A teenage boy is dead, the victim of a hit-and-run. Clues have dried up and the police have assigned it to the cold case file. The father still seeks justice and engages the services of Finley Sullivan Investigations. Jimmy McSwain is about to be handed his most challenging case as he enters the second year of his apprenticeship.
Jimmy can empathize with Malcom Tenney. Their situations are reversed, though, one having lost a child, the other a father. But that’s where the similarities end. Fourteen-year-old Roddy Tenney was an anomaly in Bedford-Stuyvesant, a violin prodigy with a bright future in a troubled neighborhood. His father tried his best to shield him from the dangers on Brooklyn’s tough streets, providing him with a privileged life.
Malcolm is convinced the boy’s death is related to a real estate developer who will stop at nothing, including murder, to take control of the valuable property where Tenney’s Auto Emporium stands. As Jimmy goes undercover, mutual grief becomes the motivation in solving a case built on tragedy ... before another can occur.
Having mapped out the address for Tenney’s Auto Emporium earlier this afternoon, Jimmy had a general sense of where he was going. Located east of the subway station on Lafayette Street, he walked opposite the dying sun and followed the falling sky. Throop Avenue was supposedly three blocks straight down on till midnight, but it was a longer walk than he anticipated. Still, his feet walked with their own sense of direction, his mind directing his steps. Meanwhile, his eyes, alert, remained focused on his surroundings, buildings and people, passing traffic and the smells of food wafting out of street-level restaurants. One smelled particularly appealing, serving as a reminder he’d forgotten to grab dinner. He did that a lot. The job tended to override basic needs.
He stopped and moved toward the entrance of the establishment. Wally’s Jamaican Jerk. Looking for a menu in the window and didn’t see one. Inside several tables were filled and a line of about eight people formed at the counter. Not enough time. Jimmy decided to keep walking, and that’s when he heard a sound near him. A voice, thick with attitude.
“You lost, man?” he heard.
“Man, yeah, he looks lost,” said another.
Jimmy shot them a heady look. Both young, Black, fit. Leaning against a closed nail salon. Cans of beer in their hands. Gold in place of one man’s front tooth. The other sporting a gold chain with the letter F dangling from it. Bling meant to adorn, and to intimidate. Bandannas wrapped around their foreheads, like they were twins.
“Guess I don’t get to answer the question, huh?” Jimmy said, emphasis on the huh.
“Say whuh?” said the one who had originally answered the question.
“Fucker thinks he’s funny, that’s what whuh.”
The two guys stopped leaning against the door of Berta’s Nails, started walking.
Walking behind Jimmy.
Was this a test? Was it two kids having fun at his expense? Or was this a real threat?
Jimmy suddenly stopped. “Throop, it’s down one more block, right?”
The guys came up next to Jimmy, flanking him. Jimmy held his ground, keeping a tight grip on the overnight bag at his side, not making any sudden moves. Not attempting to use it as a buffer, a piece of protection. Or as a weapon. He just stood there. Primed for whatever came next.
“Thought you wasn’t lost?”
“Tenney’s, I think I see the sign down there,” Jimmy said. His tone strong and confident.
“What kind of business you got with that place?”
“Malcolm and I, we knew each other. Once.”
There was a pause as the two men exchanged looks. Then they stepped back, as if to give him room. Their way of granting him a free pass.
“Yeah, you’re cool, man. Okay, yeah. Tenney’s Auto. Down there.” He pointed in the same direction Jimmy had been walking. “The prof, he’s got lots of friends.”
The prof? Thought the guy was a grease monkey? “Noted. Count me among them. He’d hate for me to have been ... detained.”
Jimmy then paused, waiting for either of them to say anything.
“Thanks for your help, guys, huh? Mal’s waiting on me.”
The sun had slipped below the horizon during this exchange, putting a darker edge on the coming night. A slight breeze, too, added a fresh chill, which had Jimmy increasing his pace as he left the two guys behind, avoiding eye contact with other people walking along the sidewalks and giving him sidelong glances but saying nothing. Had ‘hood cred really come down to tossing out the right name?
Jimmy knew he’d have to not only watch his step but maybe more so his words.
This clearly wasn’t his turf.
But Tenney’s Auto Emporium -- a lofty name, for sure -- came into view, built on a sizable lot next to a few vacant buildings, the large metal sign posted twenty feet off the ground. A yellow glow came off it, streaks creating shadows on the blacktop of the shop’s parking lot. Several cars were parked there, but whether they were in need of repair or were employee vehicles, he couldn’t say. The largest part of the building was accessed through three garage-type doors, all closed for the coming night. The place looked locked up. Deliberate, or just normal business operating hours? Right now, he put the thought out of his mind and instead approached the main entrance, a single glass door that led into a small waiting area. He tried the door, found it unlocked. Inside he went, seeing a few chairs, all matching with gray-striped fabric, positioned against a wall, all unoccupied. A counter covered in once-white Formica separated the room. A lone black man with graying, crinkly hair and a thick all-gray mustache, smiled at him. The name Leo was written in red script against a white oval on his dark gray work shirt.
“Help you, sir?”
“Looking for Malcolm. Mr. Tenney. Tell him Jimmy McSwain is here. I’m expected.”
