Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  “You don’t call? The roast is dry.”

  “Hi, Ma. I love you too.”

  He could smell the gravy over her perfume, despite the tight embrace he got.

  § § §

  Wednesday morning he awoke early, and with a fresh plan, only to hit one snag: it was raining. Actually, it was pouring outside, a gray mist hanging over Manhattan like a shroud. Thunder had boomed all throughout the night, with flashes of lightning dancing against the slits of his eyelids. He’d been awakened several times, but still he found himself rested and ready to go. He turned on the radio while he readied himself, heard the meteorologist state that the heat had broken, and it would be noticeably cooler. He had an appointment he wanted to keep, even if the person he was having the meeting with was unaware of it. That was one of the tricks of the trade: the act of surprise.

  He was out of the door by seven o’clock, having grabbed an umbrella from the hall closet to keep him safe from the elements. It would also provide him a certain amount of anonymity. So he dashed across 48th Street on his way to Eleventh Avenue, where he got lucky catching a cab. It was early and west enough for that rare bit of success.

  “Seventy-fourth and Park,” he told the cab.

  Up and across Manhattan they went, the traffic not so bad until it came to taking the drive through Central Park. Going through at 65th Street, they got caught behind both an M72 and an M66 bus, not to mention other cars and cabs. The window had fogged up and Jimmy opened the window in an effort to clear it. Otherwise he felt stuck inside the steel trap, rain smattering on the roof of the cab. He wasn’t sure, but he might have preferred the one hundred percent humidity to this.

  At least he wasn’t sweating, seemingly the first time in the past two weeks.

  “I’m going to go up Madison, then cross over.”

  “Fine, great, thanks,” Jimmy said, watching the click of the meter.

  He couldn’t exactly put this receipt on his client’s bill. There was no bill.

  At last, the cab pulled up to one of the large prewar buildings that lined Park Avenue, a doorman rushing out to assist Jimmy. He waved the man away.

  “Just using your awning, if you don’t mind.”

  The doorman nodded his cap in understanding, then retreated back to his lobby.

  While it was a nice address and all, it wasn’t the one that had Jimmy’s attention.

  The one across the street did.

  Last night, after finishing dinner and helping his mother with the dishes, Jimmy retreated to his room and spent the next two hours on the computer. He’d learned a lot, probably more than he needed, but you never knew when certain details might emerge as helpful. Eaton McDonald Properties was a private firm, headed up by its eponymous leader. They owned both private businesses and office buildings all over Manhattan, as well as a few scattered in Queens. But mostly, McDonald liked to stake his claim on the moneyed island that also served as his primary home. Jimmy subscribed to several web addresses that expanded upon a general White Pages search. He could find Eaton’s credit score if he wanted.

  All he wanted was his home address, and he found it eventually.

  And now, under an umbrella in the pouring rain, he was standing in front of it.

  The well-to-do McDonald family owned a deluxe, three-floor apartment, including the penthouse level. Compared to the Rothschild place on Fifth Avenue he’d seen last spring, this apartment must be quite the palace. Eaton McDonald was loaded; not quite Trump, but he probably didn’t dine on boxed Mac and Cheese either. He lived here with his wife, Heather, and their sixteen-year-old daughter named Daisy. They’d had one other child, Alicia, but of course she’d been dead five years, at the unintended hand of Duvan Ahkbar. There were other relatives, uncles and aunts, cousins, but the immediate McDonald clan was father, mother, lone daughter. And thanks to the Internet, he even knew what they all looked like.

  He wondered which of them he would spot first.

  Out in front of their building, a limousine idled, exhaust coming from its tailpipe. A man in chauffeur uniform was smoking a cigarette and talking with one of the doormen. They seemed well acquainted, probably talking about what the Mets and Yankees did last night. Jimmy tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible, standing under his umbrella on the corner. He tried to sneak a peek at the license plate of the limo, but several cars were parked along the curb, blocking his view. Lot of these fancy rich folks, they liked vanity plates. Right now Jimmy was going on the assumption that this limo belonged to Eaton. Of course, this building had dozens of apartments on each floor; it could be any of its wealthy tenants. But he had a sense, a car this nice, gleaming even in the falling rain, was the one he wanted. Which meant the family was probably still upstairs. It was seven forty-five, and it took only a few more minutes before two people emerged from the inside lobby.

