“I found him. I don’t have proof. But it was him. I was right.”

  “Who. Right about what?”

  “Rashad Assan. He killed my father.”

  “Now, Jimmy…”

  “Listen up. I spoke with Seetha Assan. She told me. Rashad, he killed a cop…”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Start again, and make sense this time.”

  Jimmy stopped to collect thoughts that couldn’t come to him while he traveled to Brooklyn. He drank down half his beer, the cold brew awakening his synapses, like they were releasing him from their hold. Then he began to talk, simple, clear sentences, almost as if he was recounting one of his own files.

  He always wrote a file on each of his cases, closing them with CLOSED status. Only one case remained opened, and he was as close as he’d ever been to assigning it that same, desired word. CLOSED. Could the Forever Haunt finally achieve that status? And with it, closure. Ralphie listened and drank and didn’t ask questions, not yet. He nodded as Jimmy finally finished his tale. By the time he did, a fresh round was on its way to the table.

  “So, Jimmy, Seetha Assan, who hadn’t seen her brother in thirteen years, suddenly spills her guts and says she knows her brother killed your father. It’s too easy.”

  “I haven’t told you the entire part,” Jimmy said, “And I’m not sure I want to.”

  “You’ve told me everything else up until now. For years. What could be different?”

  “What I learned today, I think I’ve got to find out more.”

  “From where?”

  “Not where. Who.”

  “Captain Frisano. I need someone on the inside.”

  “I’m on the inside, Jimmy. Still. I also know the past. The young captain is too green.”

  “But his father isn’t.”

  “You’ll get nothing out of Sal Frisano. He’s inner circle of the commissioner’s office. They don’t talk.”

  Jimmy gazed away from Ralphie, letting his eyes fall on the activity around them. A couple guys in football jerseys played pool, a lone woman with ink on her arms played darts. Three men, each with bellies bigger than the next sat on stools and drank, watching Sportscenter. No one had a care in the world it seemed, not one of them immersed in a world of death, of mystery. This was a neighborhood place, an innocent watering hole. The only holes Jimmy wanted to know about where from bullets, his father’s, Rashad’s, the man who was on the wrong end of the struggle with Seetha.

  “Jim, whatever’s going on, I don’t think you should start nosing around the NYPD.”

  “Why not? That’s where it starts and stops. Everything about my father’s death sends me back to the thin blue line.”

  “And you trust Captain Frisano?”

  That was as good a question as any. Enough to sleep with him. Enough to wind up in his bed twice in the past week. Was that trust? Sex was personal, and what Jimmy needed from Frisano now was professional. It was not something that would come easy. Sliding off his shirt, kissing him, watching flickering shadows on the walls mirror their hunger, all that was easy too. Asking Frisano to use his influence on a cold case no one wanted to be a part of wasn’t going to make him friends at One Police Plaza, and his ambition meant he had to make all the friends he could. Hadn’t Jimmy already tried to use his relationship with Frisano to try and free Seetha Assan from her legal troubles, and look where that had gotten him? No, he couldn’t trust Frisano, not now, not with this information.

  “Jimmy, don’t tell me you’re involved with him. Again.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You always say that.”

  “It’s because I speak the truth.”

  “Did it ever end, or were you just trying to avoid the issue.”

  “No, it ended. But it started. Again. Last week.”

  “He’s under your skin.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It can’t go anywhere. It’s a relationship already stalled.”

  “Yet you have a way of turning on his engine.”

  “Must you, Ralphie?”

  “What’s an old guy to do but live off the fantasies of others?”

  “Even between two men?”

  “I never judged you, Jimmy. Be who you are. Just be happy.”

  “I’m getting closer.”

  “Hmm, I wonder.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Meaning, I doubt finding your father’s killer will ever make you happy. It hasn’t so far, since you claim to have the man’s identity. Where are you, though? You’re in a miserable state, Jimmy, knocking back shots and also talking a whole lot of nonsense. Nothing this Seetha Assan woman told you has been verified. You need to take this lead, if indeed it is one, and turn it into proof. You’re a private investigator. Don’t seek help from the people who have blocked you for nearly fifteen years.”

