“We’re not spending any more money,” Tristan said. “He’s paying you enough.”

  “Jimmy, what do you think we should do?” Welly asked.

  “For now, let’s keep things as they are. I’ll be at the theatre tonight, I’ll stick to Casey.”

  “And what about this person who’s sending the messages, are there any other clues to their identity?” Isolde asked.

  “Can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. The image on the security camera is fuzzy. It doesn’t help that the person hides beneath a hooded cloak.”

  “Wouldn’t someone like that stick out on a Manhattan sidewalk?” Tristan asked

  Jimmy shook his head. “Heck, we’re in the heart of Times Square, where there are more Elmos and Mickey Mice and Naked Cowboys than tourists. A person walking around in a cloak, people might think it’s a Jedi Knight from Star Wars, another costumed character to have a picture taken with. I just think we’re going to have to be patient, see if our mystery person shows his or her hand again.”

  “So sit around, do nothing, and wait to see if the threat heightens? Meanwhile the meter keeps clicking.” Tristan was like a dog with a bone.

  “Part of running an investigation is patience, Tristan. You have to keep a wary eye, you act suspicious of everything and everyone. It’s almost like a baseball game. Pitch after pitch with no activity, then suddenly someone gets a hit and the action explodes.”

  “A sports metaphor, Jimmy?” Tristan asked, derision ripe in his tone.

  Isolde slapped her brother’s arm. “I bet he knows more about sports than you, Trissie.”

  Jimmy hid his smile. He could sense the meeting was coming to a close, but he was unsure he’d learned anything of importance. Finally, he turned to Welly and said, “Can I ask one question that I think to date has gone unanswered?”

  “Of course, Jimmy, there are no secrets here.”

  He felt the tension rise in the room with that statement. But family dynamics were for them to deal with.

  “Triskaidekaphobia. What about it made you to not only want to house it, but to produce it?”

  Welly shifted in his seat, glaring down at his twin niece and nephew.

  “I attended an industry reading. And after it was over, not one producer wanted to take the risk,” he said. “Except me. What Casey Crais was writing about, it spoke to me so deeply. Because he stirred up my own fears.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That I will lose my livelihood. The theatre, the Foundation, my reason for breathing.”

  “Why would that happen?”

  Welly eyed his smirking nephew, this time staring daggers at him that would have drawn blood had they been real. “Tristan mistakenly believes the company would be better off if we sold the Calloway Theatre to our larger competitors. A great tax benefit, he’s called it. He’s held private meetings of his own and taken offers and they have been discussed and thankfully dismissed. For now. But my nephew is a very determined man. He’s only happy when he gets what he wants. The failure of T13 would go a long way toward him achieving his goal.”

  That would explain his sour disposition, Jimmy thought. Tristan Calloway hadn’t won a single argument this morning. But depriving him was akin to poking a wounded animal. Jimmy said nothing more, his thoughts wondering just how far Tristan could go to rid the Calloway family of its legacy.

  Five minutes later, goodbyes exchanged, Jimmy found himself back out on the street and glad to be. Suddenly he was happy for his blue collar family. They worked hard and sure they fought, but it was minor stuff. For the Calloways, the stakes were higher. Welly was increasingly seen as a token to the past, a man to be out to pasture. Jimmy felt newfound determination swell inside him. He liked nothing more than taking down arrogant fools like Tristan Calloway. But were the Case of Casey Crais and the future of the Calloway Foundation linked by more than profit?

  The sun was still blazing, and the air had warmed up. Almost like summer was trying for a comeback. He walked back to his office, ideas still swirling in his head, replaying the meeting and looking for any piece he might have missed. Tristan was a total jerk, Welly was a classy, proud man, and the rebellious Isolde was stuck in the middle. To date, she had seemed to side with her uncle, but twins shared a connection that went far deeper then blood or money, they shared a secret language. Wiping sweat from his brow, he entered his office above a quiet Paddy’s Pub, where he quickly unbuttoned his shirt before sliding it off his shoulders. He tossed the sweaty shirt to the sofa, suddenly remembering he had a guest sleeping on those cushions.