  Jimmy watched it all unfold. The doorman reacted first, going to open the door for his tenants. Even though they were under the protection of the awning which stretched all the way to the curb, the doorman still carried an umbrella the size of which you sell hot dogs under. What Jimmy saw were two women, one tall and stately, with a wide sweep of blonde hair. The other was clearly a child, with long blonde hair the same color as her mother’s. There was no doubt at all: these two were Heather and Daisy McDonald. The chauffeur confirmed it. Jimmy found it interesting the way Heather held tight to Daisy’s shoulders, as though clinging to her. Was this an anomaly, or was she just over-protective. She’d lost one daughter, couldn’t blame her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McDonald. Miss Daisy.”

  “Morning, Ephraim. I’ll be taking Daisy to school this morning. I have an appointment to attend with the principal. After dropping us off, please return to pick up Mr. McDonald. He has an early breakfast meeting, and then he’ll be going to the office. By then, I should be finished with my meeting.”

  “Of course, it’s all on the agenda on my phone.”

  “You’re always so prepared.”

  Jimmy watched as the two settled into the back seat and as Ephraim got behind the wheel of the car. It pulled out into traffic, went to the corner, and then turned east. He wondered what private school young Daisy went to. There were at least a dozen right here on the Upper East Side; heck, they could be going only a few blocks. Did Daisy get a ride every morning, or was it the rain’s doing? It was all in the details, how the McDonalds lived their life. And details were what he was looking for, insight into their world and how Duvan Ahkbar’s murder might have altered it. Surely they were aware of it. The man who had killed their daughter, now also dead.

  Jimmy took a walk up Park Avenue, crossing the median and changing to the opposite side. He was eating time, waiting for the limo to return to pick up Eaton McDonald. And that’s when he would pounce. He’d worked it all out, including his opening gambit. He figured he had about two seconds to get the man’s attention.

  Fifteen minutes later, the limousine pulled in front of the building again. Jimmy hustled to meet it, and in doing so, nearly ran right into his prey. He dropped his umbrella to the ground, and Eaton had to step around it to avoid tripping.

  “You fool, watch where you’re going,” he said. His voice was strong, imperious. Not the kind of man you want to piss off. And Jimmy had just done so deliberately.

  “My apologies, Mr. McDonald.”

  The man turned, gave Jimmy the once over. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but I’d like to talk to you.”

  “I don’t deal with strangers, and not on the street. Now, go away.”

  He pushed past Jimmy, grabbing for the door handle of the back seat.

  “Did you know Duvan Ahkbar was murdered?”

  Eaton stopped and turned, the expression on his face unreadable. Was he mad, angry? Surprised? None of the above, and that threw off Jimmy.

  “Who are you?”

  “I discovered his body.”

  Eaton McDonald brushed at the falling rain, which was dampening his thick head
of salt and pepper hair. Jimmy knew the man was sixty-one. He was distinguished looking, handsome and well-dressed. And suddenly he was pointing to the open rear door of the limo. “I’m running late for a meeting. I suppose you can ride with me.”

  Bingo, Jimmy thought. Before the man could change his mind, Jimmy hopped into the back seat, McDonald following after him. If it was a trap and the limo driver was going to take him somewhere and beat him, it was a chance Jimmy was going to have to take. Yet so far, it had all been civilized, which again raised his suspicions. McDonald pushed a button and the divider between driver and passengers closed. They were alone in the back seat, facing each other. The windows were tinted and Jimmy could barely see the foggy morning out there.

  “Nice digs,” Jimmy said.

  “It gets me around quite nicely, yes. Now, you’ve got till we reach my breakfast meeting. Depending on traffic, it’s either a quick ride or a long one. You got a name?”

  “McSwain. Jimmy McSwain.”

