The report finished, and the anchors turned to Bill Evans in the weather center.

  “It’s going to be a perfect taste of fall today…”

  Jimmy turned off the television, the glow in the apartment dimming. He realized he wasn’t alone, as Seetha had emerged from the bathroom. She’d found a bathrobe, a thick terrycloth one he had taken from a hotel after a case. A gift of the management. He never used it; Remy loved to wrap himself up in it. He should have thrown it out but it came in handy now. Seetha had slicked her black hair away from her pretty face, the shiner beneath her right eye more pronounced. Her gaze was focused not on Jimmy but on the now-quieted television. Like it was still on, replaying the story they had just heard.

  “Who was he?” Jimmy asked.

  “What do you mean…?”

  “The man who was killed. That’s why you’re here.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, alone within herself. Jimmy was going on a hunch, and he was right. Seetha being here and the dead man in Queens were linked. It could have gone another way. The news could have been reporting on her death. How would that have made Jimmy feel to learn about her body being found, knowing he was so close, yet still unable to help her. He knew this was a second chance to offer protection, and help himself in the process.

  “Seetha, sit down, please.”

  She looked around the apartment, her clothes nowhere. “I…I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re safe here.”

  “They know about you. That I called you. They are dangerous.” Her voice trembled.

  “Why don’t we start with this: who are they?”

  She shook her head, still comforting herself. Jimmy stood up, stepped away and offered up the sofa for her and her alone. She padded forward, barefoot against the exposed floorboards. She sat, tucked her legs beneath her, cocooning. Jimmy thought under other circumstances Seetha was a very pretty young woman, one he guessed to be in her early thirties. She was petite in frame, her eyes dark and expressive, except all he’d been witness to was the fear inside them. He had to assure her she was safe here.

  “I can protect you,” he said. “I think you know that. It’s why you came here.”

  “I had no other place to turn.”

  “I’m glad you came. I wish you’d done so earlier. Like when you first called me.”

  “They were on to me, watching my every move.”

  “We’re back to the beginning, Seetha. Who are they?”

  “My brother knew them.”

  “I figured as much. Tell me more.”

  “Rashi was such a good brother, once. When he turned, my parents sent me away.”

  “Which is why we first thought you didn’t exist. Captain Frisano first told me Rashad had no siblings.”

  “It was done to protect me.”

  “When did you resurface?”

  “After Rashi’s death. Sorry, that was my pet name for him, he was a sweet brother.”

  “He killed several people. He was going to spend the rest of his life in jail.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks and Jimmy regretted his aggressive approach.

  “Sorry.”

  “You only speak the truth. It’s my inability to handle it that causes the tears.”

  “Maybe you should rest. We can talk later. There is plenty of time.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “I don’t. In fact, I could use some sleep myself. I have an appointment later this morning. We can both catch some needed winks, so long as you promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re done running.”

  “I have no place to go,” she said, “except prison, just like Rashi.”

  “I’m guessing what happened was self-defense. Given the location of the blood on your shirt, the dead man taking a bullet to the gut. Sounds like a struggle. The trigger blew. He lost, you won.”

  “Some win,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about the legal ramifications, Seetha. I know a lawyer. She’ll help you. She has to. She’s my sister.”

  For the first time since arriving, Seetha Assan allowed a hint of a smile. Jimmy noticed she was more than pretty; she was beautiful, with exotic looks a supermodel would kill for. Bad choice of words, he suddenly thought.

  “I’m not worried about the police,” she said, her voice trembling again. “It’s…them. They want me silenced.”

  “Well,” Jimmy said, “That’s where I come in. I’d love nothing more than to silence them.”

  For the second time in a matter of seconds, Seetha smiled, this one broad and welcoming.

  A moment later she was asleep, that smile taking her into a deep land where only dreams could hurt, and those weren’t real.

  Jimmy placed a blanket over her and then stood in the center of the apartment, looking at the sparse furnishings.

