False Justice

By Adam Carpenter

Jimmy McSwain has to meet a man named Alexander Cort, a real-estate agent with a story to tell about an old set of friends, dating back to his childhood in Hell’s Kitchen. The friends called themselves the Four Kitcheneers, bonding together over their own ambitions and memories. On graduation night, one of the four disappeared and the other three engaged in a cover-up. Or maybe not.

The question of what happened to Silas Clayton lingers fourteen years later. As Jimmy begins his investigation of what happened that fateful night, he also tries to put the final nail in the casket of his previous case, one that ended with Captain Francis X. Frisano arresting him for killing Mr. Wu-Tin.

These pieces comprise a puzzle Jimmy just can’t seem to solve. Until two bodies are found at the construction site across the avenue from where he grew up. Suddenly Hell’s Kitchen’s shadows are being exposed to a blinding sun of truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685505387

Book preview

False Justice

By Adam Carpenter

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2022 Adam Carpenter

ISBN 9781685505387

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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False Justice

By Adam Carpenter

Prologue

Case File #721: Second Shot

Early morning, here’s what he heard in the din that came with the metallic clank of bars. The steady clomps of boots against cement floors, an echo reaching all the way down to his cell. The corridor stark and less than welcoming. Daylight not part of the décor. Of course, light was in short supply. This was prison. Basement level, cold and insidious in its intent to intimidate.

Still, it sounded like someone was coming for him. Was there progress?

Monday morning had finally arrived, or so he thought by his own internal clock. His stay hadn’t gone that long that he had to start carving days on the walls. Shawshank this wasn’t. But after a weekend behind bars, his hope that Mallory was focused on the job to get him free was at hand. The moment had come to be arraigned.

He’d been in here since Friday night. Sometimes the wheels of justice were square.

Jimmy McSwain had had a lot of time to think. About the events surrounding the demise of the criminal thug known as Mr. Fong Wu-Tin. Several scenarios raced through his mind and his system, and each scenario ended on the same denouement. See, it had all started at the end of an earlier case, dubbed Forever Haunt. Jimmy had a habit of tracing all his cases, small or major, each assigned titles and numbers for issues of clarity and completion. Today, this very morning, as those thud-like footsteps lurched ever closer, Jimmy sensed this was the end game. Much like the series of cases that had led him to piecing together the secrets of his father’s killer, he knew when a case file went into the file cabinet. But then came Mr. Wu-Tin as the perpetrator who had targeted him and, with retribution, his sister, both of them collateral damage in a plot of vengeance. What happened had become a second extension of what defined Jimmy.

Justice.

Mallory was on the mend, physically. Thankfully.

Jimmy was not on the mend, psychologically. Here’s why.

He’d done something that went against the grain of who he was, swore to never do what he’d done—both as a private detective and as a private citizen. Jimmy McSwain hated guns, and he never used one while on the job. But that deadly night, shit, only three nights ago, he’d had no choice but to go against the grain of his moral code. It was shoot or be sliced by a Samurai sword from a power-hungry, demented crime lord with nothing to lose. It had all taken place in the man’s restaurant office in Chinatown, Jimmy ready to take him down for his crimes, against his own people, and against Jimmy’s own family.

At the age of fourteen, Jimmy’s world had been altered as he witnessed his father being gunned down on a Manhattan Avenue, and since then he’d abhorred the look, the feel, the smoky smell of the metal that made guns. In his line of work, many PIs used them, to defend themselves or cut down criminals. Jimmy liked to opt for other solutions than gunfire. Jimmy, yeah, he had a gun, but kept it locked in a file cabinet within his office, stashed with the written records he kept of his varied cases. Even when he’d been tracking down his father’s killer, he hadn’t needed a gun. But now, everything was different. The world had shifted.

He’d been given a residue test. Gun fired.

He’d been arrested, booked. Jailed.

Maybe his mugshot would work on Grindr.

"McSwain?"

He still couldn’t see the figure approaching. But his response was easy.

"Who else would it be?"

"I heard you were a smart-ass."

The figure emerged, a guard in a gray prison uniform. He was new to Jimmy, a changing of the so-to-speak guard. But he guessed the weekend guys and weekday guys conferred on the personalities of their charges. Jimmy liked to cooperate with the authorities, being the son of a cop, but this situation called for a different approach. Given that he’d been stuck behind bars for three days hadn’t exactly had him thinking about a donation to the police benevolent society.

Jimmy approached the bars of his lone cell, grabbed hold of the cold iron where he saw a large man, probably about six feet seven and like three hundred pounds, approach. Even his shadow was oversized. He was gruff, arms thick, legs thick. Not a man to mess with.

"You’re gonna come with me."

"Breakfast time?"

