Second Shot

PrologueCase file #701: Fortune’s Enemy What was that old saying? The more things change, the more they stay the same. Jimmy McSwain thought such a phrase was much like Dickens’ dilemma, it being the best of times and the worst of times. A series of contradictions. Life was ever-evolving, ever-changing and each morning came with its own unknowns. There were a few constants. Guilt, remorse, regret. Each eating at his insides. Recurring dreams, blood soaked, never fading away into night’s shadows, remaining cruel even in daylight. Among them the haunting events of his last case, the Fresh Kill investigation, most notably the final shattering blast of a gun. How the trajectory of the unleashed bullet could have gone right through his flesh. Ended him. It hadn’t, thanks to a last-minute, desperate maneuver, a rush of adrenaline fueling his fight against a powerful assailant. The bullet had struck the other man and done its fatal damage. Landing a direct hit, right through his chest. His body falling to the floor, slow motion absorbing the shock. Liquid crimson everywhere. The impact forever quieting him. While the bullet hadn’t done any physical harm to Jimmy, its resonance still served as a reminder deep within him. When you play with guns, they tend to go off. Usually at a time when the sun was low and the moon bright, when motives crept toward morning. His life as a private investigator had taught Jimmy a harsh truth. One bullet led to another. To a second shot, and with it, a second chance at vengeance. Jimmy usually awoke in a cold sweat from these recurrent dreams. He’d known for half his life a bullet’s enduring effect. A split second that lasts forever. Spent cordite part of your DNA. Time advanced, the clock one guide, the sun another, its hold on the world unstoppable. Labor Day weekend was fast approaching, the summer months waning. Nature’s scheduled change, humans going back to work, part of the world wafting toward hibernation. What, or who else, had gone into hiding? A new enemy had. Truth was, there had been no sign or sight of the dangerous Mr. Wu-Tin, rendering Jimmy’s pursuit of him dormant. The lack of leads had only resulted in an exponential frustration. Gone since slipping out of the country after the debacle that was the end of his last case, bodies left behind in its wake; way too many of them. One was too many. Wu-Tin’s legacy of death was all that lingered, a selfish stench hovering over a humid city. Jimmy had checked in often with Lieutenant Roscoe Barone, now down at One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the NYPD. Barone was newly in charge of the Special Task Force, which investigated, among other cases, the alleged crimes of the notorious Chinese mobster. The last Jimmy had heard was that if—and when—Mr. Wu-Tin decided to return to New York, he would be the focus of a renewed probe. His crimes were known. Just unproven. For now, radio silence reigned. So, if some things hadn’t changed, surely some aspects of life had. The easy answer was lots. Jimmy had turned thirty-one, his birthday two weeks ago, his new age meaningless to him. He still felt young at heart, in body, in mind. Except on those early mornings when his shoulder felt stiff after a long sleep. Another souvenir from an old case. At least no gray hair yet. Despite the stresses that came with his job and the way in which he held the weight of his world on his shoulders, he continued to defy tomorrow. He’d adopted such a strategy since the death of his father. Responsibility wasn’t just a big word. It was his choice. He’d just returned home from the small town of Brewster, located ninety minutes north of the city, which is where he’d spent the month of August, nestled in the company, the comfort, and cuisine of his family: Grandma Hester, Ma, Uncle Paddy at times, Meaghan and Baby Joey, and of course a still-healing Mallory. They had celebrated his new year with a dinner, then a cake with many candles. Burning flickers a taunt. But, hey, it was just a number, all was fine so long as the family stuck together; we’re all still here. Mallory had been granted a rare reprieve from the Hammondsworth Institute for the night’s festivities. All the gift he needed. He’d foregone a wish. Why ask for something that wouldn’t come true? Of course, he’d thought of his father. Missing yet another year. Sixteen of them now. More years without him now than with him. Justice had enemies, time its primary one. Who else wasn’t there stung, too. His former lover, Captain Francis X. Frisano. Except he didn’t possess that title anymore. Jimmy had not seen nor spoken to him in over two months. Not even on his wish list to do so. A new year in his life had fallen, Jimmy having to face the truth of moving forward. He’d spent the month of July devoted to easy cases, earning quick money. Then he chose to take August off and retreat to his grandmother’s cottage on Peach Lake, swimming, walking, playing with his young nephew. Give his mind a rest while strengthening his body with morning jogs and laps in the lake. Private eye Jimmy McSwain had given himself a time-out. Now, the month of September loomed, just hours away. Jimmy was back home in the fifth-floor apartment located at 48th Street and 10th Avenue. The apartment in which he’d grown up, the room where he still stayed most nights. Now, drinking coffee and staring out the window, he watched a new day arrive. He was struck by the changes happening in the neighborhood. For so long as he could remember, from its front-facing windows the apartment provided a