  He realized he’d given up the only place to sleep in here. He pulled up a floor, as the saying goes, his head resting on his hands. It was as good as it gets. His final thought before giving in to sleep was the fact he only had precious few hours to deal with the hard floor. Morning was racing forward, as unstoppable as the crimes which invaded his dreams, and his real life, which sometimes he believed were the same thing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Not only was he sleep-deprived, Jimmy McSwain had to switch gears from a case he obsessed over to one that paid him. He wondered if the fearful playwright would be part of this meeting at the Calloway Foundation offices, or whether Wellington Calloway had something else up his well-tailored sleeve. Maybe some insight into what was really going on, because one thing Jimmy was convinced of was this: he had yet to hear the full story. Only time would tell the tale and he didn’t want to be late.

  He left a sleeping Seetha, who looked like she hadn’t stirred an inch.

  He wrote out a note, telling her he would return as soon as he could. He also gave her the cell phone number for his sister, Mallory. Then, on his way down the stairs of his building, he sent Mal a text, since she rarely picked up personal calls when she was at the office. It was a Thursday, and he knew that she had a regular meeting with her team about the cases they were defending.

  NEED YOUR HELP. SPECIAL CASE. YOU WILL BE INTERESTED FOR SEVERAL REASONS. HEADED TO A MEETING. LATER. LOVE J.

  Getting to the office of the Calloway Foundation didn’t take long. He bypassed the theatre on 47th Street, continued to Seventh, where he then turned up and walked the remaining few blocks. The broad avenue was awash with morning commuters, the sidewalks crowded with sneaker-clad women on cell phones and suited-up businessmen with slick-backed hair on cell phones. Such was life circa now, everyone plugged in and staring at screens. Jimmy wove his way between them like a pinball, coming to an old sandstone and cement building on the corner. It wasn’t as tall as the other buildings around it, a relic from yesterday immersed in the modern world of steel and glass. As he was about to enter the lobby through the revolving doors, Jimmy’s phone suddenly vibrated inside his jeans’ pocket. He hoped it was Mallory getting back to him. Better yet, it wasn’t a text but a phone call, and to make the morning shine brighter than the blazing sun above him, the caller was Manny Marquez.

  “Yo, Manny, speak to me.”

  “You are the straightest gay man I’ve ever met, Jimmy.”

  “Bitch,” he said.

  “That’s better.”

  Jimmy and Manny had met in a bar in the East Village one night several years ago. A one night stand was all it took for them to realize they could be great friends. Beers did wonders when you were horny, morning sunshine filled with rays of regret. Still, they became, if not friends then business associates, with Jimmy having used the lab Manny worked for often enough for them to poke fun at each other and be comfortable in each other’s presence.

  “So what have you got for me?”

  “The shards of glass came up empty. I didn’t detect anything unusual. Just fermented grape. No trace of any knockout drug or anything that might induce a seizure. The foam bubbling out the guy’s mouth could have just been the champagne. Maybe it was warm.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Didn’t expect there to be anything, but no stone left unturned, right?”

  Manny wasn’t a philosopher. He just delivered news. “The note cards offer a different story and it’s one you’ll find noteworthy.”

  Jimmy smiled. “Unlike you to crack wise, Manny.”

  “What, you think only private eyes get the good lines? Anyway,” he said, “I’ve discovered two different sets of fingerprints. One is a match with that playwright—this Casey Crais guy. Quite a name. Sounds made-up. Anyway, his prints were all over the glass, so that was easy to match up with the card.”

  “Which makes sense, since he handled the letters. Tell me about the other prints.”

  “Just a faint one on the first letter, as though the writer didn’t wipe the card well enough.”

  “And the second note?”

  “Not only a fingerprint, but a bloodstain, as you indicated. It’s B positive.”

  “It’s something.”

  “Find a suspect, you’ve got enough to link him to the note. Then you break him.”

  “Break him? Watching cops shows again?”

  “Nah, just trying to emulate the hottest dick in the business.”

  “Manny, I think you need a boyfriend.”

  “That your way of telling me you have one?”