"If you want. Or you could just go upstairs for your arraignment. Any luck, in an hour you’ll be at Starbucks."

"I prefer Dunkin." Or after three days here, his Uncle Paddy’s pub.

But first there was procedure. Jimmy knew the protocol. He stuck his hands through the grate, where he was handcuffed. Then the gate was opened and Giant Guard escorted Jimmy down that dim, cold corridor. A dripping faucet could be heard, an echo of what he was leaving behind. Cement steps took them upstairs, silence keeping them both company. They emerged into a wood-paneled lobby, obviously the outside of a courtroom. They didn’t stay there long. Giant opened the door and kind of pushed Jimmy into the small chamber.

"Enjoy your latte later, must be nice to have friends," the man said while he transferred Jimmy to another person waiting inside the room. It was his lawyer, and not the one he was expecting to see. One he never expected to see again. Why wasn’t Mallory here?

The young man, handsome and stylishly dressed, approached him and brought Jimmy to the defense desk. Sat him down.

"Brenden, what the hell’s going on?"

"I’m handling your case right now."

"Mallory said she was my lawyer."

"The firm asked her to recuse herself. Given that Mr. Wu-Tin allegedly shot her. And that she’s your sister…conflict of interest. So, you’re stuck with me. And before you ask, no, no one at the firm knows about our own personal history. I don’t fuck and tell. He paused and smiled. Wish I could. We were hot together. Except right now, you look like shit."

"I’ve been in jail for three days."

"That ends now."

"They’ve got me charged with murder."

"Actually, the charge has been reduced to manslaughter, a less severe accusation. Just a simple bail hearing happening today and given the fact you were working with an NYPD task force will work in your favor. I’ll have you out in a few minutes."

"Yeah, except it was the NYPD that arrested me."

"No, they didn’t. Your ex did. He was jealous. Of me."

That comment held some truth. Some falsehood.

Jimmy was spared further soap opera drama because the disheveled, crinkly suited ADA arrived and officiously plopped down at her table; she looked like someone who hated her alarm clock. She threw a snide look at Jimmy and Brenden. Probably got the case five minutes ago. Still, there was a hunger in her eyes to prove her worth. Not one to be underestimated. He knew her type, she’d do all she could to deny him bail. Brenden urged Jimmy to take his seat, and the moment he sat down, the bailiff said, All Rise, for the Honorable Albert Jackson the Third.

Jimmy wondered if the first two had been judges as well. Distracting thoughts.

Judge Jackson was probably seventy, bald, a protruding belly. Thick glasses.

But still a powerful presence, especially when he slammed the gavel down with a thud. He was an efficient jurist, no pretense. He simply stated, Let’s get this one over with, should be an easy one. State the case and I’ll render a decision before my coffee is cold. We all move on to more important matters.

"Alicia Morosco for the prosecution, your Honor. And I resent the classification as this matter unimportant."

Brenden shot back up. Your honor, I object to the prosecutor’s assumption of guilt.

There came silence as legal challenges were exchanged with dagger eyes.

"Okay, the two of you. Sit and keep your traps shut, it’s only the first day of a new week. Here’s what’s going to happen here. I don’t need any evidence, I don’t need any finger-pointing. I’ve already been advised by the NYPD’s commissioner’s that this case is far down the totem pole, so I’m going to dismiss it at hand. He paused, then gazed over in Jimmy’s direction. Mr. McSwain, it is my understanding from Lieutenant Salvatore Frisano that you were working with a specially formed task force to take down the alleged crime boss, the victim at the center of his case. You are a private citizen, a licensed private detective. It’s alleged that your actions were in the interest of the NYPD but your own family. A conflict indeed, but it’s my judgment that the NYPD manipulated you into this situation to achieve the end when they failed to be able to do so themselves. He paused. It’s my understanding this isn’t your first time upstaging the NYPD."

"Your honor, if you please, the prosecutor said, rising with righteous indignation. Like she was running for office. This supposition is all highly inappropriate, this judgment before truth needs to be further explored."

"Ms. Morosco, I suggest you not mess any further with my courtroom. Unless you can provide additional evidence of intent on Mr. McSwain’s part to kill Mr. Wu-Tin, I am dismissing this case as self-defense. So obviously there is no need for discussion of bail. Mr. McSwain, you are free to go. And can I just add, it intrigues me that the arresting officer didn’t see fit to appear here in my court to offer up support for his actions. Details are missing here, and as you have the right to confront your accuser and he’s absent, this is a non-case. Nothing to pursue."

Jimmy wasn’t a lawyer, but what he heard was that he was free. Charges dropped.

But it didn’t mean the case was over.

First, there was the overzealous ADA who wanted a notch on her bedpost.

