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.”

“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.”