Free Park Lane South, Queens by Mary Anne Kelly

Michaelaen.”
    He’s a fruit, thought Johnny.
    â€œDaddy!” Michaelaen, so happy that he had to act mad, marched into the room and butted his head into his father’s designer-jeaned leg.
    â€œWhere’s your mother?” Freddy hugged him. “Go tell her I’m here.”
    â€œThis is Frederick Schmidt,” Stan introduced him to Johnny. “Detective Bene …”
    â€œBenedetto,” Johnny finished for him, stretching out his hand, remembering AIDS. Daddy ?
    Uh-oh, thought Freddy and he put up his guard.
    â€œSchmidt? Freddy Schmidt?” Johnny repeated out loud. “You didn’t used to quarterback for Holy Cross?”
    â€œThat was me,” Freddy grinned, resigned now to the look of shock, disgust, and pity that was sure to cross Johnny’s face. But it didn’t come. At least he has that much class, Freddy thought. “How’s the writing coming, Carmela? Won any Pulitzers yet?”
    Carmela threw herself across the ripped leather sofa and flung one arm behind her head. “If I don’t get some dirt on someone fast, I might very well be forced to go back to writing novels.” She exhaled an elaborate swoon.
    â€œNot that you ever finished one of those,” said Zinnie as she walked in and gave Freddy a kiss on the cheek. “You look good,” she told him generously. “Hi,” she reached over and gave a hand to Johnny.
    â€œDetective Benedetto, meet Officer Breslinsky,” Stan said proudly. He wished Freddy wouldn’t sit like that, so close to the Dahlgren. You never knew when that one would fire. There were still some kinks in it that he would have to work out.
    Freddy obligingly stood up and walked over to the bar. “Drink?” he asked no one in particular and helped himself to a Frangelica.
    â€œOfficer, huh? Where do you work?”
    â€œMidtown South. Anticrime.”
    â€œNice house. Who’s your hook?”
    â€œMy brother was on the job.” Zinnie suddenly began to search for fleas in Michaelaen’s spanking clean mop of hair.
    â€œNo kidding? How long you been on?”
    â€œThree years,” Zinnie smiled.
    Nice kid, Johnny thought.
    â€œYou want to talk to Claire?” She accepted the bourbon and water Freddy handed her.
    â€œSeems to be a problem.”
    Zinnie kicked her head to one side. “Leave it to me. C’mon.” She led Johnny back out to the porch where Claire was on hands and knees under the hammock, carefully retrieving the last of the slides.
    â€œMan wants to talk to you,” Zinnie took a long swig of her drink and smacked her lips.
    Claire looked up at her. They traded telepathic messages, the final one being Zinnie’s no-nonsense reminder that this was a murder here, not a parking ticket. Claire wobbled to her feet. Johnny just stood there, looking. And he was nice and comfortable in his own skin, a thing she rarely was. He made her feel … unreal. She cleared her throat.
    Johnny leaned on the railing. Claire grasped his arm with both hands and transported him a few feet to the left. “You were backing into the spider’s web,” she mumbled.
    â€œThank you,” he said, misunderstanding her concern for the spider as concern for him.
    They were both going to be civil.
    â€œYou take pictures?”
    â€œMostly just old people up in the park.”
    â€œMy sister shoots Jews.” Zinnie curtsied and left.
    â€œNow about this car …”
    Claire put the slides down. “I woke up for no reason. Maybe the sun woke me up. Or the Mayor.”
    â€œThe dog.”
    â€œYes, the dog. And a big, old gold Plymouth was coming down from the park, see, right down there …”
    Plymouth. He was writing this down. He wasn’t going to let her catch him looking at those legs.
    â€œPlymuth?” she frowned at his notes. “So you can’t spell.”
    â€œNo,” he feigned nonchalance, “I