  Except he didn’t.

  He turned to see only the impression Seetha Assan had left in the cushions.

  “Shit,” Jimmy said.

  § § §

  He searched for clues as to where Seetha might have gone. First of all, the outline of her figure on the cushions meant she couldn’t have been gone long. He saw a used towel in the bathroom, felt the bath mat for moisture. So she hadn’t been in a rush, hadn’t felt danger. So then what had made her disappear, again? Was it of her own free will, or out of fear? Had she been drying her hair when those she was running from caught up with her? He lastly searched the apartment for a hastily jotted note, anything that might indicate she had simply run to the deli for breakfast.

  He flipped open his phone; his only message was a reply text from Mallory.

  CURIOUS. I’LL HELP IF I CAN. TALK LATER. MEETINGS…

  For now, Jimmy was at a crossroads, unsure of how to proceed. He had several hours before he had to be at the Calloway, and as he stood in the middle of his apartment and considered the recent developments on both of his cases, he felt like a car that had stalled in traffic. Life was zipping by him, people reaching their destinations with little problem while leaving him behind in the dust. He didn’t know his next step. Feeling the heat of the apartment swirl, he flipped on the air conditioner, felt the immediate blast of cool air against his bare skin. It seemed to act as a magic elixir, fueling his mind into action.

  He grabbed his phone and dialed a number from last night. It was answered quickly.

  “Hi,” Jimmy heard, the voice on the other end soft but masculine.

  “Frank, hi,” he said.

  “You beat me to it. Calling.”

  “Yeah. Look, Frank, this isn’t a personal call…I mean, it’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Something going on?”

  “Seetha Assan. She was waiting in front of my office building last night…uh, this morning when I got home.”

  “Interesting. Glad to know she’s okay,” he said. “Look, Jim, I’m in the middle of something here, Roscoe and Dean are in my office…”

  “Yeah, sure. Didn’t mean to disturb you. I shouldn’t have called…”

  “Yeah, you should have. Just tell me one thing. Seetha, where has she been?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Got it. She’s with you still, yes?”

  “She was. I had to go out. When I came back, she was gone, again. Look, it’s complicated.”

  “Always is with us.”

  “Call me when you can.”

  “How about a beer, later. At Paddy’s,” Frisano suggested.

  “Another case needs me tonight.”

  “You know where I am.”

  Yes, he did. Not far at all. Close enough that an impulsive cab ride could have him down at Frisano’s apartment tonight and in his steadying arms before he could allow himself to change his mind. He ended the call, and again stood amidst the quiet of the apartment. He went over to the desk in the corner, where he fired up his laptop, then went online. He went to the Daily News website, where he found the article about the murder in a Queens warehouse that he’d heard about this morning on television. He learned few new details; the police had still not identified the victim, or explained who might have been behind the shooting. Jimmy might be in the dark on the former, but not the latter. He thought again of Seetha and pondered where she might have gone. Had he been dumb to trust her? To expect she would remain here? Was she so afraid that they—whoever they were—would know to seek her out at the office of Jimmy McSwain, private detective? Thinking such a scenario gave Jimmy the chills. It didn’t help that the air conditioner was blasting right in front of him.

  He could do nothing about Seetha right now. He needed answers from her.

  So he switched gears, and he called up a Google search page. He impulsively typed in the words Tristan Calloway and was met immediately with a string of website and articles and images of the young entrepreneur. Words like “heir” and “scion” were used to describe him, and Jimmy flipped through them to learn a bit more about the man who could not only affect the rest of his uncle’s life, but Jimmy’s mother’s too. If the Calloway Theatre was sold to a corporation, sweeping changes would be made. His mother, Maggie, would no doubt be seen as part of the old guard, part of the theatre’s history that no longer had story to tell. He read for a while, learning more about Tristan than he cared to know. A socialite who dated another socialite, Gracie Moore, the daughter of a Wall Street baron; youngest executive elected to the board at Calloway Industries. Jimmy was about to close out of his browser when another article caught his attention. That earlier chill he felt deepened, goose bumps alighting on his skin.

