“Gracie. Lovely to see you again. And Tristan, you’re looking fine.”

  He was, in a dark-tailored suit that probably cost more than Jimmy’s entire wardrobe. He offered no thanks, mostly because he probably already agreed with him. A waiter came by and broke up the tension, Jimmy ordered a Scotch neat because a beer here seemed just so gauche. Gin martinis were on tap for the happy couple, and soon they awaited them with the awkward silence that came with people who didn’t like each other.

  “If this was in my neighborhood, they’d call this place the Jimmy.”

  Gracie laughed but Tristan was, as usual, unamused.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Jimmy. You have much refinement about you,” Gracie said.

  “Gracie’s a good girl. It’s why I keep her around.”

  “So you can be the asshole and still smell nice?”

  “So much for refinement,” Tristan said.

  “I could have stayed home with my two sisters if I wanted to be insulted,” Jimmy said.

  Thankfully the drinks arrived promptly and the three of them could do something else with their mouths. They drank, Jimmy sipping at the high end whiskey. He didn’t know the brand and thought it was better than the kind Welly had. Two fingers probably cost as much as Tristan’s suit.

  “So, you wanted to talk,” Jimmy said, not standing on ceremony. “So talk.”

  “Fine, I suppose we should get this over with. Jimmy, I understand that it was Casey Crais who was sending himself those threatening letters. And before you say you can’t comment on it, know that Uncle Welly told me.”

  “If your uncle said it, I guess it’s true.”

  “So you’re no longer working for him, right?”

  “I couldn’t say. Client confidentiality.”

  “The checks come from the Calloway Foundation. I’m part of that.”

  “Let’s return to the topic you raised, Casey Crais and the letters. What about them has you so curious?”

  “Can he be prosecuted?”

  “For what?”

  “Fraud, for starters.”

  “To be honest, I doubt what he did would be of interest to the police. Especially if Welly doesn’t register a formal complaint. Which it seems unlikely, since T13 is now completely reliant on its playwright. The success of the show rests solely on his shoulders, since he’s stepping into the lead role. But of course, now that’s not what interests you. You’d rather see Casey Crais go to jail and once again have the show stymied. This time, putting the final nail in its coffin, so to speak. First Gareth Fitzroy is stabbed to death, then Crais goes to jail. If I were the understudy, I’d run straight back to regional theatre.”

  “That’s where the play belongs anyway,” Gracie said.

  “Oh, you’ve seen it?” Jimmy asked.

  “First preview, I went on Tristan’s behalf but didn’t want to make a fuss. I just slipped out at the end, even though I could have gone upstairs to the apartment for the party. Truthfully, I just didn’t get it. No one was cured and the therapist is murdered at the end. How does that cure people of their fears? I would think it would only exacerbate them.”

  “Let’s not forget what happened after the final curtain, too.”

  Tristan pursed his lips on that one. “Dreadful business, but none of ours.”

  Jimmy sipped his Scotch and wished he could move this along. “Tristan, clearly you want the production to fail, to close as quickly as possible. Then you can restart your efforts to sell the theatre; you’ve made no secret of that. But I don’t see how closing the show will get either Welly or Isolde to change their minds. It’s still two against one.”

  “Until it becomes two against two,” Gracie said.

  “I’m sorry, how exactly would that happen.”

  Gracie flexed her finger, and this time Jimmy saw one more glittering stone amidst a city scape filled with sparkling gems. “It happened tonight, and it’s about time. I’ve waited three years for this, since our first date when I knew I’d met the man of my dreams,” she said, a sudden slight squeal escaping her lips. To Jimmy her pleasure sounded forced; Gracie wasn’t the screaming teenage girl type. She was as calculating as Tristan, just prettier and a level above bearable. Patient too.

  “I should say congratulations,” Jimmy said.

  “Except you didn’t,” Tristan said.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “Jimmy, do you have to be so insufferable? I’m trying to be frank here. Look, it’s really simple. According to my mother’s will, any spouse of her children will be granted a position on the Calloway Foundation board, with equal voting rights. So once Gracie and I tie the knot, she and I will gain that much more power.”

