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.

“Seetha, can you tell us why you sought out Mr. McSwain last night?”

“I…I had no other place to turn.”

“Friends, family?”

“I needed a professional,” she said, her tone emotionless.

“I thought you said you went to McSwain,” Dean said.

Frisano’s eyes shot upward. “Detective Dean, we can easily do this without you.”

“Sorry, Captain.”

Larry Dean and Jimmy McSwain had grown up together in Hell’s Kitchen. Larry thought his one-time friend had sold out, going the private sector route. Dean was third generation NYPD, the first to make detective grade, and at such a young age you had to wonder who he knew or what he knew. Dean’s grandfather was long gone, but his father worked somewhere within the complex known as One Police Plaza. That connection had to come with certain advantages. Still, it didn’t make Dean a good cop or detective, remanding him to bully status from the neighborhood. He had only one weakness that Jimmy knew of. A knock came at the door, and as soon as the new arrival swept into the room, all beauty and style and elegance carried on a wave of citrus perfume, Dean shut his mouth. They all kind of did.

“Mallory,” Jimmy said.

Jimmy’s sister smiled at him, pecked him on the cheek before addressing the rest of those gathered. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Am I to believe this woman here is my client Seetha Assan? Shame on all of you for trying to scare her—and trying to interrogate her without her lawyer present.” Mallory McSwain set her designer bag down on the gunmetal table. “So, anybody care to catch me up?”

“We haven’t gotten very far,” Frisano said.

“Then I’ve arrived at the perfect time,” Mallory said. “Mallory McSwain, and you are?”

“Captain Francis X. Frisano,” he said, extending his hand.

Jimmy watched as they shook hands. They hadn’t met before. Jimmy didn’t take men home to meet the family. Certainly not men who were cops. But that didn’t mean his knowing sister had not heard the name bandied about the dinner table. She tossed Jimmy a quick, knowing nod before returning her attention to the others. “Detective Barone, Larry…”

A smart move on her part, relegating Detective Larry Dean to a teenager with an unrequited crush. She took the seat next to Seetha, put a hand gently upon the woman’s arm. For the first time Jimmy saw a sense of relief cross Seetha’s face.

“Is Ms. Assan charged with a crime?” Mallory asked.

“Not yet.”

“No warrant out for her arrest?”

“None has been filed. We were unaware of her involvement until she and McSwain strolled in,” Frisano said. “Clearly that’s all changed.”

“And just what is she involved in?”

“A man was found shot to death in a Queens warehouse early this morning.”

“Seems out of your jurisdiction, Captain.”

“Consider it a favor. Ms. Assan will be treated more fairly here. She and I have met before.”

Mallory gave Seetha a quick look, a nod confirming his statement. “Captain Frisano found me after the death of my brother, asked if I wanted the body remanded to my custody. So I could properly bury him.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. What is the connection between the captain and your brother?”

“Captain Frisano killed him,” Seetha said.

She’d beat Jimmy to the punch.

Her harsh words stopped the action in the room dead, like a second bullet had just shot out of the barrel of a gun. Jimmy put a hand upon his sister’s shoulders, tightened his grip. “Mal, the man in question, Rashad Assan, was the deli killer from this summer’s crime wave case. He was killed in a hostage situation…”

“I remember the story. It was all over the papers. Captain Frisano was hailed a hero.”

“He saved lives, innocent lives,” Barone said.

Frisano spoke up then. “Whatever went down that day, Rashad was still a person. I felt his family should have the chance to say good-bye. I tracked down Ms. Assan—it wasn’t easy, since, as she eventually told me, she was shamed by her brother. I went to her home in Queens, where I offered her the chance to claim her brother’s body. She seemed unable to trust me. Why would she? I was the one who pulled the trigger. I told her if she wanted to know more, to contact Jimmy here. She did…”

“But nothing came of it,” Jimmy said. “She disappeared. Until last night, when she showed up on my doorstep.”

Mallory gazed at the faces of the three cops, uncertainty staring back. “I’m confused now,” she said. “I don’t see how any of this is related to a murder in a warehouse far from where we are today.”

“I was taken against my will, not long after I phoned your brother,” Seetha explained.

“You were kidnapped?”

“I wasn’t abused, nor beaten. I was allowed to read, to watch videos. No news, no papers or Internet. First I was taken to a sparsely furnished apartment, one room with a tiny bath. Prepared food was brought in daily. A man would sit with me always. I could never be alone.”

“Do you know who abducted you?” Frisano asked.

“No, they never said who they were.”

Frisano continued to take the lead. “Can you tell us more about these men?”