  “Never heard of you. You a friend of Duvan’s?”

  “No, a friend of a friend. I’m guessing you’re familiar with what happened?”

  “From what the police told me, Duvan was murdered by his lover. A male lover.”

  “Does that bother you, the fact that Duvan was gay?”

  “I couldn’t care less. I just feel bad he’s dead.”

  “Do you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, given why he was sent away to Parsons Hill, you might resent him. Or hate him.”

  “You don’t know much about me, do you, Mr. McSwain?”

  “Just what you find on the Internet.”

  “It has its purposes, but it rarely provides the full picture. Tell me your interest in Duvan, and perhaps I’ll provide more details.”

  “The man accused of killing him, he’s an old family friend. He’s innocent.”

  “And so you just thought you’d take it upon yourself to, what, find the real killer?”

  Jimmy reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, which contained his P.I. license.

  “For real?”

  “Google me,” Jimmy said.

  McDonald nodded. “Okay, Jimmy, so Rocky didn’t kill Duvan. Who did?”

  “I’m just beginning my investigation. Yesterday I learned a curious fact.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That you own the building that Duvan had been staying in since his release.”

  “Indeed. How intrepid of you. And here you are, a day later, riding in my limo. Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Hardly. I’m simply trying to understand the connection. I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

  “You would be correct. And…”

  Just then a buzzer sounded, and McDonald depressed a button. “Ephraim?”

  “I just pulled up in front of the Plaza.”

  “Very good, thank you. As you see, Mr. McSwain, your time has run out. For now.”

  McDonald removed a business card from his pocket and handed it to Jimmy. Not even looking at it, Jimmy held it in his palm. He hoped he didn’t sweat through it.

  “My private number. I’m willing to meet with you again, but unfortunately, I’m going out of town for a few days on business. I’ll be back just before the July fourth holiday. I assume this can wait. Mr. Martino, from what I understand, is being held without bail at Rikers. Not much will happen between now and when I return. Call my secretary and set up an appointment. I trust that’s satisfactory?”

  “More than I expected, actually. Why are you so willing to help?”

  “Duvan made a terrible mistake that night, and his unfortunate actions winded up costing me my precious daughter. But according to the law, which I respect, he paid for his crime and served his time. He was entitled to resume his life as best he could.”

  “With your help?”

  “Not everything is black-and-white in this world.” Then he stole a look out at the gray morning. “Except perhaps today. Good day. We’ll speak again. Ephraim, if you would take Mr. McSwain where he needs to go, then you’ll return to pick up Mrs. McDonald.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s hardly necessary…” Jimmy started to say, then shut up.

  Eaton McDonald was looking back at him.

  “You’re an intriguing fellow, Mr. McSwain, very intrepid. You’ve got balls. Too bad my almost son-in-law wasn’t like that. How everything might have turned out differently.”

  And with that, the door closed, and Jimmy was left with that echoing accusation bouncing around the interior of the limousine. He barely felt the car pull out into traffic, his mind reeling from not just the words he’d just heard, but the venom with which they’d been spoken. Duvan killed his daughter, and he helped him, but Alicia’s fiancé was…what? Had Eaton McDonald just dropped a clue, given Jimmy something he could spend his time with over the next few days?

  “Where to, sir?” Ephraim said.

  “Forty Eighth Street and Tenth,” he said. But then an idea hit him, and if the driver was amenable, it would be a hell of a lot easier than taking his own car or worse, the bus to get to where he needed to be. “Ephraim, a change of plans, if you wouldn’t mind. Could you take me to Rikers Island?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rikers Island wasn’t a place anyone wanted to visit even on a sunny day. Toss in soaking rain, gray clouds, and a low-hanging ceiling that felt like it was closing in on you. Tension was bound to heighten. Jimmy had been here before to visit clients, and he’d never enjoyed it. He’d been informed that Rocky was being housed in the grim-looking Otis Bantum Correctional Center, one of eight separate facilities on the island. Situated between the Bronx and Queens, Rikers was the main jail for New York City offenders, and its reputation as being a tough place was not unfounded. Just the mere mention of it should be its own rehabilitation for those who broke the law.