  “And if Isolde gets married, then her spouse gets a vote.”

  “She’ll never marry,” Gracie said. “She’s not traditional.”

  Not being traditional sounded like a disease the way Gracie spoke.

  “I still don’t see what Gracie’s position on the board gets you. A tie. Does Hannah’s will provide for that scenario?”

  “It does,” Tristan said, and he didn’t sound happy about it. “A tie means you keep the status quo.”

  “So you lose again. Gee, sorry.”

  “Unless we have a child, and that child gets a vote, and we control that vote until he or she is eighteen.”

  “My goodness, your mother thought of every scenario,” Jimmy said. “As have you.”

  “My mother was a clever woman, almost too clever. Wanting to include her entire family in her philanthropic work with the Foundation and oddly naïve enough to think we all shared the same vision. The Foundation was her one downfall.”

  “Or the one good thing she did in her life,” Jimmy said.

  Tristan shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Oh, look, Gracie, I see Jonathan Quark over there and I must speak with him. Jimmy, I do hope you’ll keep my fiancée busy in my absence.”

  “She’ll hardly notice you’re gone,” Jimmy said.

  Gracie actually laughed this time, and Tristan stalked off in a huff.

  “He really is an ass,” Jimmy said.

  “He has his assets,” Gracie responded before reaching for her martini and finishing it. She slid the olive off the stick with her tongue, chopping it up with expert precision. Not her first one, not even her first tonight. There was a glassy look to her green eyes that matched the bauble on her finger. Jimmy was a loss for words. He still didn’t know what the point of this meeting was. Was Gracie still playing the part of the femme fatale, perhaps thinking the cameras where catching her every move? If her actions were meant to put Jimmy on notice that they were still gunning for Welly’s removal, it was noted. But that wasn’t news. Was this gathering a chance to parade Gracie in front of him, she the latest threat to the Calloway Theatre’s future? That wasn’t news either. Motives swirled around him, pretty as they were.

  “Tristan is so insecure,” Gracie finally said.

  “How so?”

  “His cousins treat him like a charity case.”

  His cousins were the other side of the Calloway family, those still involved in the shipping and boat-building industry. They were based in New London, Connecticut, long ago having moved from the rough piers of Manhattan to the refinement of lockjaw country. Tristan had unfortunately been born into the theatre dynasty, a fading jewel in their crown. The future, Gracie explained, all rested on the next generation of Calloways, of which Tristan so desperately want to be a part of. He had the title, he just didn’t have the power.

  “He wants to show them he’s all in,” she said. “If he can divest the family of the foundation they just might see him differently. He’s an executive with the company, on the board by default. But he has no say in real business matters.”

  “He’s only twenty-nine.”

  “Tell that to his younger cousins. The vice presidents.”

  Jimmy finished his drink, declined an offer for a second from the passing waitress.

  “Gracie, I wish you all the happiness in the world, and if Tristan Calloway is that man…”

  “He is,” she said, admiring her ring.

  “Will you be at the show tomorrow night?”

  “Tristan said it would best if we stayed clear. Perhaps we’ll appear on Opening Night.”

  “If the show gets there,” Jimmy added.

  Gracie’s eyes flickered like a cats. “Tristan does like to get his way.”

  He left the trendy downtown world of SoHo and forewent a cab, deciding he needed some air even though he’d been outside on a rooftop deck. He needed the footing of Manhattan’s solid rock, a foundation which bore, literally, the entire weight of the city. Sometimes Jimmy felt it was all on his shoulders, too. He knew he’d learned something tonight, and it seemed as if Tristan and Gracie both were force feeding him information. But how much of what he heard should he digest? That was the million dollar question.

  He checked his phone, hoping for a missed call or voicemail.

  The phone was as dark and silent as the night was glittery and loud. A cab passed him by, its horn blaring while a pedestrian yelled back with a middle finger raised.

  Jimmy loved New York. Even when he hated it.