Seetha nodded, fear lighting her eyes as if from memory of her experience. “Three different men. The man from last night, he was the worst of them. Always leering at me, like he was going to touch me…inappropriately. I was most afraid when he was sent to watch over me, especially during the overnights. It was he who took me from the apartment to the warehouse.”

“How long were you in the warehouse?”

“Only two or three days. Tied to a chair, mostly. Mouth covered.”

“Did they ever say what they wanted with you?”

“Just to teach me a lesson. To keep my mouth shut.”

“About what?”

“About Rashad.”

“What did they think you knew? Did Rashad ever tell you anything?”

“As I’ve said, I only saw my brother once in the last ten years. When I went to visit him in prison. He told me never to return, to forget him. His eyes were so dark, like the devil lived inside him. He’d killed a man, that’s why he was in jail. But I sensed his incarceration was for more than a simple bar fight that ended badly. It was like Rashad was serving a penance, one he seemed to accept was his due.” She paused. “This is ancient history. Rashad was released from prison earlier this year, but he never tried to reach out to me. When I saw on the news what had happened—and what he’d been accused of—that’s when I decided to contact Captain Frisano.”

“Tell us about the dead guy in the warehouse.” This was Barone, his tone as severe as the change in direction of the questioning.

Mallory continued to keep a steadying hand on Seetha’s arm. “You don’t have to answer them. I advise you not to, not until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

“I did nothing wrong. Except protect myself. It’s okay, I don’t mind speaking.”

Jimmy hovered behind his sister and Seetha, letting them both know he had their backs. He put a hand upon each of their shoulders, linking them all to one side of the law while those who enforced it stared back at them. It wasn’t exactly a checkmate move, but it was clear the game was nearing its conclusion. Jimmy caught Frisano’s eyes, which seemed to indicate he was going to be gentle. He just wanted answers. Seetha wasn’t a target, she was a victim.

“The man…I never knew his name. He brought food and untied my hands so I could eat. But then he suddenly got…physical with me. Touched my…my breast. Squeezed it, hard, like he’d been thinking about it all along. I couldn’t help it, I reacted. I slapped him with the most force I could find. It was like the four weeks of being trapped had unleashed my fury. I got up, I attacked him. He hit me back. He pulled a gun. I managed to kick him…you know, there. He went down, the gun sliding across the cement floor. I reached for it, so did he. We struggled, and the gun went off. He went down in a cry…no, a wail, I know I’ll never forget that sound. In a way, I felt like I’d become like my brother. I’d killed a man, even if it was self-defense…but…”

She stopped, wiping at a tear.

“I think we’ve heard enough, Captain,” Mallory said.

He nodded in the otherwise quiet of the interrogation room. “Let me make a few calls,” he said. “I’ll talk to the detectives involved.”

“And then what will happen?” Seetha Assan said.

“I’ll do my best to make this go away. You were the victim here. In the meantime, it might be best if we keep you in a safe place…”

“I’ll handle that, Captain,” Mallory said. “My firm has several corporate apartments. She’ll be safe.”

“Don’t disappear on us again, Ms. Assan,” Barone said.

“Detectives Barone and Dean, I think you can both go. No need to further involve either of you. I appreciate your back-up.”

Clearly unhappy about being dismissed, both men shuffled out of the room. It was just the four of them, all of whom seemed to be on the same side. Frisano came forward, where he took a seat opposite Seetha, dropping to her level and removing the intimidation factor. It was a gesture of kindness, and Jimmy felt he was witnessing the softer side of Frisano, one he usually revealed for private moments. He was still in uniform, still official. It was like he could let his guard down when not surrounded by the men of his precinct.

“There’s one thing you’re leaving out of this, isn’t it?”

Seetha looked at him, then at Mallory and Jimmy. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“We’ve got an ID on the man you say abducted you. The one you shot last night.”

“Who was he?”

“I’m going to keep that quiet for now, until everything is settled.”

“Frank, why don’t you just say what you mean,” Jimmy said.

Frisano shot him a look, noting Jimmy’s use of the familiar. No titles now, just people. It seemed to have a calming effect on the ambitious cop.

“The dead man, not unlike your brother, was a former NYPD officer,” Frisano said.

Jimmy’s mind swirled, his legs suddenly unsteady and not from the heat inside the room. He remembered the detail Seetha’s nosy neighbor had told him and Ralphie—that Seetha was seen being taken away by a man in a cop’s uniform. And now the man who had held her, tried to abuse her, was dead, and it turns out, he was once a member of the force. Just what the hell was going on?

“I’m even more confused,” she said.

“Let me ask you this, Seetha. When did your brother quit the force?”

