Fresh Kill

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1A new morning, which always meant you got a fresh chance at grabbing at your dreams.

Jimmy McSwain stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, wrapping the damp towel around his waist. Trim, at thirty, but not as trim as it had been two months ago. Sometimes life’s stresses found its landing strip. Standing before the mirror above the sink, he considered the image staring back at him. He’d let himself go, his concern something other than himself. Which meant he knew, among other things, he wasn’t going to shave, even though he needed one. The scruff on his face growing more as beard than laziness. He was hard pressed to guess when last he had taken a razor to his face. Maybe a week?

But that’s how it was when you weren’t working full-time. You concentrated on other stuff. On things that mattered. And then his eyes went back to his waist. The trail of brown hair that led from here to there feeling the current bloat.

Not that his lover Francis X. Frisano minded. Neither the belly nor the facial fuzz.

“Let it grow if you want, I’ve never seen you with a full beard.”

He’d said that as he patted Jimmy’s stomach. Beverly Frisano had made lasagna last week and apparently, it had taken its toll. It had been worth it. A few sit-ups, or a fast-paced case, or a few more energetic turns in bed, would clear up most of that added weight.

Their exchange had been four nights ago, the last time the two of them had been together.

Apparently, his words had stuck to him as much as Mama Frisano’s pasta and sauce had.

This morning, as Jimmy wondered should he shed his cheeks of the thick whiskers, was it the same as him pushing the restart button? Give him a fresh start. Or should he leave them, a nod to the heartache which had consumed him these past months. Something in which to hide behind. He thought he kinda looked like the fuzzy GI Joe doll from the seventies, less the fatigues.

“f**k it,” he said.

The razor went back into the drawer. The shaving cream into the cabinet. Scruff won out.

Hiding won out.

Running a comb through his thick brown hair, he pushed it straight back, decided to let it dry on its own. Instead, he craved breakfast, coffee for sure, if not a toasted bagel. If he’d been at his office-c*m-apartment, he knew he’d be s**t-out-of-luck because he only had a half-fridge and usually the only thing he kept in it was beer. Thankfully he’d stayed overnight at his mother’s, and no doubt Maggie had the coffee percolating. Maybe even eggs, though those were usually reserved for the weekend. Friday didn’t count, the tease that it was.

Jimmy took one last look at himself in the mirror. So, this was thirty.

He was otherwise in shape, even if a few scars proved he’d led a hard life, like the mottled skin on his shoulder. A gunshot wound from the Stage Fright case had left its mark. Jimmy worked a tough job. But a quick check of his hair—on his head, his face, the mat on his chest—showed no signs of gray. So not too tough a life that it had taken its toll yet. He’d take the win. As he left the bathroom, a creak from his knees served as a reminder to not get too cocky. Age showed itself on its own schedule; little one could do to combat it. The body was a mystery never to be solved.

He padded back to his bedroom, where he tossed off the towel and put on jeans and a V-neck T-shirt. Simple, a nod that summer was coming but not quite warm enough to warrant shorts. He seldom wore anything but jeans anyway. He grabbed his phone and then followed the scent of coffee, entering the kitchen to find his mother, a weary-looking Maggie McSwain sitting in quiet contemplation at the table. The family shared weekly meals here, usually on Mondays when the theatre was dark. Lately, the table had been emptier, again. Without Mallory. Steam rose from her mug. Like she’d just gotten settled, her beverage still too hot to drink.

“Morning, Ma.”

“Morning, Jimmy. Just made a fresh pot.”

“Meaning you already finished a first one?”

“Restless sleep. Needed a pick-me-up. Heard you snoring.”

“I don’t snore. That was Joey.”

“Joey’s a baby. He just cries.” She smiled. “Before he settles down. Kind of like how you did.”

“Where’s his mother?”

“Meaghan had a date last night.”

Translation: she wasn’t home yet.

Jimmy could have judged and he supposed in his mind he did, for a split second, but hey, he was no saint. Meaghan might be a single mother but it didn’t mean she’d been sent to a convent. She deserved a life, a happy one. Joey’s father, Rocky, wasn’t in the picture. An occasional photo bomb, yeah, but nothing to put in the family album. Jimmy reached into the cabinet, picked out a mug that said World’s Greatest Uncle—it was new, a gift after Joey was born—then poured a full cup. He drank it black, no cream, no sugar, just the harshness of the coffee bean. It tasted like life: good, but with a bitter edge. He sat down in his usual seat, Maggie across from him. Neither said a word until the silence fizzled out.

“You need a case,” Maggie said.

“I have a case.”

“Not one so personal. Just a regular one. No husband is cheating on his wife?”

The call from the other day popped into his mind. “Why couldn’t it be a wife cheating on her husband?”

“Or a husband cheating on his husband.”

Her remark gave Jimmy a smile. Maggie was quick-witted, bordering on caustic, probably where he got it from. But it reinforced a simple truth—that she had never taken issue with Jimmy’s s****l orientation. Hell, she’d known he was gay even before he did. Mom’s had that instinct. And why not, they kept their kids to themselves for nine months before they let the rest of the world judge them. That was a bond beyond definition. She’d accepted Jimmy for who he was and what he was, what defined him. Like work. It wasn’t easy being a private investigator. Sometimes other people’s problems became yours. They ate at you.

