Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  “Jimmy, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, wiping spittle from his lips, seeing it was tinged with red. He was pretty sure it wasn’t his, which meant the gunman had left a valuable calling card. Jimmy then saw a gleam of metal on the ground, that orange sun catching it. He knelt down to look at the gun that had been dropped. He did not dare touch it. It was evidence. And, he supposed, it was the first big break in the case of the deli murders. It hadn’t come courtesy of the NYPD, not Roscoe, not Dean, and not Frisano.

  Though Jimmy supposed that would all change soon enough.

  Geez, the lengths he’d go to see Frisano again.

  He’d almost been killed. In the same way his father had been.

  The past was creeping ever forward.

  PART TWO

  SUMMER IN THE COUNTRY

  CHAPTER NINE

  “His name is Rashad Assan.”

  “Okay, is that supposed to mean anything to me?”

  “McSwain, I think you better brace yourself.”

  Jimmy looked up from the chair he was sitting in, which was inside an interrogation room at the 10th Precinct. He felt uncertainty fall over him, trying not to show it in his expression. Three men stared down at him, two of them in plainclothes, the other in full uniform. Ordinarily, Jimmy would have liked to have been in the easy presence of the latter man, yet it was the folded arms and stern faces of the other two that had kept him in check. A determined Roscoe Barone and a petulant Larry Dean had been questioning him for the past several hours, each of them bringing their own agenda and frustration about the case, going over the minutest of details about Jimmy’s encounter at the Perfect Time deli on 46th Street and Tenth Avenue. In truth, they were annoyed that it was a private citizen who had provided the biggest break in the case.

  Five minutes before, Captain Francis X. Frisano had joined them.

  He’d given no hint of a kinship at all with Jimmy. He’d been all business, and it was he who provided Jimmy with the name of the Deli Killer, as the papers were now calling him. Still, the sound of the name Rashad Assan drew a blank in his mind, and he wondered why Frisano’s voice had taken on additional gravitas. It didn’t seem promising, because even if they knew who they were looking for, tracking him down was another matter.

  Jimmy had obviously missed dinner. He’d told Meaghan to go home and tell them what happened—before they saw it on the news or any alert on one of their smartphones. News in this day and age traveled almost as quickly as the events themselves. The last thing he needed was his mother worrying unnecessarily. In between the series of questions, Jimmy was left alone with a book filled with mug shots, which he assumed was just a formality. Hadn’t Roscoe stated the other day that they had a lead on the killer’s identity? So why go through the motions of trying to identify him? Perhaps they were just eating time until they had more information from other witnesses, or maybe they needed confirmation. Forensics had swabbed at his hand, talking the blood sample left by the assailant to run a battery of tests. Blood meant DNA, and if this guy was in the system, as he no doubt was, confirmation of his identity would soon be at hand. Were there such a match? Finally, he described the guy to a sketch artist, and he supposed the detectives were going to compare Jimmy’s depiction of him with that of the drawing they’d already released to the press corp.

  And indeed, hours later, that was the case.

  “What’s going on, Captain? You guys are acting like I did something wrong.”

  “On the contrary, McSwain,” Frisano said. “We’re all grateful for your actions. Stupid as they were.”

  “My mother has told me stupid is my middle name.”

  Frisano appeared unamused.

  “Your mother called the precinct when she couldn’t reach you on your cell. Wren called her back, assured her you were fine.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Jimmy said, giving Frisano an additional nod he hoped went unnoticed by the detectives. It did, which didn’t exactly instill confidence in Roscoe or Dean’s talents. Still, it was nice to know that beneath the veneer of business was a remembrance of their night.

  “Okay, so you told me I’d want to sit down for this one. Want to tell me about Assan?”

  “Let’s start with the most recent. You were right, he did just get released from prison,” Frisano said. He had taken over the conversation, with Roscoe sitting on the edge of the seat and Dean leaning against the wall. Their arms were still as crossed as their expressions. Frisano paid them no mind; he was in charge. “About four months ago, he was released from a halfway home called Alicia House, just north of the city. It’s a program that gives rehabilitated cons a chance to partially re-enter society. They go through training, if you will, on how to behave outside the walls of prison, get jobs, that sort of thing. The longer they serve behind bars, the more time is spent at the halfway home.”