  “I knew I came to Brooklyn for a reason.”

  “Good. Now drink your beer and tell me what’s really got you riled up.”

  “Ralphie, it’s not just that my father was killed…”

  “Yes. You firmly believe he was targeted. Executed I believe is the word you used.”

  “Exactly. Because he knew something.”

  “And someone wanted to silence him? That a bit melodramatic.”

  “I don’t think so. Joseph McSwain paid the ultimate price because of what he’d discovered. Rashad Assan was one of the two men at the deli that day, and they were there for on purpose. To shoot and kill my father, and it was orchestrated to look like a robbery gone bad, a tragic case of wrong place, wrong time. When all along, he was being watched, shadowed. And the killers came at him just as they’d been instructed.”

  “Instructed? You make it sound like someone ordered a hit.”

  “They did. Seetha said something today that sparked a memory, one I’d forgotten. I recalled my father, not long before his death, on the phone, and he was angry, yelling at whoever was on the other end. He said the Blue Death was not a myth.”

  Ralphie stopped drinking, his glass held by a shaking hand. “What did you just say?”

  “The Blue Death was not just a myth. Ralphie, do you know what that means?”

  He never hesitated a moment when he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Jimmy McSwain had felt a range of emotions the past week, this past weekend and even today, and he’d been told the truth and he’d been lied to, and right now his body was so tired from the ping pong effort of trying to figure out who was on what side, he couldn’t dig any further. All he knew was that Ralphie Henderson, his father’s ex-partner and the man who had helped guide him to the life of a private investigator, had just lied to him.

  And he wondered if it was not the first time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two cases, two murders, neither related, separated by fifteen years, and yet it was their deadly and deathly combination which had Jimmy wide awake at two a.m. He’d attempted to sleep. He had tossed and turned. He’d put a pillow over his head to drown out the light blinking through the window. Outside, a Manhattan late night partied on, noise from Ninth Avenue adding to his misery. Just last night he’d been stuck in the country, so quiet not even the crickets could speak, and he’d craved the city. Two worlds, two ways of life, neither related, both separated by miles, and yet it was all linked to two cases, two murders, and one private investigator.

  He finally gave up and got out of bed, stretching his body, yawning.

  He believed he was over-tired. The beer he’d consumed hadn’t done its job.

  On the floor beside the sofa was the Forever Haunt file, which he’d spent the night going through. He re-read the news articles he’d found about Rashad Assan’s arrest and incarceration years ago. It seemed a simple case of manslaughter, a drunk bar fight gone terribly wrong. Now Jimmy wasn’t so sure he believed that was the entire truth, especially given the time Rashad ended up serving at Parsons Hill Penitentiary. Fourteen years was way too long for manslaughter, even with bad behavior. Was what Rashad said to Seetha true? Was he being hidden away, threatened with more years or worse, if he spoke of what he knew?

  And just what did he know? What had Joseph McSwain known?

  Why were two men who worked the right side of the law dead as a result of it?

  No wonder he couldn’t sleep. His mind refused to shut down.

  Padding over to the small fridge he kept in the office, he pulled out a Yuengling bottle, the cap tossed into the trash seconds later. He took a small sip and retreated back to the hardwood floor. It was easier to stretch out here than on the sofa. He could spread stuff out. But what he did was pick up his laptop and have it live up to its name. Firing up the Internet, he once again called up a Google page. He considered just what he was looking for.

  He typed in BLUE DEATH.

  A bunch of hits, and he gazed at the thumbnail descriptions. None fit what he wanted.

  He tried again, this time in quote marks. Worse. He got song lyrics.

  He tried various other combinations. Adding NYPD. Adding warehouse death in Queens. Adding the Assan names, both Seetha and Rashad. He saw familiar articles and new ones, none of which offered up any hint as to what Seetha, not to mention his own father, had meant by the Blue Death. He didn’t know why, but he imagined the phrase with capital letters. It sounded important, like it gravitas. He leaned his head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a sigh of frustration. Search engines only went so far. He thought about Ralphie’s comment. You’re an investigator. Go out and find a clue. Build a case. Think, don’t type.