Second, there was the missing presence of Captain Francis X. Frisano. Had he realized what he’d set into motion when he cuffed Jimmy in a huff after Wu-Tin collapsed and then died from his wounds (plural, Jimmy thought) in the Chinaman’s office? It had been a bogus arrest, and while Frisano ceded he had to go by the book, it was clear he’d overstepped his authority on the task force, especially considering Jimmy was working for the man’s father. All had gotten intense between them during the Second Shot case—hell, earlier—and while Jimmy may have spent a couple of nights in jail, he figured Frisano was facing his own prison, personally, and with his father, professionally.

Nothing ever seemed to work with Jimmy and Frisano. Except the sex.

Jimmy was removed from his reverie with the banging of the gavel. Judge Jackson exited with the final All Rise commandment, and suddenly the courtroom was left quiet, empty of the rule of law. ADA Morosco packed up her briefcase and books and made a hasty exit. She wasn’t pleased, but then again, she was out for a win, not justice. Maybe set the alarm earlier.

Brenden rose. He faced Jimmy. Congratulations.

"It’s not over, Brenden."

"Jimmy, Wu-Tin is gone. His story is over."

"Except one piece of the story remains a mystery. The second shot."

"Jimmy, let it go. You’re free."

"I’m not free until I know who actually killed Wu-Tin. I didn’t pull the trigger twice."

"My advice to you, Jimmy, go home, shower. Maybe time to shave that beard. It’s looking a bit straggly. You’re hot enough without it. And hey, maybe in a day or so we can meet for drinks and pick up where we left off. I mean, given what Captain Frisano did to you, I don’t see the two of you resuming your fractured relationship."

Jimmy had so many words on his lips but none of them would come out.

Brenden grabbed his stuff and made his exit, leaving Jimmy alone in the courtroom, the scales of justice staring at him, blind as they were. He didn’t know what to feel, in his heart or his mind. He hated lingering mysteries, like his father’s murder, now Wu-Tin’s. It was the kind of thing that awakened him at four A.M. That’s the time he went to his files. Insomniac research.

He lived his life to help people, to solve crimes, mysteries, the worst impulses of humans.

One last look at the room. Then he made his way out of the courtroom, out of the criminal court building and onto the streets of Lower Manhattan. All around him were high rise buildings and government offices. He’d had enough of the justice system, time to make a hasty exit. Where to go? What to do? Was he going to spend his time searching for the person behind that second shot, the real killer? Or did he move on, or better yet, just go home? Maybe all three.

He walked west and then hopped the 3 train. He got off at Times Square, 42nd Street.

Almost home.

Hell’s Kitchen awaited him. He wondered where his life or job would take him next. For now, he walked the hard sidewalks of 9th Avenue, the sun rising on a fresh new week beaming down on him, deceptive in its beauty. He knew it wouldn’t last, first came clouds. Then, in Jimmy McSwain’s life, came darkness.

And there it was, 45th Street, Paddy’s Pub. He’d earned his Smithwicks.

His uncle Paddy greeted him the moment he entered the near- empty bar. It was early. He hadn’t even wiped down the long, wooden bar.

"Ah, Jimmy, where ya been?" His Irish accent thick this morning.

There was always a falsehood to tell, but the truth was better for the soul. Jail.

"First one is on me."

"They’re always on you."

"That’s because family is money enough."

The first sip took away the bitterness of the jail. The second reminded him life continued.

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Part 1: The Body in the Basement

Chapter 1

He wasn’t expecting a phone call, the harsh ring taking him by surprise. But, see, that’s the thing when you sign up to be a private investigator, you had to be prepared for the next case, and it was best to keep your phone on a loud setting. Now was the perfect playing out of such a theory. Jimmy McSwain was behind closed doors in his office, making notes on his recent jail stay. It had been two weeks since he’d been behind bars, which also meant it had been two weeks since he’d had a case that didn’t involve himself.

That was about to change.

Reaching for the phone, he said, This is Jimmy.

Casual, even though it was a number he didn’t recognize. Start things off on a good note.

Jimmy McSwain?

That would be me. Who would be you?

There was an extended silence to the point where Jimmy thought the man had hung up. No such luck. More like he was reconsidering his decision to make the call.

This is…uh, Alexander Cort. Alex for short.

The name meant nothing to him. But many of Jimmy’s clients and cases came out of the blue. That’s how it worked, word of mouth or an Internet search, but no matter how they found him, they were looking for him for a reason. A part of their life needed investigation, and it usually came with complications and uncertainty. It’s how he made his living, and truth be known, he was grateful for this call. A way to take him away from his own issues on the last case he was wrapping up.

A new case would be a welcome change.

Alex, I’m guessing you’re in need of a private investigator?

There was a pause. Um, yeah, yes, it’s hard to explain over the phone. Can we meet?

Sure. But why don’t you give me an inkling of what we’re dealing with?