  Jimmy’s mind instantly flashed on Frisano and the passionate night they had just shared. Did that make them an official couple? Or was it just sex, a nighttime relief from the pressures of the day? Pushing enticing thoughts away, he told Manny he had a meeting to get to, checked his watch and realized it should have begun two minutes ago. He thanked Manny again, said send the bill but forget to put a stamp on it.

  “That’s older than my last date,” Manny said.

  “Daddy chaser.”

  With a laugh, Jimmy powered down his phone. He checked in at the security desk where the guard said he was expected. He was given a pass which he swiped over the turnstile, and soon he was tucked inside the elevator and shooting up a measly fourteen floors. He emerged directly into the reception area for a satellite office of the larger Calloway Industries based in New London, Connecticut. Large letters of gold-leaf boldly announced where he was. Then in smaller letters set beneath it, the Calloway Foundation was listed.

  “Mr. McSwain, Mr. Wellington Calloway is expecting you. Third door on your left,” said a woman aged sixty or so, trapped behind a glass desk with a computer screen blinking back at her as if they were strangers on a first date. He had never worked in a real office and believed he never could. It was one thing to only be here for what he hoped was a quick meeting, another to make it your daily existence. He preferred a job played out on the streets and avenues of this crazy city. Jimmy thanked her and passed through a glass door, then knocked on the aforementioned door.

  “Welly, sorry I’m late…”

  “Yes, Jimmy, no worries. Please, come join us.”

  The word “us” didn’t surprise Jimmy, since he’d been told it wasn’t just going to be the two of them. What did give Jimmy pause was the “who” he was faced with. Not some cronies of his, a producing partner as he’d suggested, and not Casey Crais. Rather, two young people, one a man, another a woman, both of whom looked remarkably similar. They sat along the thick wooden desk in plush chairs, fingers laced in unison, giving the twin theme further credence.

  Welly stood up to make the introductions. “It’s been some time, but you’ve all met before.”

  Jimmy realized they had; as kids they had all played in the lower lounge of the theatre and in and around the seating area. Jimmy had been only a couple years older, and he supposed logic dictated he still was. That’s how that worked. The man, who had thick, fluffy blond hair and a deep-island tan and who wore a bow tie against his crisp white shirt and blue blazer, was older by two minutes to his sister. She had dark hair but blonde roots, and was equally tanned, but her style of clothing was completely different, all dark, a downtown vibe surrounding her.

  “Tristan Calloway,” the man said, rising from his chair. He extended a hand, which Jimmy accepted. It was strong and firm, professional and kind of tight-assed.

  “I remember. Even as a child you had a penchant for bow ties.”

  Penchant seemed like the right word. He knew these two were Ivy League educated. That word-a-day toilet paper was turning out to be handy for several reasons, he mused. He supposed he should have held his tongue, but Tristan didn’t seem bothered by the jab. He tightened the knot on the tie after their hands parted, a smile assuring him a bow tie was akin to a merit badge. Tristan appeared to enjoy being memorable.

  “And Isolde,” he said, “you look amazing.”

  “Jimmy McSwain, when my uncle told me he’d hired you for a job and you were meeting us, I near blushed.”

  “You always did, back then,” Tristan reminded her. “Fat lot of good your crush did.”

  Jimmy gave Tristan a withering look. “I think that’s his way of telling you I’m gay.”

  Isolde laughed. “Which is ironic, since my brother is the one with the stick up his ass.”

  By now she was up from her chair and had come around the table. She hugged Jimmy.

  “Okay, everyone, I think the introductions are well taken care of,” Welly said, seemingly eager to get on with the matter at hand. “Why don’t we all sit down? Coffee, Jimmy?”

  “I’m okay. Ready to jump in. What’s on your mind?”

  The four of them sat around the conference table; who was leading this meeting appeared uncertain.

  “As you may be aware,” Welly began, “Tristan and Isolde—named as such because of my sister’s love of opera—were named to the Calloway Foundation’s trustee board about two years ago, following the death of my dear sister, Hannah, their mother. The terms of her will dictated that each be given an equal vote, thus opening up two positions on a board previously occupied by just my sister and me.”

  “And causing Uncle Welly headaches in the process,” Isolde said, staring at her brother.