  An idea came to him, and he knew he wouldn’t quiet it until he followed through with it.

  Only, it would have to wait until sun-up.

  Sleep continued to evade him as he stared up at the ceiling, drinking back his beer. Hoping the dark would claim him for a few hours. An hour later, he hadn’t moved, the beer was empty, the file remained open and the laptop had, lucky for it, gone into sleep mode. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to power down for a while, like C3PO could, or Data from Star Trek. Real life just didn’t come with such droid-like luxuries.

  That’s when he switched gears to his second case. He had yet to write up his notes on Casey Crais and the threatening letters, not that he’d had time. So much had happened when he’d gotten back to the city, a shift of cases as sudden as the shift from country to city. In just two days, the playwright would begin in his own play, and Gareth Fitzroy would never get his opening night on Broadway. A thought occurred to Jimmy, and he got up from the floor and reached for the Playbill for Triskaidekaphobia which he had dropped onto his end table last week. The cover art was clever: the name of the show in small letters running down the entire page in thirteen rows, some of the letters in shadows so the patron could see the abbreviated T13 logo emerging through them. He flipped through the pages looking for the title page, wondering if ghoulish people thought of the one with Fitzroy as a collector’s item. He saw the list of actors, which were in alphabetical order, except Fitzroy’s, who got his name above the title. A nice billing for a non-star.

  Jimmy flipped the page, where he was greeted by headshots of the cast, and again, Fitzroy got top billing. It was an older shot, like many actors used, some because they didn’t want to reveal they’d aged, others because they couldn’t afford them. Fitzroy appeared to be in his early forties in this shot, and upon meeting him last week he’d appeared seventyish. Still, there was something familiar about him, and Jimmy remained focused on the man for a time. He came up with nothing. He then turned another page and read the man’s bio. A host of regional credits, a stint in England with some small troupe of thespians called the Shropshire Players, two off-Broadway credits, and then the NYMF listing of Flyaway. It said nothing of the fact that Fitzroy and Casey had worked together before.

  Curious, Jimmy took to his laptop again and searched Fitzroy.

  He had an IMDB page, which listed a few small film and TV credits. All small roles, no doubt when people watched they said, “Oh, that guy.”

  IBDB just listed T13, his only Broadway credit.

  Fitzroy hadn’t seemed to work often. Which was strange. How else did he make a living? Not like the parts he’d done were major roles that came with lots of money. He was a character actor, so it’s called, but he hadn’t played that many of them. A quick Google search again, and what came up were just a few photographs, the credits matching those listed on the websites he’d found. The more he searched, Gareth Fitzroy was becoming more of an enigma. He could find no motive for the man having been brutally murdered.

  “What secret did you possess?” Jimmy asked the quiet room.

  The echo from his own voice sent a chill down his own spine. It was cold in the room with the windows open and the autumn night filtering in, Jimmy clad only in a pair of bedtime shorts. Still, he stayed focused on the photographs, looking for anything that might jump out at him. In one photo, Fitzroy had played a clown, and he was hidden behind a white face and big red lips. In another, he was a butler, dressed in a tuxedo. Another had him at a horse race, a bowler hat on his head and an ascot tied around his neck. Looked like one of the English plays. What Jimmy found linked the photographs was the fact Fitzroy looked so different in each part, a chameleon who could change colors. People like that, he thought, often felt uncomfortable being themselves.

  Tired at last, Jimmy shut down his computer, put away the Forever Haunt file, and said a last goodnight to his two cases and the fading night. Morning was approaching, the clock taunting him with its red dots that made up 4:32…4:33…4:34…

  Jimmy’s eyes closed, and he felt sleep finding him, like he’d been lost.

  A bling sound followed by a blinking light caused his eyes to flicker, then open.

  His cell phone was right by his side. Someone had just sent him a text. He grabbed for it.

  SORRY.

  One word, no explanation. It was from Frisano.