  HANNAH CALLOWAY, PHILANTROPHIST AND ARTS SUPPORTER, DEAD AT 67.

  The article from the New York Times was dated just over two years ago. Jimmy read the details, some of it familiar. The McSwains had been out of town that summer, staying at the lake house with Grandmother Hester, so they had missed the funeral. It had been a private affair anyway, as her family mourned her unexpected passing. She’d died in her sleep, natural causes, so said the report. She had never married, but had given birth in her late thirties to twins, Tristan and Isolde, who took the Calloway name. She never discussed their father with them. Jimmy read on further, learning more of her unwavering support for the arts and arts education through the Calloway Foundation, as well as being a member of the board of several non-profits theatres. She was survived by her two kids and her brother, Wellington, and assorted cousins.

  Jimmy started at the photograph of the woman; it was dated, and showed Hannah probably around the age she’d given birth. She could have been her daughter, Isolde, the resemblance was so deep. Jimmy thought of the young woman who had sat opposite him earlier today. She seemed to have inherited her mother’s indomitable spirit, if not her refinement. He could see Tristan in her too, her bone structure dominant.

  Jimmy was about to close out of his computer when he decided there was one more person he wanted to do a search on. And so he typed in the name Casey Crais, wondering why he hadn’t thought to do that earlier. True, it had been a busy few days, but when he took on a case he usually investigated the person doing the hiring. Perhaps the fact that Welly Calloway had hired him had colored his usual routine—he trusted that man with his life. He was one of the most upfront men he’d ever met. But Casey Crais. Just who was he? Where had he come from? How had he gotten to the point where he had a play being produced on Broadway? Another Google search produced results, but not many.

  He came across the announcement articles about Triskaidekaphobia—from many sources, including Playbill.com, Broadwayworld.com, and all the other related sites that consumed theatre news like they were revealing national security secrets. But aside from one other professional credit, for writing the book of a musical called Family Trust that participated in the New York Musical Festival several years ago, Casey Crais was as unproven as he was elusive. No Wikipedia page, no Facebook page or for that matter, or Twitter account. It was like he existed in a self-imposed vacuum, making himself available only when he could dictate the scenario. There was only one article that actually included a quote from him, from the New York Times arts beat column.

  “Triskaidekaphobia is the only play I’ve ever written and may be the only one I do write. It took me years to find the confidence to finally sit down and begin the writing. The research, you see, was so unsettling. To learn what people fear, it brought my own fear to the forefront. Failure. It’s a strong motivator, even as fear is the ultimate competitor. It likes to win.”

  Jimmy sat and realized no one lives alone, because everyone lives with their own fears. He remembered the first meeting with Casey at the Rum House, where he asked Jimmy what he feared. He hadn’t answered, at least not aloud. He found his mind wandering back toward his other case, the Forever Haunt. Was he grasping at straws with the Rashad Assan connection? Had he put too much stock in the similarity in crimes? Had Rashad lived, would he have just provided Jimmy with another dead end? But something told him he was on to something; an instinct that lived so far inside him, it was part of his DNA; it woke him, it drove him. Which is why it was so important to find out what Seetha knew.

  He gazed around the office. He hated emptiness. He hated being alone with memories.

  He spun back to the computer, ready to finally disconnect with the digital world.

  One last detail stared back at him, one that he’d missed.

  That musical produced at the NYMF, about an older man dreaming of the life he should have lived, had starred none other than Gareth Fitzroy, the current lead of Triskaidekaphobia.

