Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  “A cop who went to prison,” Jimmy said.

  “That happened years later, after your father’s death.”

  “Doesn’t mean he was innocent until then. He just hadn’t been caught.”

  Ralphie set his glass down, turned toward Jimmy. His expression was deep, thoughtful. Jimmy had rarely seen his friend and mentor turn so serious, so suddenly. Darkness hit his eyes, and he blinked once, twice, before he zeroed in on Jimmy. Jimmy shifted in his seat, as though he were afraid of what his ears were about to absorb. His heart beat, and his head thumped. The pain was all over him, even in his heart.

  “Jimmy, what happened to Joey was terrible. I know it destroyed the boy in you.”

  Jimmy said nothing. He was fearful his voice would betray him.

  “As you know, it was the day after St. Patrick’s Day when Joey was gunned down. The night before, we are all at Paddy’s, knocking back beers, enjoying the holiday. Joey, though, you know he wore his heart on his sleeve, and I knew something was up. I asked him what it was, but he waved it off. Tonight is for celebrating, life could continue tomorrow. That’s what he said.”

  “You never told me this, Ralphie. Life didn’t continue tomorrow, not for him.”

  “Twist of fate,” he said.

  “No, I don’t think so. He knew something, and whatever it was, it got him killed.”

  Ralphie paused, then said, “Jimmy, say you do find the truth. What then?”

  “Then my father rests.”

  “Yup. And you?”

  “What do you mean?’

  “Even if you learn the truth, I don’t think you’ll ever truly let it go. It will haunt you.”

  “It will be over.”

  “Will it? You have no idea what box you might be opening. Pandora would be afraid.”

  Jimmy felt the chill wash over him again. The beer was pushing through him fast, and so he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He peed, his mind even more jumbled than when he first arrived, even from when he first woke. Something was wrong, even the face in the mirror saw it. Ralphie wasn’t being his usual self. He was less philosophical today. He was awash with warning and fresh facts, none of which settled well within Jimmy. After washing his hands, he headed back, found Ralphie staring up at the screen. NY1 News was on. Pat Kiernan was informing his viewing audience of breaking news. Jimmy saw the word “live” written across the top of the screen. It was a street scene, blaring sirens, flashing lights. A male reporter stood with a microphone in his hand. Unfortunately, the sound was off. Jimmy asked the bartender to un-mute the remote.

  “Again, Pat, we are live at the Fortune City Deli on Thirty-Fourth Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues in Manhattan, where a gunman has taken hostages. According to sources within the NYPD, the suspect is wanted in connection with several robberies of other Manhattan delis that have occurred during these past few weeks. It is said his name is Rashad Assan, a former NYPD officer and recent parolee, a man the NYPD has been seeking for the last week and who was nearly grabbed a few days ago upstate. It is also reported that among the hostages taken is a member of the NYPD. We will stay with this story as it unfolds.”

  Ralphie Henderson was left to finish his beer alone.

  Jimmy didn’t even say good-bye.

  Ralphie hadn’t been expecting one.

  Because Jimmy McSwain had raced out of the pub. His headache had faded. New blood fueled him. The truth about Joey McSwain’s murder was trapped in a local deli and surrounded by cops. Jimmy, after all these years, after all these false starts, was only minutes away.

  It felt like a lifetime.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jimmy thought the scene was right out of a movie.

  Flashing red lights, blue-painted barricades with the NYPD letters stenciled in white. The sirens had been quieted, the tension commanding the street. Two ambulances were in attendance, as well as a swarm of cop cars. Officers in uniform, too many to count, flooded the area, all wearing determined expressions on their faces. This was the face of the NYPD, ready to act, to stop a crime in progress and do so without injury to innocent bystanders. Curious pedestrians lined the sidewalk, pushed behind those barricades that blocked off 34th Street. Traffic had been cleared, leaving the usually busy thoroughfare that cut through Midtown eerily empty. Four news vans were parked near the end of the street. He recognized the familiar logos from ABC’s Eyewitness News, Fox News, and NBC. Reporters with microphones speaking to cameras, transmitting the latest speculation to the masses.

