Fresh Kill

Chapter 1-2

Guilt could wait.

* * * *

Summer hadn’t taken hold of New York City yet, but it was only mid-June. There was time. The stifling heat and humidity was growing ever closer, so soon he’d be sweating his way through the dog days of not just August but July; summer’s bark had long teeth. For now, it was a lovely day, bright sunshine and temperatures in the high seventies. A breeze kept the humidity away. Jimmy was headed toward Paddy’s Pub for his appointment with Myra Connelly. For effect, he’d donned a blazer over his uniform of T-shirt and jeans. Trying to make a good impression. What expectation in a private investigator Myra had, Jimmy couldn’t be sure—cool, casual, an air of respectability? Grizzled? Jaded?

He played all those roles.

Jimmy rarely hosted clients in his office-c*m-apartment above Paddy’s. Just easier to sit, have a drink if so desired, talk in hushed tones while the regulars watched whatever sporting event played out on the flat screens. Which is exactly what he witnessed when entering through the front door of Paddy’s, catching his uncle’s twinkling eye immediately. Paddy never missed a beat, he always knew who came into his bar. He knew patrons and he knew trouble. He nodded at Jimmy and directed him to an available stool. He rubbed his face; it itched.

“Lose your razor?”

Jimmy allowed a smile. “You sound like your sister.”

“Maggie always liked a clean-shaven man. Like Joseph.” She paused. “Except the mustache. That tickled.”

“So she said. Dad was always spiffy. Me? Guess I’m the rebel.”

“Beer?”

“I’m meeting a client.” Jimmy checked his phone. He was early. “Sure.”

A Smithwick’s Ale slid its way to him moments later, he took a sip. Tasted good. Like life, simple, a reward for having babysat Joey last night. Meaghan’s date had been a two-for-one. And Maggie had been on the late shift at the Calloway. Which meant Jimmy was the responsible uncle, and just binged on television with his nephew in his arms.

“How’s Mallory?” Paddy asked.

“Awake, thankfully. Healing. Confused.”

“I’ll go see her soon. Hester’s pestering me to visit anyway.”

Hester being Paddy and Maggie’s mother, Jimmy’s grandmother. She was old, and she was feisty. She lived upstate in a lakefront community called Peach Lake, not far from the rehabilitation center Mallory had been transferred to. Jimmy planned on going up this weekend. But for now, he had this new case, so he settled in with his beer to await the arrival of Myra Connelly. He thought back to their conversation, the sly way she’d said she would be in the city today. Which made him wonder where she called home.

“Anything else going on?” Paddy asked. He wasn’t very busy, his regulars content with a Yankees encore. They always won in those.

“Joey doesn’t sleep through the night, Meaghan’s seeing a new guy, Ma’s closing a show.”

“Seems you left someone out, there.”

He meant Jimmy. Paddy had been like a surrogate father to Jimmy since Joseph McSwain’s murder fifteen years ago. And just because the Forever Haunt case was finally solved—due to Jimmy’s dogged investigation—that didn’t lessen Paddy’s impact on his daily life. Like serving up a beer without judgment. Jimmy took another sip.

“Like I said, I’ve got a case.”

“First in a while.”

“I’m getting back to things. Trust me, I’m lying idle. He’ll get his reckoning.”

Paddy was an old-school bartender. He listened, asked simple questions. “Mr. Wu-Tin?”

But any talk of the criminal Jimmy believed was responsible for Mallory’s shooting would have to wait, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t ready to delve into that. For now, it was the woman who’d just entered the darkened pub that caught Jimmy’s attention. He might be gay, but even he was taken aback by how beautiful she was. Stunning, actually. He wasn’t alone in noticing her, Paddy’s eyes widened and all the boys at the bar took a long look, too. She didn’t look like a Myra, whatever one was supposed to look like. She was more of a Helen, as in Troy. Her parents probably never envisioned their Myra would turn out as she had. Jimmy stood up, smoothing his blazer as he did so.