  Suddenly Jimmy’s phone rang, taking him out of the moment. All that talk of fear, it had sunk in. He nearly jumped out of the chair, suddenly worried about who was calling, and what bad news was coming his way. Not Frisano, not telling him Seetha Assan had been found in some dark alley, dead. He allowed his eyes to gaze at the Caller ID. He grabbed the phone, willing his racing heart to cease. He answered on the third ring.

  “Yeah, Ma.”

  “I think I have something you’re looking for.”

  “Something?”

  “Rather, someone.”

  Jimmy felt his heart leap into his throat. He could barely get the next words out.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let her leave.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “You’re among friends. We’re here to help.”

  They were reassuring words, but were they spoken with conviction? With truth? Delivered by a man in uniform, his large, imposing presence and dark features added to his dominance. The current situation certainly had to be intimidating to a nervous Seetha Assan, who was not only the lone woman in the room, but the lone person sitting. Introductions had already been made. Captain Francis X. Frisano, detectives Roscoe Barone and Larry Dean. And of course, the man who had brought the troubled Seetha to their attention, a certain PI named Jimmy McSwain. They were all gathered in a small interrogation room at the 10th Precinct in Chelsea. It was dimly lit, the stale air warm, bottles of water sweating as if they too were suspects in an active murder investigation. The only truth in the room so far was Seetha Assan’s involvement in one.

  “We appreciate you coming to us. For turning yourself in.”

  This was Barone, settling his bloated frame on the edge of the metal desk, his gravel-voice unfriendly. His new handlebar mustache drooped in the humidity. It wasn’t becoming. But it was part of his act.

  “Ease up Barone, she came in voluntarily,” Jimmy said.

  “That’s what he said,” Dean offered. He was younger, Jimmy’s age, a sycophant.

  “He could be gentler in his approach. Makes you wonder why people don’t want to talk to cops.”

  Barone and Dean eyed Jimmy with contempt. They had all been down this road so many times, it needed to be repaved.

  “Okay, boys, ease up on the posturing. Enough McSwain, we’ll take it from here.” Frisano said, taking charge of the situation and seemingly putting aside all personal feelings that existed between the two. In public, when professional, he was always McSwain. This was vintage Frisano, what made him tick. Getting to the heart of the matter.

  “I’m not leaving, if that’s what you meant,” Jimmy said.

  Frisano gave Jimmy a hooded look, his dark eyes piercing. “Fine. Stay. Be quiet.” Then he turned his attention back to the woman of the hour. “Seetha, first of all, let me say I’m relieved to find you in good health. After you disappeared last month, I have to admit I feared the worst. It’s my nature, as a cop. We deal with the worst every day.” He paused. “Can I get you anything else?”

  She’d ignored the water bottle. What else would she want? Except her freedom.

  “I’m fine, thank you Captain. I’d just like to get this over with.”

  Jimmy didn’t want to interfere, but he didn’t want her to feel abandoned. So he took a small step back, leaned against the back wall while wishing there was something more he could do to soothe Seetha’s apprehension. She looked like a caged animal, a wounded one at that, but too weak to fight back. A round metal clock on the opposite wall stared back at him, taunting him. It was two forty-seven. He wondered how long this would take. He wondered how long the cavalry would take to arrive. He had another case looming, the Calloway Theatre his night’s destination. But he had to be here for this, for whatever Seetha might reveal. She’d refused to say anything to Jimmy after he rushed downstairs to Paddy’s Pub, where she’d been hiding out in his uncle’s office. Maggie had found the woman sitting at a bar stool, and only spoke up when she learned the woman sitting beside her was Jimmy’s mother. One thread of conversation had led to another, and soon Maggie had taken Seetha under her wing, still in the dark as to why Seetha had sought Jimmy out. Maggie still didn’t know the woman might be linked to her husband’s unsolved murder. She just assumed Seetha was one of Jimmy’s clients, one who spelled Trouble with a capital T. It had taken some convincing on Jimmy’s part, but finally Seetha agreed to his help. One more phone call on Jimmy’s part had landed them here.