleeves were rolled up. Detective Rand.
A frown hit his face when he saw his guest. Still, he approached.
“It’s McSwine, isn’t it?”
“Kind of ironic, coming from a cop,” Jimmy said.
Rand’s frown deepened, the creases of his face weathered. But someone behind the desk laughed. Hey, it only took one fan to have an audience. Maybe Rand wasn’t so popular at the 2-4. Maybe Jimmy could use that to hi
s advantage.
“How’s the Duvan Akhbar case?”
He crossed his arms. “Closed.”
Not exactly a man of many words.
“But you don’t have a conviction yet. So it’s still open.”
“There’s no investigation. We have our guy. And I’m not discussing this with you.”
“But we already are.”
“I heard you showed up at the arraignment. Got an audience with Martino.”
“More than you did.”
“McSwain, what do you want? Guy’s guilty as hell. A drug deal gone bad.”
“Did you do a tox screen on the vic?” Jimmy loved to throw cop talk at cops.
No response.
“How about a ballistics test? Gun residue?”
“Rocky Martino is a drug dealer. He’s got a record. He upped it to murder. It happens.”
“You haven’t answered my questions.”
“I don’t need to,” Rand said. “I told you Friday night, leave this case alone.”
“As you see, I listen as well as you talk.”
“Good-bye, McSwain. Please be a stranger.”
Jimmy nodded. He was content. From this stone, he’d actually managed to get a drop of blood. “Thank you for your time, Detective Rand. You’ve given me some valuable information that I can pass along to Rocky’s lawyers.”
“I gave you nothing,” he said, looking increasingly pissed.
“Sure you did. You created reasonable doubt.”
Jimmy departed then, hoping not to return to the unfriendly 2-4 anytime soon.
If he had to do battle with the NYPD, the 10th was much more his speed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He left before he attracted any more attention and returned to midtown, glad to be back on familiar turf but uncertain on his move
His stomach grumbled. Lunch was a good idea, he thought, and remembered a place nearby where he could grab a healthy snack. The Great American Health Bar had been on 57th Street for longer than Jimmy knew, but it was good, reliable, and he drank down a fruit smoothie and grabbed a protein bar. It was enough, and soon he felt the surge of energy, powerful enough to stimulate his brain. He hopped the subway again, the F train, and he took it to 23rd Street. Switching gears, he walked down the busy thoroughfare, his feet knowing where he was going before his mind did.
Happy Time Deli was found on the northern side between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues. On this bright, sun-dappled day, business as usual transpired. People going in and out, buying beverages, snacks, lottery tickets, a scene not unlike what he’d witnessed the other day in front of the deli down on 17th Street. No sign that violence occurred here. Again, Jimmy stared at the sidewalk, seeing if any lingering drops of blood were preserved. It served as a reminder to never give up. But it was all clean; not even the sun could bake the blood into the sidewalk. CSU had it all cleared up, washed away like the life of the deli’s owner.
Jimmy went in and bought a bottle of water. The dark-skinned man behind the counter, perhaps Pakistani or Turkish, took his money quietly, thanked him in accented English. Jimmy thought to say something and realized he’d only be adding to whatever misery that man was feeling. Many of their delis were family-owned. Perhaps it had been his brother, or uncle, who had died. Back out on the street, drinking down the water in one gulp, he wiped at his mouth and readied himself for the next step.
He wasn’t far from the 10th Precinct; he could stop and ask after Frisano.
Maybe he’d share some information about the deli murder’s case. Provide Jimmy his own lead.
Checking his watch, he saw it was nearing five o’clock. The afternoon had swept by, and the sidewalks were growing more crowded as office workers left behind the daily challenges of their jobs. He wasn’t keen to join the throngs on the subway, not at rush hour. An idea hit him, and soon he’d retreated back down 23rd Street, crossing over at Ninth Avenue, and eventually finding his way to the Westside Tavern. It was a neighborhood watering hole, with a long bar on the left, high-topped tables and stools filling the space in the middle. Pool tables occupied the space in the back.
Jimmy had been here often enough over the years.
So had the two men he found sitting at a table, beers in front of them.
“Roscoe and Dean, what a surprise,” Jimmy said, sidling up to them.
Roscoe Barone was an NYPD detective, grizzled after too many years on the job, wide at the middle from too many beers. His partner, Larry Dean, was younger, just Jimmy’s age, a one-time pal of his from the neighborhood. They’d gone to the academy together, then gone separate ways when the badges were being handed out. Dean had made detective quickly.
Roscoe, the senior partner, spoke first.
“Well, if it isn’t the West Side’s favorite gay detective.”