Again, there was that pause. I need you to find out if I killed someone.

Now it was Jimmy’s turn to be rendered silent. For a man who had recently dealt with a manslaughter charge hanging over his head, to hear of another man suffering with the uncertainty of death, or murder, caused an influx of second thoughts. Maybe he should just say no thanks to this one, hang up, not involve himself in whatever trouble this man envisioned. But he couldn’t just walk away so dismissively. He’d gotten off, justice prevailing. Maybe he could do the same with this man? Obviously experiencing some kind of unexplainable guilt.

What had he said? If I killed someone. If was always catnip to a PI.

Alex, when would you like to meet?

As soon as possible. Perhaps tonight?

Let me ask you this—who do you think you killed, and when?

I’ll tell you everything when we meet. It’s just, I’ve been having these dreams.

About what?

About murder, said Alexander Cort. Please, Mr. McSwain, I need your help.

He sounded young, near about Jimmy’s age. First of all, it’s Jimmy. And yes, I can meet with you. Just say where.

My apartment if that’s okay, I’m afraid to go out. Eighty-third and Amsterdam. Say, seven o’clock? I’ll explain everything then. He gave Jimmy the full address, said to ring the second floor.

Jimmy agreed and the call ended. He stared at the paperwork spread before him. His case files were old school, stored in folders inside a metal file cabinet. Sure, he had digital back-ups on the laptop, but he liked the feel, perhaps the knowledge found within, of paper files. It gave reality to all he’d accomplished, solved. Most important among them was what he’d dubbed the Forever Haunt case, his lifelong obsession with finding his father’s killer. What was good about that case was that the files were complete, closed; he’d accomplished his ultimate goal. Joseph McSwain had been vindicated, his memory and soul given its proper rest. Now, in front of him there was another case, a residual investigation involving the notorious crime boss Mr. Wu-Tin. It had been a case of cruelty, of retaliation, and in the end, one of death and culpability.

And a mysterious second shot.

For now, Jimmy finished his notes after his recent jail stay. His situation wasn’t over; there would be a follow-up with Lieutenant Frisano. Right now, it was time to get himself back to work, and Alex Cort’s call came as the right distraction. Except Jimmy realized he’d made an error in scheduling. Today was Monday, which meant tonight was the weekly McSwain Family Dinner night, and he wasn’t about to miss it.

Dinner was usually at six. Maybe it could be moved up.

Picking up his phone, he dialed home. Maggie McSwain picking up before the second ring.

Hey, Ma.

Good morning, Jimmy. What’s the favor?

Why do you assume I need a favor?

Because you rarely phone me. You stop by, casually. A call means you need something.

It’s an easy request.

Few things with you are ever easy. What’s going on?

I have a new client and I’m meeting him at seven tonight.

Dinner’s at six. I’m guessing you want me to move it up?

Or I’ll just have to miss it. A cheap shot, but effective.

Fine. Five-thirty. I’ll see you at five, and in the spirit of things, you can do me a favor.

Say the word.

Shave.

He smiled, rubbed his clean-shaven cheeks. He’d already done that yesterday after sporting a beard for a few months. The sensation felt weird; like he’d lost a few years of aging.

I’ll see what I can do.

Maggie McSwain was seldom flexible. But after all their family had been through these past months, Meaghan giving birth, Mallory’s being shot and her recovery, Jimmy’s penchant for finding trouble, it was both an effort and a blessing to get her three children together for their usual Monday dinner. It was a tradition that dated way back; Maggie worked as the head usher at the Harold Calloway Theatre on Broadway, and Monday was their usual dark night, no show. Jimmy could recall dinners from years ago. The five of them, his much-missed father included. But now that fifth chair was again occupied, a high-chair with Joey, growing fast from newborn to toddler.

Jimmy’s mind seemed to be everywhere this morning. His situation, family, now this new case with the enigmatic Alexander Cort. What he needed was to get out of the apartment/office; he’d yet to have breakfast, so maybe he’d run over to the deli on the corner and get himself an egg sandwich. Extra bacon. It was one of those kinds of days.

Autumn was coming but not quite ready to hot the cold. Temperatures were around seventy still in September, so Jimmy just tossed on jeans and a T-shirt and figured he’d be good to go. The sky wasn’t bright, but it wasn’t cloudy either, sort of an in-between weather pattern. Not unlike his mood. Down the stairs he went and out into what awaited him on 9th Avenue and 45th Street, the neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, the only home he’d ever known. He knew its rhythm, the vibe, how to navigate the streets and avenues. A mix of long-time residents and upstart young artists, there was no other place in New York City where he felt the most comfortable.

Almost being knocked over by a jogger, he swung his body and readjusted his step.

Then almost too by the woman in front of him, busy on her phone,