scenic view of the mighty Hudson River. Enabling him to watch the river’s ebbs and flows on quiet mornings and on dark nights. That view was fast changing with the construction of a new high-rise being built on the northwest corner of 10th Avenue. Projected at fifty-floors, the McSwains would soon gaze upon steel and concrete rather than water and nature. The construction workers had made significant progress during this past month. Seven skeletal-like floors of steel shot upward from the hard ground of Manhattan. Soon, he wouldn’t recognize the world he’d always known. A thought hit him. How long before their landlord sold this building? Jimmy shuddered as he finished his coffee. It had grown cold, anyway. Walking to the kitchen, he put the mug in the dishwasher and grabbed his charging phone from its socket. He locked up and headed out, uncertain when he would return. He might stay a few nights at his Hell’s Kitchen office. Found on Ninth Avenue, still a street he thought his beat-cop father would recognize. His uncle’s pub, Paddy’s, remained, a neighborhood fixture. Tenth Avenue was the current victim of gentrification. East and West were creeping ever closer. One avenue was the difference between what had changed, what remained the same. Jimmy found himself walking beyond Ninth, finding his way to the congested corner of 47th Street and Eighth, where he could see the marquee of The Harold Calloway Theatre. While its lights remained unlit in this early day, a new marquee and placards had been posted: a revue called And the World Goes ‘Round: The Songs of Kander & Ebb. An off-Broadway hit years ago, now making its official Broadway premiere. Advertised as an eighteen-week strictly limited engagement. First preview was September 5th, with an Opening Night scheduled for September 21st. Which meant his ma would be coming home soon, back to work. Back to reality. To life. Jimmy wondered if his older sister would be coming home, too. Mallory had made amazing progress over the course of the summer, walking with the aid of a cane. Her wits were as potent as ever, her tongue, silenced after the shooting, as tart now as that of the mother who’d raised her. It’s like she’d been granted a second shot at life. That was a good thing, not only for her but in setting an example for the entire family. A second act, in theatre-speak. Way back in June he’d pressed the reset button on his own life, successful when it came to his business. His personal life? That had ended at intermission. He claimed inwardly he was done with men, with relationships. That didn’t mean he was looking for a woman. You can’t change biology. Just boyfriends, and right now he didn’t want one. Encouraged by the fact his family would be coming home for a new Broadway season, he retreated to his second-floor office at 45th Street and Ninth. He checked his iPhone. No texts and no calls. All quiet, too quiet. He wasn’t sure he liked that. Noontime found him wandering over to the small fridge and grabbing a bottle of Bass Ale. He took a deep pull and then went over to the window. A different view from the construction of 10th Avenue awakened his eyes. Which meant he was focusing on the same view he’d seen for years. Thankfully, no changes here. Ninth Avenue was the equivalent of comfort food, like the multiple pages of a diner menu still offering the classics. The same restaurants, the same bars, the same shops, some of the same people on the street familiar to him, even in a city overflowing with strangers and tourists. Hell’s Kitchen was home; to actors and stagehands, beat cops, waiters, mothers, grandmothers, lots of dreamers. Families still. Filled with people who believed that old school still taught the best life lessons. Progress had a way of battling with the past. Still draining his beer, Jimmy contemplated not yesterday but the uncertain tomorrows each new sunrise would bring. What was next? An eventual phone call would give his thoughts its answer. Don’t look back, Jimmy, but don’t look forward either. Live for today. Something was always happening in this city. * * * * That eventual call came the next morning, way too early for his tastes. A time when even the sun seemed uncertain about beginning its ascent into the sky. Stretched out on the sofa underneath a single blanket, a swirl of air conditioning keeping him cool, Jimmy stirred. He looked at the screen of his phone—6:11 A.M.. A 212 area code, rare these days. Everyone had cell phones. This was a landline. Which meant it was business, which also meant he should pick up. Fast. “This is Jimmy.” “McSwain?” Because he was still half asleep it sounded like a stupid question. He paused. “Uh, you’re the one who called. At six-eleven in the morning.” “Yeah, I think I’ve got the right guy.” “Who is this?” “Byron Streb.” Jimmy sat up, elbows digging into flattened pillows from his night of sleep. “Streep?” “No, not like the actress. Streb. I know, it’s weird, but it’s my name.” He spelled it. “It still means nothing. Who are you?” “I’m a partner at Loeb, Rosenstein, Caravel and Streb.” “Glad you got in on the tail end of the letterhead.” He knew the law firm, at least the first three names Streb had spoken. “Mallory’s firm.” “You’re her brother.” “I am. But I don’t know you.” “I’m fairly new to the firm, I joined a few months ago. I merged mine with theirs after the untimely death of Saul Rothschild. I’ve been told you’ve done work for uh…us, before. “I have.” Jimmy was skeptical. He didn’t like cold calls. But work was work. The man’s tone shifted. “How is Mallory?” Well, score a point