  Headache forgotten, Jimmy had taken the #1 subway to 28th Street, the closest he could get. Conductors were announcing that, due to police activity, all trains were bypassing the 34th Street stations. So Jimmy was topside a few blocks south of the action, took the rest of it by foot until he was stopped by a uniformed cop right before one of the barricades.

  “Best you head east; no one’s going down this street.”

  “I’ve been working this case with the Tenth Precinct. I can be of help,” Jimmy said.

  “Sorry, my grandmother is already consulting with them,” the guy said with a sneer.

  “Funny. But I’m telling you the truth. Just ask for Detectives Barone or Dean. Or their captain, Frisano is his name.”

  The cop paused, his blond mustache twitching with indecision. “This is Midtown South’s turf, not the Tenth. You want to talk to those guys, they’re down on Twentieth Street.”

  Jimmy stood there helpless, his curled hands gripping the wood of the barricade with his fingernails and feeling frustration flood through him. This was too important to be stopped by a kid barely out of the academy. He read the nametag: Murphy. No doubt part of a family of cops, a third or fourth generation. Just like Jimmy might have been, had life not changed with the blast of a gun. His mind tried to come up with a way to connect with the guy, but he didn’t get the chance. Murphy went over to stop a few other people who were trying to get down the street.

  His heart beating, eyes darting about to see if he was observed, and when he decided the coast was clear, Jimmy took his chance. He slipped under the barricade like he was doing the limbo, dashing down the middle of the street, ignoring the sudden cries of Murphy and another young cop. He only had to make it to the command center and find someone to vouch for him, his action would be forgiven and his assistance taken. He saw a group of men hovering together in a tight circle not one hundred feet from the scene of the unfolding drama. He recognized a familiar bald spot and felt a hint of hope hit him. Barone.

  “Hey, you, you’re not supposed to be here…” said another cop, approaching him.

  “I’m Jimmy McSwain, a P.I. I’ve been working as a consultant on this case. Just ask over there, Detective Roscoe Barone. He’s with those other policemen.”

  “Don’t move. In case you didn’t notice, we’ve got a situation here. No complications.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  The cop stayed beside Jimmy’s, radioing others for assistance. Jimmy heard him mention Barone and then came the crackle of a reply, the words unmistakable anyway.

  “He’s what…shit. Hang on, I’ll be right over.”

  While Jimmy waited for Detective Barone to rescue him from the overzealous officer, he stole a look at the deli that was the scene of the action. It was called the Gourmet Garden, but he doubted there was anything fancy about the place. All delis sold the same products, convenience items like milk, beer, soda. He’d never seen one that sold caviar and champagne. Out front, there were racks of flowers, as well as an ice chest filled with beverages, water, juices and such. Given its location, it probably saw heavy foot traffic during midday. Which had Jimmy wondering how many people had been inside the place when Assan entered the store.

  “Jesus, McSwain, what are you doing here?”

  “Roscoe, thanks for vouching for me,” Jimmy said.

  “Who says I did. Look, I know you’ve got interest in this case. But it’s tense, here, not to mention dangerous, Jimmy. We might have
Assan cornered inside the deli, but he’s got hostages, and among them is a cop.”

  “Shit,” Jimmy said.

  He paused, a catch in his throat. “It’s Larry.”

  Roscoe’s partner and Jimmy’s childhood friend from the neighborhood. “Double shit,” he replied. “How’d that happen?”

  “We were working the case, stopping by as many delis as we could. Warning owners to keep their eye out, distributing photos of Assan. Larry and I had just left this so-called gourmet place when he says he wants a pack of gum. Of all the stupid reasons…anyway, I went outside to wait. Next thing I know, chaos erupts. A gunshot went off, and I spun around, tried to re-enter the deli. It was already blocked off, and I could see Assan through the glass doors. He had a gun out, and it was pointed toward the man behind the counter. I mean, shit, we’d just handed the guy his photo not five minutes earlier. Talk about timing.”