  He revised that statement. He didn’t hate the city. Just the people who populated it.

  § § §

  An hour later, he still hadn’t heard from Frisano, but he felt he owed Seetha Assan an explanation of what was happening, and what he’d done today. It was late and maybe he’d have more information by tomorrow but he imagined her pacing that spacious apartment from window to window, fearful of her life being in the hands of others. How many sleepless nights had this woman endured in the last week? Hell, month, given her abduction. It still made no sense, if she was seen as a problem, why hadn’t they just killed her? It was like Rashad, why ship him off to jail to keep him from talking when a bullet to the forehead would remove the worry factor. He knew he had to go now.

  Jimmy found himself in Chelsea, home to the 10th Precinct and the sublet Frisano had. Was he in either place? Frisano often went silent when on a case, but today had been his day off, and before it had all gone wrong at the warehouse he and Jimmy were headed toward another night of bliss away from the blasts. Had he been hauled in to the 106 Precinct in Ozone Park? Were they not happy with a captain from another precinct investigating on their turf? Frisano said he was not without connections, and Jimmy knew the man’s strongest ally was his father. A dicey relationship already, Francis X. Frisano couldn’t afford to fuck it all up. Not for another man.

  Jimmy knew how this would turn out. Frisano always chose the job.

  Defeated, exhausted, he finally hailed a cab from the many available that were passing him by. Wednesday nights were quieter nights in Manhattan, at least by weekend standards. He closed the door and then didn’t speak.

  “Where to?”

  That was a good question. “Seventy-ninth and Third,” he finally said.

  As the cab zoomed off, Jimmy took out his phone and sent a text to Mallory. She was quick with a reply and in another minute had sent him another. He’d been cleared for entry into the high rise, the doorman would let him straight through. She’d also let Seetha know to expect him. So he settled into the back seat, with nothing to do but watch the streets of Manhattan whip by. They were on Madison, where the lights were synchronized and you could get all the way uptown before hitting a red light if you were savvy about it. That’s what happened, and soon they were traveling down the double-lane 79th Street, en route to Third. At the last second, Jimmy said he’d get off at Lexington.

  “Suit yourself,” the driver said.

  Jimmy paid in cash, left a decent tip, and was out on the street, the world of the Upper East Side from SoHo as different as night was to day. Around here the buildings were a mix of new and old, post war and pre-millennium. Jimmy walked down the sidewalk, edging his way closer to Third but staying as much as he dared in the shadows. He didn’t want to look suspicious himself while looking for anything similar. After today, he trusted no one when it came to surveillance. The cops were aware Mallory’s law firm was helping Seetha, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility to think they had trailed her and that the building was under watch.

  Of course, if the cops suspected a murderer was hiding out inside, couldn’t they gain entry with a warrant? So far, that hadn’t happened, and the thought of it suddenly made Jimmy quicken his pace. Fear rose up in his throat, unsure why. With all that had happened in the last ten days or so, it was hard to figure out which way was up, who could be trusted. Even his clients. Casey Crais had set himself up. Had Seetha Assan done the same thing? Each of their schemes having produced a real live dead body? Jimmy hated coincidences, and he hated parallels.

  He shot across traffic on Third, finally approaching the main entrance.

  “I’m Mr…”

  The same guy as last time. “I know who you are. It’s okay. Enjoy your night.”

  Was he just a doorman, or hired security by Mallory’s firm?

  No matter, Jimmy was in the elevator and soon enough back on the 32nd floor. He knocked once, realized he didn’t have the key. He knocked again, a lame secret code if ever there was one. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

  “It’s Jimmy,” he said, quietly, eyes shooting back and forth down the hallway. All quiet.

  He heard the latch turn, the dead bolt, and a chain come undone. Then the door opened and darkness entered the lit hallway. The shadow that accompanied it was larger than expected. This wasn’t Seetha Assan opening the door, putting Jimmy into retreat mode. He backed away, looking for the stairwell, a place to hide and regroup, but whoever was behind Door #1 lunged, grabbed hold of him and yanked him inside with such force he fell to the floor in a crumbled mess.