  “How long was Assan at this Alicia House?” Jimmy asked.

  “Two months. He served upstate for eight years, the last two of his sentence in minimum security.”

  Jimmy didn’t even need a light bulb to go off. “Parsons Hill,” he said, his mouth dry. He grabbed at the bottle of water on the table, drank down a healthy gulp and felt it coat his throat. His mind swirled with fresh thoughts, and suddenly he wanted out of this room. Not only were the walls closing in on him, his cases were. He’d heard of Alicia House when it came to Duvan and Rocky. But he listened, because if the cops were offering info, you took it.

  “Yeah, the Hill. Good guess, McSwain,” Roscoe said.

  “So, Assan has been in prison the last eight years. What for?”

  “Manslaughter, aggravated assault. He killed his best friend, an argument that got out of control, so says the file. It took place in a bar. He knocked another guy unconscious, gave him a severe concussion. An innocent, caught trying to break up the fight.”

  “Nice guy. Okay, before that, anything on his record?

  “One arrest, no conviction.”

  “What was it for? Robbery?”

  “No, it was a hate crime. Scrawled anti-Islam messages. Hard to prove, no real victim.”

  “Is he Muslim? A name like Assan…”

  “He was born in the States to Pakistani nationals, father a doctor, mother a professor.”

  “High achievers. Did you talk to them?”

  Frisano shook his head. “Both dead, natural causes. We looked. No siblings.”

  “So the guy’s all alone out there? What about a network of friends, known associates?”

  “Jim, this is the part I need you sitting for.”

  “Okay, Captain, you’ve got my full attention. I’m ready for the big reveal. Should I get out my drum set?”

  Frisano ignored the flippancy and got to the heart of the matter. “Rashad Assan is former NYPD.”

  Jimmy blinked and felt his blood sugar level drop to where he felt faint. He closed his eyes to allow the uneasy darkness to settle over his body. Before he realized it, he had been holding his breath, and he needed to exhale. When at last he composed himself, he asked what he assumed Frisano was leading up to. “Did he know my father?”

  “Same precinct, Jim,” he said, slipping into the familiar. “Midtown South.”

  “Captain, don’t you realize, we have to find this guy. He’s killed two people, and maybe he even killed…”

  “Jim, relax. Our guys are on it. We’ve matched the video surveillance from the delis to old photographs of Assan from his days on the force. He’s pretty dead to rights, but even so, we’re still waiting on confirmation on the blood sample you provided. Nice job, by the way—you punched him in the nose, right?”

  “I heard it go splat. Saw the blood rush.” He paused. “It came with some satisfaction.”

  Frisano nodded as though he approved. “Look, and most important, listen. I don’t want you anywhere near this case. Let the cops do their job in finding this guy. You’ll have a chance at him once we’ve collared him and booked him. If he knows anythin
g about the slaying of Officer Joseph McSwain, we will find out. But it’s not our priority. The newspapers have been having a field day with this guy’s summer crime wave, and they want him caught. Once we get him on these two murders, plus the other robberies, then we can begin to piece together the past. Promise me, Jim.”

  It was a hard promise to make, and Jimmy held his tongue so much, he thought he bit right through it. The metallic taste of blood washed down his throat. Finally, he nodded.

  “Say it, McSwain.”

  Back to business. With both of his detectives watching him, Jimmy realized Frisano had to win on this one. He had to be the top. “Okay, I promise. But keep me informed.”

  There came a knock at the door, Dean going to answer it. Jimmy hoped it was the results of the DNA test, but instead, Dean accepted a copy of the early edition of the Post. Christ, had he been here this long that morning had risen? He was tired, but he was energized by what he had learned. When Dean tossed the paper to the table, eight eyes fell on the headline. P.I. PUTS FREEZE ON KILLER’S HEAT WAVE. A photograph of the crime scene accompanied it, along with a smaller photo found in the inset; it was a shot of Jimmy from last night. His name was in the second paragraph of the article.