there. Even though Streb was new, he had a shred of compassion, and that was rare for many people, much less a lawyer. It had been a while since he’d done work for the firm, not since the Hidden Identity case. But the Madison Avenue firm specialized in a variety of legal needs: taxes, estate planning, wills, and of course, criminal defense, so this call could be about anything. Jimmy, tired as he was, figured Streb had a delicate situation that required the services of a discreet PI. His initial thought: an early morning call, someone was dead. “It concerns a will. And its rightful heir.” Okay, time for Jimmy to stop assuming. “Can you give me a second?” he asked. Streb was conciliatory. “Oh, sure, sorry, I realize the hour. I’m a morning person.” “I’m not,” Jimmy said. There was a chortle on the other end of the line. “Love it already.” “Love what?” “You sound like the classic PI. You are just what the client requires.” Jimmy considered what he’d learned so far. Not much beyond justifying stereotypes. Both about him and about lawyers. Extended phone conversations didn’t do much for him. He liked to hear the details of a potential case face-to-face. You not only got the low-down on the crimes in question, you got to observe the body language of the person looking to engage your services. The latter offering up insight to what he might be facing. Or what they were hiding. “Let’s set up a meeting,” Jimmy offered. Gazing at the red digits of the alarm clock he never used. He hoped the guy didn’t suggest an early breakfast. “Lunch? My treat. I know this pub on Fifty-Second and Second.” “Jameson.” “You know your city.” “I’m beginning to think you know too much about me.” “Lawyers should always know the answer to a question before asking it.” And then, not missing a beat, said, “We will see you later.” “We?” “My associate. He’ll be your main contact. Mrs. Portnoy is really his client.” He didn’t offer up the name of the associate. The two of them ultimately agreed to meet at twelve-thirty, giving Jimmy five hours to prepare (or sleep) for what might turn out to be his next case. He admitted to being curious. A will. That meant wealthy clients. He hadn’t expected to get a lead on a case so quickly after returning to the city, but isn’t that why he’d come home? His stretch of R&R was over, time had come again to return to the life he had forged for himself. Saving lives, protecting lives, deflecting his. Second shots were everywhere. Showering but still not shaving off the beard he’d grown earlier in the summer, Jimmy was dressed and tying his shoes when he heard his cell phone ring for the second time that morning, charging in the kitchen. Disappointed that the luncheon was about to be called off, what he saw instead lifted his heart. The Caller ID read, “Mallory McSwain.” It had been nearly six months since he’d seen her name pop up on his screen. Shot in the head, incapacitated, coma induced, followed by painful healing and countless weeks of grueling physical therapy, she’d finally been granted, barring a relapse, release from the Hammondsworth Institute. She was being treated on an outpatient basis now. Receiving her call proved she was slowly returning to the real world. He grabbed the iPhone before it could ring a third time. “Mal?” “I hear you got a call. A case.” “News travels fast. Guess you’re feeling better. You shouldn’t jump back in so fast.” “I refuse to be an invalid. I plan to be back to work in a month. Back to the city.” “Okay, I’m on your side. You know that, Mal. Always.” Not wanting to push beyond what she was capable of, what strength she could conjure, he also would welcome her insight into the two men he was about to meet. He asked, “What can you tell me? About this Streb guy.” “Old school. Pretentious. Thinks his s**t doesn’t stink. Think he went gray at thirty.” Mallory might have moved to the East Side and gone to work for a fancy law firm, but you couldn’t weed the girl out from her tangled roots. She inhaled more of Hell’s Kitchen than she exhaled. It gave her a streetwise edge in her line of work. “Got anything else for me?” “Streb is the figurehead, appeasing the family by allowing them to think a partner in the firm is directly involved in the case. In reality, you’ll be interacting with this young associate, Brandon Hendricks.” There was a noticeable catch in her voice. “He filled Taylor’s job.” Taylor. Mallory’s chicken-s**t ex of a boyfriend who flew the coop and across the pond for a safe life in London, all happening after her injury. “You okay with me taking this case?” “Jim, I told them to call you.” “You should be resting.” “I am. I’m fine. I’m healing. I’ve got help.” Just then, Jimmy heard a sound through the phone. A sharp, eager sound. “What was that?” “My new friend. Jimmy, Grandma Hester and I went for a ride yesterday. Her idea.” “I think I’m gonna need more details.” Then he heard the sound again. It sounded like woof. “Who is that?” “That’s Shade. My dog. A rescue, trained as a service animal. Just what I need.” Jimmy smiled. Not because of the dog, but because it meant that Mallory had committed herself to rejoining the world. Nothing would stop her from fully healing, from restarting her life. The shades served as protection. An appropriate name. Everyone deserved a second chance at life. Yup, that elusive second shot. A new case would soon begin. He named them all. Grabbing for his files, he began filling out the initial paperwork. Sometimes the title came first. This one was a natural. Case File #721: Second Shot Status: Unsolved Part 1: Justice Denied