  Jimmy opened his phone, started to type FOR WHAT?

  Frisano had a lot to be sorry about. For not calling him, for not telling him about Seetha’s non-deal. For…for what indeed? For not wanting to be with him the moment Jimmy got back to the city? It was strange, he needed both Frisanos—the lover and the cop. He needed to bury the drunken scene he’d endured with Remy, and he needed to save Seetha from her legal woes. Frisano could solve both.

  Jimmy didn’t send the text. Instead, he powered off his phone.

  And then he finally did fall asleep, knowing tomorrow was a day in which he would take charge. The promise of action, of the hunt for discovery, finally allowed his mind to rest. Manhattan slept finally, the myth foregone, and it took Jimmy along for the ride.

  § § §

  Jimmy was ready to leave by nine o’clock, which had given him four hours of sleep at best.

  That was fine, somehow he felt refreshed, energized.

  A quick bagel and coffee, he’d also grab a Post and Daily News for the long subway ride.

  Turned out, he didn’t need a deli run, not when someone else was already dangling those exact items in front of him.

  “Frank…”

  Frisano stood before him on the sidewalk, out of uniform and looking like any ordinary citizen. Blue jeans, an open-necked shirt that revealed more than a tease of his chest hair, a light black leather jacket. He looked cool, and damn if he wasn’t the most handsome man standing in front of him. His dark eyes were expressive, his shadowy beard thicker, as if he hadn’t shaved. Jimmy didn’t know how to react. He’d been caught unaware, and that wasn’t a good start to what he hoped would be a day of answers for him. He didn’t need any distractions, or temptations.

  “Hey, Jim. I’ve got two bagels, one blueberry with cream cheese, one salt with butter.”

  “Blueberry,” Jimmy said. “And coffee, black.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Even precinct captains get a day off.”

  “How did you know I was here, and not at my Ma’s?”

  “You’re still working a case, this is where you prefer to stay.”

  “I don’t like that,” Jimmy said.

  “Don’t like what?”

  “That you know me so well.”

  “You say a lot when it’s just you, me, and the pillows.”

  Jimmy had no response to that one. He drank his coffee, dug out the bagel and took a bite. “Anything I should see in the papers?”

  “Fitzroy case is off the front page. Now it’s some scandal with the school chancellor.”

  Jimmy noticed they were blocking the sidewalk. People were darting around them and not pleased about having to do so, staring dagger looks. “Come on, let’s walk. Perhaps then you can tell me what’s going on?”

  “You didn’t respond to my text.”

  “It was four-thirty in the morning.”

  “Aha, which means you were awake.”

  “Inconclusive,” Jimmy said. “I could have just seen and noted the time later.”

  “Did I get anything wrong yet this morning?”

  “Look, Frank, this is cute, breakfast on the go with you. But I didn’t get back to you because I don’t know what to say to you. About Seetha…”

  “Sorry was just the beginning.”

  “But the ending is still the same. I’ve got to go. A case I’m working.”

  “I’ll tag along. What do we have, a stakeout? Cheating husband? With another guy?”

  “Busman’s holiday, Frank? Need a back-up plan in case One Police Plaza shuts you out? Not that they would. You’re playing the game the right way. Screw the little people and shine that fancy new badge.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Tell that to Seetha Assan.”

  He paused, uncertainly on his lips. “I haven’t given up.”

  Jimmy was just hearing words now, not action. And today he’d promised himself action, and so despite the man beside him he picked up his pace, crossing against traffic on Ninth Avenue and heading down 44th Street. Frisano charged after him, not easily deterred. Jimmy went down the stairs to the subway, still not acknowledging his good-looking shadow, not wanting to look back in case he gazed into his eyes and gave up on his own mission to give in to Frisano’s. Digging for his Metrocard and not finding it, he saw Frisano flash his badge at the woman behind the token booth (New Yorkers still use that phrase) and she buzzed the gate. Frisano held it open and Jimmy went through. He was not about to turn down a free ride on the MTA, courtesy of the NYPD. LOL.