  “Shit, how’d they get his name?’ Frisano asked, turning toward Roscoe.

  “Not us, Capt’n. Post reporters, they don’t care about public safety.”

  Jimmy saw the fear in their eyes as they turned back to him. “Why, what’s the big deal?”

  “McSwain,” Frisano said, “you’re a marked man. Got any vacation time accrued?”

  “I don’t run from trouble,” he said.

  “This guy’s killed with no regard for life. What’s to stop him from hunting you?”

  “But…”

  Frisano cut him short. “Detectives, if you wouldn’t mind giving me and our stubborn P.I. a moment alone?”

  The two detectives cleared out, closing the door behind them. Frisano and Jimmy were at last alone, except for the double-sided window on the far side of the room. This was no time to embrace each other, not with all of the 10th to witness. Jimmy remained seated, and Frisano came over, sitting back on the edge of the desk. Jimmy looked up at him, felt his heart beat faster, knowing this man with whom he’d shared a night of intimacy was this close to him and he could do nothing about it. He stared at his dark eyes, his shadowy cheeks. Frisano had one hand clasped over a hairy forearm.

  “Jim, I don’t need you doing anything stupid, middle name be damned.”

  It was meant as a joke, but neither laughed right now. “Leave Assan to us. I mean it.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Lie low for a couple of days,” he said. “Get out of town.”

  “Actually,” Jimmy said. “That was already in the plans. But now I’ve got two missions.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not about Assan. It’s about my other case.”

  He nodded, then got up. “Take it easy out there. We don’t want anything bad to happen.”

  “I didn’t know you cared,” Jimmy said.

  Frisano frowned. “Not here, Jim.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jimmy went through the now-open door of the interrogation, feeling a blast of the cold air swirling in the corridor. It chilled his blood. About to leave, he turned back to Frisano, who was walking behind him, and said, “Can you tell me one thing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Assan’s motive? Any idea?”

  “See, that’s the problem. He doesn’t seem to have one. That makes him the worst kind of killer. It’s like he’s doing it for the thrill.”

  § § §

  “Ma, you ready? Come on, let’s get going.”

  “Hold your horses, Jimmy. Meaghan, come on.”

  Jimmy stood by the front door of the McSwain apartment, overnight knapsack in hand. Wednesday had rolled around, Jimmy was well rested after his overnight in the interrogation room, and at eight this the morning he was, oddly, raring to go. He’d volunteered to drive his mother upstate to Grandmother Hester’s lakeside cottage, and with Meaghan still not feeling her usual self, Maggie had told her to pack a bag, she wasn’t leaving her behind. Now, it was Jimmy rushing them out of the door; the headline in this morning’s paper had furthered the story of Rashad Assan, with a double angle. The first was MANHUNT. The other: TARGET. Both of them showed the respective men, bad guy and good guy.

  Jimmy didn’t need this kind of attention. It wasn’t himself he was worried about, but his family. Mallory was well protected in the offices of her law firm, not to mention her doorman building and the arms of Taylor Hendrix. Jimmy worried that Maggie might be targeted, or his younger sister, and in her delicate condition, he didn’t need added complications. So it was best to get them out of the city, away from nosy reporters, not to mention the heat. The sun was still baking the sidewalks of the city. Where they were headed, a lake awaited them, and he would be the first to throw himself in its cooling currents.

  Maggie emerged from her room, her suitcase in hand. Jimmy took hold of it, told her to start heading downstairs. She did as asked, and Jimmy waited for Meaghan. When she finally showed, he asked her how she felt.

  “No change,” she said. “I’m sure a car ride will make me nauseous.”

  “You took the test?”

  “Two of them. Do two positives equal a negative?’

  He hugged her. “I don’t think it works that way. Have you told Mom?”

  “Hell no.”