  While in the back of the limo, Jimmy had used the time to call ahead for an appointment with Rocky, and just thirty minutes after having arrived in style, both men from Hell’s Kitchen were staring at each other through a glass divider. They remained bonded by their past, by family, and by their personal struggles—despite their current predicament. Rocky was sporting a black eye, and his face was scruffy with dark whiskers, but otherwise, he looked terrible. They had to use telephones to communicate.

  “Thanks for coming by, Jimmy.”

  He nodded. “How you holding up, Rocky?”

  “I’ll take Parsons Hill any day over this place.”

  “Yeah, it’s depressing. What happened?” He pointed toward the eye.

  “Guy called me a fucking fag. I swung at him. Missed. He didn’t,” Rocky said. “Which didn’t exactly aid my masculinity in front of the other inmates. And before you ask if I reported the incident, no. You don’t do that here, not if you don’t want it to happen again. It’s just a bit of hazing, like a frat without the beer.”

  Neither Rocky nor Jimmy had gone to college, but he took his point.

  “You get other visitors?”

  He shook his head. “I told my mother not to come. My father won’t. He’s embarrassed.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That lawyer, Taylor, he came by.”

  “He offer anything?”

  “Just to hang in there. He’s trying to get the trial moved up. But the legal system, it’s like it runs on molasses,” he said, wiping at his nose. His hooded eyes darted about, checking the rest of the visitor’s room. Only two other inmates had guests, neither of them sitting next to them. It was as private as you could get. “So, Jim, anything on the case? Got any leads? Clues? Whatever you call them.”

  “Angles, yeah, I’m working a couple of them,” he said. “Rocky, I need you to go back to the night of Duvan’s shooting. I know it’s painful, but can you do that?”

  “It’s kind of the only place my mind goes, even when I try to imagine the good times.”

  “There were good times. There will be again.”


  Again, Rocky looked around. “I really loved that guy, and that’s…hard for me to admit. We had a future together.”

  “I know, Rocky. We both come from traditional backgrounds, embracing non-traditional lifestyles—and I say that from our family’s perspective, not ours—it’s not always easy to accept. So, that night…you said there was a quick struggle, all three of you. The assailant, he came out of nowhere, gun drawn. First of all, are you sure the killer got his target?”

  Rocky paled. “What, you think I was the intended?”

  “A P.I., he’s got to explore every option.”

  “Damn, that never entered my mind. I mean, Duvan was shot. He died.”

  “But after a struggle, the gun might have gone off accidentally. Pointed at Duvan instead of you.”

  “No, I don’t think so. The guy, he took a moment to position himself. Then shot.”

  This was new information, Jimmy took careful note of it. It was confirmation enough that Duvan was the target, and that his killer had achieved what he sought. But who was it, and what was the motive? And why were the police so intent on proving that Rocky was guilty? Surely, there was reasonable doubt here, though Jimmy knew that was for the lawyers to deal with. He’d talk to Taylor later today about what he’d learned from Detective Rand. Knowing what he knew, a jury couldn’t possibly convict Rocky with such flimsy evidence. Still, that was months away at best, summer’s heat wave would be long over, and Jimmy might be trudging through snowdrifts to watch the courtroom action unfold. He hoped it didn’t come to that.

  “Okay, Rocky, let’s assume Duvan was the intended. Did he ever mention enemies?”

  “No, I mean. Not that I can remember.”

  “Does the name Eaton McDonald mean anything to you?”

  Rocky nodded. “He was the father of the girl Duvan accidentally killed. You think he did it?”

  It was hard to imagine the refined Eaton McDonald shooting Duvan.

  But stranger truths existed in this world.

  “I met him just this morning, but our talk got cut short. I’m supposed to meet with him next week. Though I have to say, he was rather supportive of Duvan. He said he appreciated that Duvan had served his time, paid his debt to society. Unless he’s a great actor, I believed him. So, what about Duvan’s life in prison—did he piss off any fellow cons? Someone who maybe didn’t like that he was gay?”