Jimmy smiled. “Gee, is there another one? Larry, did you finally come out?”
“Bite it, McSwain.”
“So then you did?”
Roscoe laughed at that one. Dean just grew mad; he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the flower shed. It was a typical exchange between them. Jimmy turned to the bartender, pointed to the taps, then to the near-empty glasses on the table. Soon three pints of Yuengling had been poured, and Jimmy brought them over to the detectives. Then he slid another stool over and joined them.
“I don’t remember sending out invitations,” Dean said.
“Shut up. He bought a round. Let’s see what he wants.”
“I love when you guys play good cop-bad cop. It’s fun, like watching an old married couple.”
“What would you know about marriage?” Dean asked.
“You gotta stay current, Larry. My people can get married and divorced, just like yours.”
“What do you want?”
Enough bantering, Jimmy jumped in. “You guys caught the deli murders case.”
“Who says?”
“Duh, the newspaper? Your Captain?’
“Yeah, we do the grunt work. Frisano hogs the microphone. Media whore.”
Jimmy turned to Roscoe. “Maybe I’ll just talk to you. What do you got?”
“Just what you read in the papers. A series of deli robberies, the last two went bad.”
“Are you sure all of them are related? Maybe the last two are copycat. You catch the perp on just the robberies, you blame the murders on him too. Meanwhile, the other guy gets away. Sometimes cops work that way.”
“You’re making the killer sound intelligent. Usually they’re not.”
“Just speculating. Isn’t that what you’re doing now, on the clock? With your beers?”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a group of young guys, noisy as they entered. Jimmy watched as the bartender checked everyone’s ID. He had cops here, he had to play by the rules. Apparently they all passed muster, as the pitchers were poured and the gang took up by the pool tables. They remained loud. Jimmy saw Roscoe looking at them with envy.
“Miss the old days?”
“Hmmph, these are my old days now. Damn knees barking at me every night.”
“So, back to the murders. Any leads on the perp?”
“We’re tracking a few.”
“Meaning you’ve got squat,” Jimmy said.
“Actually, we’ve got a name. So piss on that McSwain.”
Jimmy’s eyes lit up, but he hid his smile behind his glass. “You’re such an easy mark, Dean. How’d you make detective? So, Roscoe, spill.”
“I’m not giving you the guy’s name. He’s a person of interest, that’s all.”
“Previous rap?”
“Mile long. Did time. Just got out, if we’ve got the right guy. Timing’s right, anyway.”
Jimmy’s suspicions were proving true. Whoever this killer was, he’d been in prison until his little crime spree. But how long had he been away, and what were his previous crimes? How long was he out?
“What’s your interest in this, Jim?”
“Think real hard.”
Dean took a drink, and Roscoe just nodded. “Kind of reaching, aren’t you?”
Jimmy was used to the doubts. It seemed he was the only person who cared about who killed his father. The NYPD had turned its back on its brother in blue years ago, relegating his case to a freezer somewhere long forgotten. It pissed him off. He thought they stood proud, stood together. But yet some punk off the street decides to pop his father and let him die on the ground, little is done to find out what happened. Lots of crimes go unsolved. Lots grow cold. But the heat inside Jimmy one day would melt it.
“When I find out who, I’ll stop reaching. Until then…”
“Yeah, okay, sorry,” Roscoe said. “I knew Joey. He was a stand-up guy.”
“Thanks,” Jimmy said, taking the silence as a chance to finish his beer. He wasn’t staying for another.
“Heard you were at the precinct last week,” Roscoe suddenly said.
“Yeah, I asked your captain the same things.”
“Watch yourself around him, Jim. He’ll take anyone down to prop himself up.”
An image of himself and Frisano in their stages of undress last night flashed in his mind. He’d gone down, that was for sure. But he cautioned himself to keep his poker face tight. Unlike Dean, Jimmy knew to hold his tongue.
“It was just a friendly chat, that’s all,” he said.
“Good luck, Jim. But like always, I gotta ask you to stay outta our case, ya hear?”
That was beginning to become a regular refrain. “Don’t I always?”
Jimmy slapped down a twenty, said the next round was on him too, and then he emerged back out into the sunshine. He could walk back to Eighth and catch the subway, or he could just walk home. Maybe he’d stop at Paddy’s before heading home for dinner. With the theatre closed, Maggie was making meals at more normal times. She liked when her children were nestled around her, and quite frankly, Jimmy didn’t mind being around his family. They were really all he had, perhaps all he might ever have.
He thought again of Frisano.
Yeah, fantasy had its place, but it was just that, unreal.
Twenty minutes, reality came back in the form of a gentle smack on the side of the head.
Crime Wave Page 8