  “What the hell…”

  “Shut up, McSwain.”

  Jimmy looked up and saw a man who seemed as tall as a Redwood, though that might have been the angle. Redwoods were smaller. He wore a threatening look upon his face, and at his side was a gun, set into a holster, with was attached to a belt with handcuffs and a radio. He wore the uniform of an NYPD officer. Jimmy surmised he was just the muscle.

  “Can I get up?”

  “Please do.”

  It was another voice this time, coming from further inside the big apartment. Jimmy picked himself up off the floor, smoothing his jeans for no other reason than for something to do. He eased into the living room, where he saw Frisano sitting helpless on the sofa. He looked unharmed, still in the casual clothes he’d worn this morning. He was a sight for sore eyes but Jimmy knew to play it cool. Because it wasn’t Frisano who had spoken to him. At least, not Frisano the younger.

  “So, Jimmy McSwain, we meet at last.”

  That other man who spoke was standing in the door frame between the living room and the kitchen, and he filled the space well. Not quite the Redwood, but he wasn’t going to be mistaken for a short person. He was also NYPD, but he was in a dark blue uniform with a jacket. His badge was gold and it shone even in the fading light of the city beyond the windows. Jimmy wouldn’t want to be caught doing anything wrong in front of him, much less sleeping with another man. He took a step forward nonetheless.

  “Lieutenant Frisano, I presume?”

  “And I was going to give you two more guesses.”

  “Where’s Seetha Assan?”

  “She’s fine. No harm has come to her, or will come to her.”

  “I want to see for myself,” Jimmy said.

  “A fiery one, aren’t you? Too bad. You’ll just have to accept the word of a senior official of New York’s Finest.”

  “I’ve heard that once before. The Sergeant told my mother there was nothing they could do to find my father’s killer. Fourteen years later, the remark still reeks.”

  “Well, be that as it may, Mr. McSwain, you will forget all about Ms. Assan and anything she had to tell you. She would have said anything to get what she wanted, and that included a tall tale about her brother’s involvement in the death of Officer Joseph McSwain. She has told many a lie since she showed up on your doorstep, except one.”

  “Which was?”

  “That she killed a man. And that yes, it was self-defense.”

  “But still you want to charge her with murder,” Jimmy said.

  “Like I said, forget all about Ms. Assan. You will never hear from her again.”

  “There are ways around the police, Lieutenant, with all due respect.”

  “Are you talking about the media?”

  Salvatore Frisano stepped closer to Jimmy, his frame larger even than his son’s. He wore a thick, bristly mustache that was a mix of black and steel gray, and his face was ruddy from years of drink, deep wrinkles around his eyes. But he was strong, for sure, in terrific shape for a man his age. What this lifetime cop had perfected, though, was a stance of intimidation and Jimmy felt it here, now. How much worse it could feel in an interrogation room in some far away precinct, or down at One Police Plaza, where a threat of a night in the Tombs loomed.

  Jimmy gave a helpless look over at Frisano, still sitting on the sofa like a subservient. He supposed he was, both in the ranks and in the family.

  “If you give the media Seetha Assan’s name, you’ll make a fool of yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she doesn’t exist.”

  “She…are you talking witness protection? Has she disappeared?”

  “No. I told you, she doesn’t exist,” he said. “We fabricated her, McSwain. Rashad Assan had no sister. The woman you know as Seetha Assan is a special agent with the FBI, working a joint task force with the NYPD. And you’ll never know who she really is, or why she was created. I’m telling you what I’m telling you so you will drop this case. For your own good, McSwain. Live your life. Honor your father that way. It’s how he would have wanted it.”

  “How the hell would you know what my father wanted?”

  “I knew Joseph McSwain, not well, but I’d occasion to run into him. A fine officer, one of the few truly proud to wear the uniform. You are just like him, though without authority. Strong-willed, thick-headed. Never knew how to drop down from a fight. It proved his undoing, trying to stop a couple of stupid thugs from robbing a deli. Let them. It’s not worth it. Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”