  “Maybe the timing was perfect,” Jimmy said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning maybe Assan was trailing you. He is ex-NYPD. He’s got the training. Not to mention Midtown South was his beat. Maybe the personnel has changed since he first worked it, but if he’s got a beef against the NYPD, it’s fitting he picked his old stomping grounds.”

  “Fuck,” Barone said.

  It summed things up pretty well.

  “How many other people are inside?” Jimmy asked.

  “Three. A man, plus a woman and her teenage son.”

  Jimmy imagined the boy was probably not unlike Jimmy’s younger self. How would this situation resolve itself? Would it scar the boy for life, as it had Jimmy? Even given he survived. Hostage situations were never good, tensions were high, mistakes were made, emotions ruling the moment knowing anyone could die at any time. Again, Jimmy tried to understand Assan’s motives. Why delis? Why did he have to kill the men working there? And also, did it all start fourteen years ago at a deli over on 10th Avenue? Clearly he wouldn’t escape this time, not with the street swarming with cops. This was Assan’s end game, and here Jimmy was again. Had their separate lives been on a destiny-fueled collision course all these years?

  The truth about Joey McSwain’s murder could be inside that deli.

  “Who’s leading the charge here?” Jimmy asked.

  “Donovan. He’s the CO at Midtown. Frisano’s at his side.”

  “Can you get me to them?”

  “Not a chance, Jimmy. You got this far, don’t try any heroics.”

  “I wasn’t planning on storming the deli. I only want the hostages rescued.”

  “Then let us do our job.”

  Jimmy said nothing. He knew Roscoe was right. So he stood his ground, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching as the stand-off continued. He noticed Frisano coming out of a police van, another uniform at his side. He had to assume this was Donovan—Lieutenant Andrew Donovan. Jimmy had run into him before, on cases, but mostly at Paddy’s Pub. His uncle catered to the local precinct guys, and Donovan’s florid face and expanding belly gave evidence to that. But he was cool and calm now, speaking into a cell phone. Was he issuing orders, or did he maybe have Assan on the other end? Jimmy kept his focus on them. Frisano hadn’t seen him. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Probably good. He’d be pissed to know Jimmy had gotten past the barricades. But he would worry about that later. Frisano could be his future. But for Jimmy McSwain, this moment had the past written all over it.

  Roscoe went off to check in with his team, conferring back in the circle.

  Jimmy thought about the layout of the deli. There were no back alleys, not on such a congested, well-built-up block. Buildings pushed against others. Which meant there was only one way in and out, the front entrance. Jimmy strained to see inside the deli, but his angle was off, and the reflection off the high sun created a glare against the glass doors. He wiped sweat from his brow, and he wasn’t alone. It could be the heat of the summer day, it could be from tension rising among the cops. The first priority was getting the hostages out. Assan came second. Did he know he had an NYPD detective among his captives? Had Larry Dean’s presence inside the deli prompted Assan’s actions? Or had Larry tried to thwart the robbery attempt, his bravery setting the stage for what was going down now?

  Just then, he heard the blast of a gun from inside the deli.

  The glass door shattered into shards, falling to the sidewalk.

  Jimmy felt his heart lurch in his chest while he saw the entire team turn.

  A commotion occurred, a wave of panic washing over the task force. He saw Frisano and Donovan duck back behind the van, only to peek back out. Guns were drawn all over. Behind cop cars, more police waited with their guns pointed toward the remains of the deli entrance. The city, at least this block, was as quiet as Jimmy could recall. No honking horns, no zooming cars. The decibel level was eerily silent. Holiday weekends in Manhattan were notoriously laid-back. But the quiet here crackled with mute energy. It was there, fear filling the air.