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “It means my brother is no student of the arts.”

  He bristled at such an accusation. “I never said that. The arts serve a purpose. Just not one our company’s finances need to be bothered with anymore. I support the arts, attend opening galas at the Met with Gracie whenever my schedule allows.”

  Isolde rolled her eyes at her brother. She looked like the kind of edgy chick who preferred downtown experimental theatre. Welly let out an easy sigh of exasperation. No wonder he’d been stressed lately if he had these two warring twins suddenly questioning something he’d done his entire life. As much of a sympathizer Isolde portrayed herself as, Tristan clearly held the power. Jimmy waited for their spat to play out.

  “You see, Jimmy, my brother was born with a stiff upper lip.”

  “How droll,” Jimmy offered.

  Tristan’s nostrils flared. “Really, must we continue along these lines? Uncle Welly?”

  Welly paused, eyeing them both with impatience, said, “Are we done?”

  Silence fell between them finally, and Welly turned back to Jimmy.

  “I’m still waiting for the part that includes me,” he said. “What does Tristan and Isolde’s involvement with the Calloway Foundation have to do with what you, uh, hired me to do?”

  “No need to dance around the issue,” Tristan said. “We are well aware of your quaint profession, and the reason why our uncle hired you. Backing a Broadway play is a risky venture, the investors an optimistic bunch. Everyone thinks they’re going to make a fortune. In reality, most shows lose money unless you are one of the huge runaway smashes like Wicked or Hamilton. A straight play that’s an unknown quantity, by a writer who is unproven, it often leads to financial—and critical—disaster. So when Uncle Welly told us…yes, he told us, didn’t ask, that he had signed on as the lead producer of the show, well, I don’t have to tell you there was concern.”

  “Why?” Jimmy asked. “You uncle has successfully managed the Foundation for decades.”

  “The theatre business has changed, it’s much more cutthroat. Producers are out for blood as much as money. Both of which they prefer in buckets full.”

  “Descriptive,” Jimmy said. “But I’m still not sure what I’m doing here.”

  Tristan leaned forward, staring Jimmy square in the eye. “If I had my druthers, we would be relieving you of your investigation. Because I don’t believe there is any threat. I think it’s just a stunt, perhaps cooked up by an overzealous publicist or member of the management team. Casey Crais is no more in danger than is my uncle or anyone else associated with T13.”

  “Let me guess, you all took a vote and you lost two to one.”

  “Just minutes before your arrival,” Tristan said sourly.

  “Why do I believe that outcome happens often?”

  “Because my sister dreams with her heart. And votes with it.”

  “Shoot me, I still believe in what Uncle Welly is doing. The Calloway Theatre is family.”

  “A distant relative at best, these days. A blip on our financial success.”

  “Okay, Tristan, you’ve made your point. Now, if I can continue,” Welly said.

  Tristan lifted in hands in mock defeat, leaning back in his chair. Jimmy stared at him and wondered how someone like him became someone like him. Spoiled, petulant, a bully in preppy clothes. He’d like to take Tristan to a leather bar, have the muscle bears give him a good beating. He might be straight, but someone had yet to make a true man of him. Jimmy then shifted his focus back to Welly, sympathy in his eyes. He had forgotten about Hannah Calloway’s death, and he wondered if Welly’s grief was overcompensating in her absence.

  “Jimmy, before I begin, let me ask you if you’ve made any progress.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, new information came in a bit ago. It’s why I was late.” He then detailed to them the results of the evidence he’d sent to the lab. “If I’m going to be honest, Welly, from the start I was unconvinced that Casey Crais was the intended target. The first note had no name on it, and even though the so-called threat was linked thematically to T13, there was no other indication he was in any danger. The second note then arrives a couple days later and this time the sender made sure to address it. They also left a calling card of sorts. The bloodstain. Was that on purpose, deepening the threat, or a mistake by someone out of their league? Only when I have a viable suspect will I be able to make a connection. Until then, I believe I should keep an eye on Casey. Either that, or you should hire a bodyguard to oversee him 24/7.”