“Ms. Connelly?”

“I thought we agreed on Myra.”

He extended a hand. “Jimmy.”

“That’s better, more personal.” She looked around. “Tiny establishment, I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking.”

“Could be Paddy’s slogan.”

Paddy’s Pub was long and narrow, the bar itself taking up half of the room. A pool table had been lodged into the back, though it was a tight squeeze. A couple tables, too. Jimmy suggested they grab one but Myra Connelly pointed to where Jimmy had been sitting. An empty stool was next to him.

“That’s fine. I don’t mind sitting at the bar.”

Jimmy escorted her, earning the envious looks of the straight men in the bar. He could hear them now: what a waste. Didn’t mean Jimmy couldn’t appreciate beauty. Myra Connelly had long, flowing blonde hair, but her roots had a darkening shadow. Not natural, but it looked great on her. Kind of like a femme fatale-type out of a forties movie, Kim Basinger-like. Didn’t pouty lips and curls win her an Oscar for such a role? He wondered what kind of actress he might be up against now. Beautiful women sometimes held ugly secrets.

Paddy approached, welcomed her. “Can I get the lady a drink?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Martini. Three olives.”

“What kind of vodka?”

“Gin,” she said, a hint of derision in her voice.

“I knew I liked you,” Paddy said before shuffling off to make her a classic martini.

Myra turned to Jimmy. “You’re a handsome fellow. I expected someone more…beat up?”

“I’m good at deflecting punches.”

“And compliments.”

“Want to tell me about your husband?”

“We’ll get there.” She waited for her drink and when it arrived she took a gentle sip. She approved and told Paddy so. Jimmy thought he saw his uncle blush.

“You need anything else, you just let me know. You’re in good hands with Jimmy.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

Myra shifted on her bar stool, crossed her legs, revealing shapely legs. Even Jimmy looked. When his eyes darted back up, they met hers, emerald green, not unlike his mother’s but containing a gleaming fierceness to them. Myra Connelly didn’t look like a lady who anyone ever said no to. Even Jimmy had said yes, and that was before he’d even laid eyes on her face. Hearing her voice in person, he remembered a certain purr when they’d spoken on the phone.

“Philip wasn’t wrong. I was having an affair. Uh, affairs.”

Guess it was time to cut to the chase, confirm rather than deny. But Jimmy wanted info on the death, not the life.

“So the cops think he killed himself because of your affair? Uh, affairs.”

She smiled, took a sip for effect. She was good. Then she resumed. “Except he would never do that. Philip loved himself too much, more than he could love me.”

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

“And I was the second prettiest person in the marriage,” she said, with regret.

“Do you have a photograph?”

She did. Jimmy expected a modern gal like her to pull up a photo on her phone. Instead she pulled out a print, slid it over and waited for Jimmy to pick it up. A quick glance and he nodded. He appreciated her comment referring to himself as handsome, because she obviously knew what she spoke of. Philip Connelly could have been a model, and who knows, maybe he was, or rather, had been. Chiseled looks, dark brown hair that if touched by the wind would just flow back into its natural state. A cleft chin and dimples, his indents only intensifying his appealing face. The only part Jimmy called into question were the eyes: they were dark, hooded. No one person was perfect, except Philip nearly was. He imagined the two of them arriving anywhere would cause a whiplash epidemic.

If Myra was the cheating spouse, did Philip turn around and return the favor?

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“Just absorbing him,” Jimmy said, sliding the photo toward her. “Getting a sense of him.”

She pushed it back. “You can keep it. For reference.”

“Assuming I take the case.”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t mind gazing at him when you feel like.”

Jimmy allowed himself a wry smile. “I’m taken.”

“So was I. Our stuff, other people, happens.”

Oh, but she dug deep, and hard. Jimmy took a last sip of his beer, signaled for another.