“How is Frank?” Maggie asked.

It was an awkward segue from cheating husband to current lover. Jimmy rolled with it.

“He’s been busy. A string of robberies in Chelsea has him chasing shadows.”

“My son, the detective s***h poet.”

Jimmy lifted his mug, took a healthy gulp. “You raised me in the theatre. Dad raised me in the streets. That’s what you get.”

It was a potent comment, and a poignant one. Maggie reached over and clasped her hand in Jimmy’s, and the two of them exchanged a knowing smile. They felt his presence between them, as always. Joseph McSwain was gone, never forgotten, a ghost not looking to haunt, just to be the ethereal leader of the family he’d loved. To guide them in their choices in life, both good and bad.

“Ma, we’re good. Closure is one of those words that owns its meaning.”

She patted his hand. “You’re a good son, Jimmy.”

“I learned from the best, Ma.”

Without Maggie missing a beat, their tender moment switched to reality. “I don’t like that beard. Your father? He shaved every day. Even on Sundays. Yes, he had the mustache but that was cop machismo. I’ll stop at CVS on the way to the theatre tonight, get you a razor.”

He was saved from further discussion on his hirsute pursuit with the ringing of his phone. It wasn’t a phone number he recognized. But that meant nothing. That’s how it worked, someone would find him online, call him, try to hire him. Jimmy McSwain was selective about the cases he took. Like the call he’d received from that husband who wanted to catch his cheating wife. At the time, he hadn’t been interested. That day he’d been tired of how shitty people were to each other.

Today was another story. Maggie called it. He needed to work.

Rubbing his itchy cheek, he answered.

“This is Jimmy.”

“Jimmy McSwain? Detective?”

“Private. Yes. Who is this?”

“Myra Connelly.”

“Ms. Connelly, what can I do for you?”

“I found your number in my husband’s phone. He called you.”

Jimmy said nothing. Decided to listen instead to the silence because it never lasted.

“And now he’s dead.”

Those were tough words to hear, like a jolt of lightning hitting the body. Jimmy still didn’t say anything, because he was trying to think back to who Mr. Connelly was and when they might have spoken. Surely not the guy from last week. He hadn’t written the name down because the case hadn’t interested him. But he couldn’t recall another because Jimmy hadn’t done much work since Mallory’s shooting. Her health, recovery, all that came first. It was the luxury afforded to one who worked alone. It was actually the best part of his title. Investigator was rife with issues. Private meant you kept things close. It meant you had to find out stuff about others, and usually, it turned up bad stuff. Humans had big hearts, but they also owned terrible motives. He wondered which of those qualified here. He had a feeling it was the latter.

“My sympathy. But I’m not sure I recall speaking with him. When would this have been?”

“A week ago. I know why he called you. He told me. He suspected me of cheating on him.”

Yup, same guy, same case, just the opposite side. He’d feared as much. That call he’d taken the day Mallory had awakened. He had been as distracted as ever, no way could he have taken that case then. Now it rubbed him the wrong way, the man who had asked to hire him was dead, and the cuckold was calling him, looking for…what? Jimmy was intrigued, and perhaps it was just the spark he needed. A fresh case, a new start now that he knew Mallory was awake.

“Excuse me, Ma.”

He rose from his seat and went into the living room. Sunlight peaked through the curtains. The light of the world showing itself, even as he spoke about its darkness. Cell phone pressed to his ear. His coffee forgotten.

“I do remember his call now. I wasn’t taking any new clients at the time.”

“Are you today?”

“That depends. What do the police say?”

“Suicide.”

He exhaled. Life was precious. Why end it? “I’m guessing you don’t believe that.”

“Someone as arrogant as Philip Connelly would never shoot himself. I want you to prove that it was murder.”

Suspicion rose inside him. “Would it make you a suspect?”

“If I killed him, do you think I’d be asking a private investigator to disprove the police’s easy claim?”

It was a good point, but not necessarily a valid one. People did things for all sorts of reasons and Myra Connelly had already raised the hackles of collusion. As much as he wanted nothing to do with this case, it was work, and besides, he said no to the man once and now he was dead. Jimmy had learned one thing in life: you don’t say no to a dead man.

“We should meet,” Jimmy said, “You can tell me everything.”

“Thank you, Mr. McSwain.”

“Jimmy is fine. Tell me when, tell me where.”

“I’ll be in the city tomorrow. You name the place.”

“Paddy’s Pub, it’s on 45th and 9th Avenue. Friendly place, owned by my uncle.”

“It’s a date.”

It’s probably a phrase like that which got Myra Connelly into trouble to begin with. Saying it to someone who happened to not be her husband. They agreed on a one o’clock appointment and then the call ended, leaving Jimmy thinking about the details, those he knew, those he’d begun speculating about. A murder disguised as a suicide, the cheating spouse wanting to find out the truth. Why? Because she wanted justice? Or to alleviate lingering guilt. Either way, it was a good sign that a case had gotten his blood roiling. Or maybe that was the caffeine.

“Ma, any more coffee left?”

Her answer was drowned out by the crying of Baby Joey coming from the back bedroom. Never a dull moment here in the McSwain household. One minute a private investigator, another just an uncle. He went for the boy. He went for the future, the innocence.