  Jimmy watched as a figure from inside the deli made his way toward the doors. Wait, no, make that two figures. One of them in a chokehold, being led by the other. Jimmy edged a bit closer, dipping down behind the trunk of one of Midtown South’s cruiser. The cops gave him no notice. He saw Assan, his face familiar from the photograph he’d seen while being interrogated at the 10th, but even more so from Alicia House, when he’d scuttled his way across the gabled roof and toward freedom. His palms grew sweaty from being this close to him. He wiped his lips, almost as though what he tasted was victory. The moment could change on a dime. Assan held Larry Dean, the gun pressed to his head.

  Trying to think like Assan, he wasn’t sure he’d picked the right person to help him escape. The boy and his mother would have given him more leverage. But perhaps he had chosen an NYPD detective on purpose. His crime spree, was it about him getting back at deli owners for some unknown reason, or had he just been playing with his former brothers in blue? Did he plan to go out in a blaze of glory by taking one of New York’s finest with him? Jimmy slid his palms against his jeans, wiping away the sweat. His heart continued to thump as he watched Assan ease out of the front door, pausing before the shelf of flowers.

  “Assan, there’s no good end for you, let the man go.”

  It was Donovan speaking through a megaphone. His words bounced off the canyon that was 34th Street. Assan’s reply was to raise his gun to the air and press the trigger. This echo was bigger, more powerful than Donovan’s words. It served as a reminder of just how volatile the situation had grown. Assan clearly could not be reasoned with. He’d put the gun back against Larry’s temple; he’d already fired his gun a couple of times. What was to stop him from doing so again and claiming a victim?

  Because the moment a dead Larry Dean slumped to the ground, Assan was dead. Assan knew that too. Was that what he wanted?

  It was the last thing Jimmy wanted.

  He needed the man to live. He wanted him to confess to all of his crimes.

  Was there something he could do? Assan surely wasn’t expecting to be ambushed by a civilian. Could he get close enough, sneak around the sidewalk, perhaps hide near a neighboring store? A clothing store had a couple of racks in front; he could hide amidst the shirts on display. His eyes darted here, there, trying to figure things out. But he wouldn’t get his chance. He heard Donovan again on the megaphone.

  “Assan. It’s over. You once took an oath, to serve and to protect. This is not living up to it.”

  Fury hit Assan’s face, clear even from this distance. Jimmy felt his body tighten. Like it was all going to erupt now. It did. A gunshot went off. Assan pointing it to the street. It was like slow motion, Jimmy following the trajectory, seeing it hit its target. Donovan went down with a cry, holding his gut. Cops reacted, two of them going to his aid, others waiting with their guns at the ready.

  There was no need. Another cop stepped forward, planted himself. His gun pointed.

  He pulled the trigger and the explosive sound shatter
ed the quiet afternoon.

  “Noooo,” Jimmy heard, realizing it was his own voice mixing with the sound of gunfire.

  Assan dropped to the ground, Dean was thrown free. He scrambled back into the deli, a cop going on instinct to protect those others who had been held against their will. Meanwhile, the cops stormed the sidewalk, a rush of bodies that ended up becoming an impotent body of the law. It was unnecessary, because Rashad Assan, the crazed deli murderer and possible killer of Joey McSwain was lying dead on the sidewalk, blood flowing out of the gunshot to his forehead. It had been a perfect shot.

  Unbelieving of how quickly it had all played out, Jimmy stared at the gunman who had brought down a killer, the man still standing in the same spot in which he’d released the bullet. Satisfaction was written across his face. The gun was still aimed, like he was locked in place.

  His name was Francis X. Frisano.

  Jimmy’s heart quieted, realizing he kind of felt like Assan right then. Dead. He saw his entire world drain out of him, things called hope and salvation and redemption. The elusive past could now never be recovered, it had slipped away again into oblivion. Yesterday was as dead as the man who owned its truths.

  Amidst the commotion, Frisano finally turned and saw him. It’s like the world went quiet again, the two of them the only ones inside it. Jimmy held his gaze, ensuring that Frisano felt his pain. All he saw in return was triumph. Wait, that wasn’t true, he also saw his and Frisano’s own end game. It came with its own figurative bloodshed.