Myra did the same with her martini.

The men at the bar were watching their every move. Or maybe just hers. Jimmy, they knew. “Maybe a table in the back?” she suggested.

“Better yet, use my office,” Paddy said, arriving with the fresh round of drinks.

Jimmy took hold of both drinks, careful not to spill her martini, as she grabbed her purse and the photo of her deceased husband. The five of them headed back to Paddy’s private office at the rear of the bar. A plain desk, a couple chairs, empty beer cases, a lone keg. A framed picture of Ireland behind the desk, lots of greenery detailing the various counties. The coloring matched the eyes staring back at him.

“Shall we get down to business?” Jimmy asked.

“I didn’t kill him,” she said. “I promise.”

“Did your lover?”

“Lovers.”

Yup, she liked to hit hard, but at least she wasn’t holding back. “Philip wasn’t enough?”

“Neither was the other Philip. Too stuffy.”

The Other Philip. Okay, consider that interesting. Same name, but not too stuffy to screw.

“Tell me about the death. Why do the cops think it’s suicide? Where did it happen?”

“The body was found in the park.”

“Central?”

“No, in Freshkills. It’s on Staten Island.”

Staten Island. The bastard step-child of New York City. The Bronx was tough, Manhattan glamorous, Queens blue collar, and Brooklyn all hipster attitude. When it came to the city’s fifth borough, New Yorkers kind of forgot about it. Pretended it was part of New Jersey. It wasn’t, but it also wasn’t so easy to get to. A ferry or a bridge. Neither convenient. Jimmy was already sensing he was going to turn this case down, proximity the leading factor. Except he saw the desperation in those verdant eyes, as well as the haunting voice of the deceased asking him to investigate the woman sitting in front of him. Humans were complex characters.

“Philip was found by a woman walking her dog. He was on the park bench, she thought he was drunk, sleeping off a bender. Philip never drank. Ever.” She punctuated her statement with a sip of her martini. Myra Connelly knew from irony. “But then the woman saw the wound on the side of his head, then the gun on the ground. She called 911. Residue from the blast tested positive on Philip’s right hand.”

“Something tells me that detail is important.”

“Philip was a lefty. The police didn’t seem to think that mattered.”

Yet it did, rendering the death suspicious, a c***k in the armor of an investigation. Jimmy didn’t like when justice was easily dispensed. Clues were there for a reason. Follow the trail, find the truth. He leaned over, all while trying to read her expression. Either she was a good actress—wait, make that great—or she had truly loved Philip, despite her transgressions. She’d yet to shed a tear in front of him. That was a good sign. Jimmy found tears false, part of a performance. Especially from a damsel such as Myra.

“You’ll give me the contact info for the police?”

“That means you’ll take the case.”

He paused, thought, reacted. “I’ll take the case.”

She reached out and touched his hand. He could feel her pulse, steady and assured. A cool one, this Myra Connelly.

“I assume you can meet my fee?”

“Money’s not an issue, at least, it won’t be once you prove it was murder.”

Here came the first inkling that something wasn’t on the up and up. “Why is that?”

“Philip’s insurance policy, it doesn’t pay if he committed suicide.”

This case, it had everything Jimmy hated about his job. Love, marriage, betrayal, affairs, sin, money. But wasn’t that what made the world turn? He might have become a private detective in an effort to help resolve his own demons, but along the way he’d found other people needed to file away their own. Myra Connelly wasn’t unlike other clients he’d agreed to help over the years. Some just wanted answers; she wanted justice.

But what she most wanted, it seemed, was the cash payout from a dead husband who had died under questionable circumstances. All while she was sleeping around the city with the Other Philip and who knew who else. Or at least, on Staten Island. A dread hit him as he realized a ferry ride was in his near future. He remembered an old friend who’d lived out there and thought about how he’d referred to his home:

Staten f*****g Island.

Jimmy sensed he’d be repeating that phrase, often.