  “We’ll talk later. Come on. Let’s hit the road.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the McSwains were tucked inside the aging Stratus, Jimmy behind the wheel as they hit the West Side highway, driving northward. The George Washington Bridge loomed in the distance, its expanse majestic against the bright sky of this early July day. With the Fourth of July holiday just around the corner, it was the perfect time to get out of the city, and as evidenced by the traffic on the Henry Hudson Parkway, they weren’t alone in their thinking. But soon, they hit the Saw Mill Parkway and the cars thinned out a bit. Jimmy had the air blasting, and his mother kept adjusting the dials to find the ideal temperature. Meaghan sat in the back; he was stealing looks at her, watching for any signs of her turning green.

  The ride was smooth enough, and soon they had crossed over to Interstate 84 and come to the border of Westchester and Putnam counties. They kept passing signs for various small towns as they continued toward Connecticut, Jimmy comfortable on the open road. It felt so good to be out of the city, away from the persistent crime, heat, its crazy killers, and the jailed innocent. He looked over at his mother and saw the smile widening on her face. What she most loved was what she was doing now, spending quality time with her family.

  The force that was Hester Byrne, though, would soon be upon them.

  A sign on the side of the road caught Jimmy’s attention, his eyes going wide. He nearly swerved into the other lane, but thankfully, no one was coming the other way. What he saw was a sign for Parsons Hill Correctional Facility, just over the border of Putnam County beyond a village called Gavin Hills. He knew the Hill was located somewhere upstate, but so close to their destination would make his escape from the cottage that much easier.

  “Watch the road, Jimmy,” Maggie instructed. “The point of getting us out of town is to keep us alive, isn’t it?”

  Their destination neared, a small hamlet known as Peach Lake, located on the northern edge of the town of North Salem, population 1,600, give or take a grandmother. Hester Byrne, Maggie’s seventy-eight-year-old mother, lived there year round in a small cottage on a tree-lined lane near the lake. She’d given up on New York City twenty years ago, she and her husband, Mickey, having chosen early retirement to open skies. Grandpa Mickey had left this world eight years ago, right after Jimmy had graduated from the police academy. The photograph Jimmy had sent his proud grandfather represented the only time other than graduation that
he’d worn his dress blues. It still hung on the wall of the house, or at least, he assumed it still did. He had not been to the lake since last Labor Day. He was sure Grandma Hester would have a thing or three to say about that.

  At last, they took the exit at Route 121, and Jimmy found himself on familiar footing as he wound his way along narrow roads. A few more minutes had him pulling the car into a driveway behind a rusty-looking Pontiac. It was his grandmother’s car, one she used for going to the grocery store or church, and that was pretty much all she needed it for. Meaghan was first out of the car, where she made fast, icky use of the bushes near the house. She couldn’t control it, Jimmy saw, and he felt bad for her. Her retching sounds were unmistakable. Maggie gave Jimmy a confused look, but before anything more was said, the front door to the cottage opened up, and there stood Hester Byrne.

  She was wiry and tall, almost five nine. She wore a simple housecoat, patterned with red flowers. Her hair was all gray now, but still in the same bob he’d forever associate with her. With her hands on her hips, she was all Irish attitude. She waited for Meaghan to finish before she came forward down the stone path, cracked in too many place from the elements.

  She took Meaghan into her arms, then said, “So you’re pregnant, huh?”

  “What…”

  “Easy girl, we’ll talk plenty. Let me first see this tall hunk of a grandson I’ve got,” she said, taking Jimmy into her waiting arms. He felt her warm embrace, as though she were trying to suck him into her world. At last, she pulled back, and she said, “So, what’s his name? He sure has your heart racing.”

  “What…”

  Then she turned to her daughter. “And you, Maggie, you tell me nothing!”

  But Maggie McSwain offered up nothing as she stared at both of her children. He shook his head, wondering why he was so surprised. Hester had this uncanny ability to read people, and also a talent for putting her usually unflappable daughter on the spot. Few people got the best of Maggie McSwain, but at the top of that very short list was her imposing mother. Age had done nothing to diminish Hester.