“I’m not sure…it was so many years ago…”

“Fourteen, to be exact,” Jimmy said instantly, easily recalling the details he’d memorized from the Forever Haunt file. His throat newly dry, the words he was about to speak struggled to grab oxygen. At last, he was able to speak. “Right after 9/11.”

It was an ominous end to the meeting, and it broke up with an unsettled, uncertain feeling deepening inside Jimmy. Frisano once again assured Seetha he would do all he could to see that no charges were filed, yet they all knew that no matter if the incident was swept under the rug, her life had changed forever. But all of their lives had changed, drastically, dramatically, dangerously, not unlike they had on that fateful day fourteen years ago that no one wanted to speak of now.

Back out into the bright sunshine of the day, Mallory hailed a cab and escorted a thankful Seetha inside it. Mallory gave Jimmy a peck on his unshaven check, whispered that all was going to be okay. The cab swept into late afternoon traffic seconds later, leaving Jimmy on the street corner of Seventh Avenue and 20th Street. For some reason he stared toward Lower Manhattan, where a single, gleaming tower touched the sky when once there had been two.

There was only one event Jimmy had been glad Joseph McSwain hadn’t lived to see.

The day a city burned.

§ § §

Death rocked the theatre, leaving the audience stunned by the play’s denouement.

Jimmy had seen much of Triskaidekaphobia, but not the end, not until this night. He knew he was working, knew he should be watching the audience for anything untoward, keeping an eye on the creative team which stood in the standing room area behind the back row of the orchestra, pacing and muttering in quiet tones to each other. But it was the play that held his attention, the final confrontation that consumed the last ten minutes of the two and a half hour drama. There were two actors remaining on stage, Gareth Fitzroy in his role as Dr. Florian Dell’Aquila, and Randall Short as the final piece of the twelve-member phobia group, in character as Charles Henry. Vehemence held firm on that stage, the two men fueled by anger, pushing the final buttons on a play that was destined for an ending other than happy. A sweeping darkness enveloped the house, with all eyes focused on the shadowy lights illuminating the stage, matching the show’s dark, final tone. The confrontation was upon them.

“We were all just pawns, Dr. Florian, you cared for none of us.”

“Is that so?”

Three simple words spoken by Fitzroy. Jimmy had to admire the actor’s possession of his dialogue. He spoke with such disgust, but such confidence…or was it smugness?

“Tell me more, Mr. Henry.”

“I’m done talking. You are a sick man yourself, ‘Dr.’ Florian.”

“An interesting diagnosis. Not exactly clinical in its wording.” He paused, getting up from his chair, circling around it. He placed his hands on the high back, digging nails into the fabric. “And this, from a self-admitted killer.”

“I came to you for help.”

“To fight your impulses, yes, I remember. You felt you might kill. An uncontrollable urge.”

“Don’t manipulate this. This session is about you, not me.”

“Tell me, Charles. Did it give you satisfaction, ensuring Sarah died from her fears?”

Randall Short, in the form of the tortured Mr. Henry, grabbed his head, shook it, angrily. “Sarah was weak.”

“We all are.”

“NO!”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Henry. You came to me, seeking help for what you feared. I would suggest instead that you arrived ready to fail. Wanting to fail. You desired to taste blood, so much so you spilled it—metaphorically, of course—by causing poor Sarah to drown. Of course she feared being swept away by a wave—it’s why she wouldn’t vacation with her family each summer. Why she sought help, so she could. You saw to ensuring her end, and by drowning. You both lost, you both fed what you feared most. Except hers was forced upon her, yours was pure impulse. Does that make you happy?”

Jimmy didn’t know how this was going to end; the intensity between the two actors—and thus their characters—was building, like water boiling in a pot, threatening to spill over. And it was, except water wasn’t the tool, it was blood. Because the two actors had begun to circle each other, a pas de deux played out on a stage.

“You wouldn’t let me in your group, it was full. No more than twelve people.”

“Of course,” Dr. Florian said.

“But in truth, it was thirteen. You were the thirteenth.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t speak that word.”

“You know what today is, don’t you Dr. Florian?”

Finally, the man who held possession of the play for the past two-plus hours crumbled to the stage. Hands upon his ears, he shook back and forth, a primal scream erupting out of him. “No, don’t you dare…you don’t understand…”

“I do understand. Dr. Florian Dell’Aquila, son of esteemed psychologists Adrian and Erica Dell’Aquila, killed in a fire in their apartment—their thirteenth floor apartment, and, coincidence or not, on their thirteenth wedding anniversary. There you were, a twelve year old boy, abandoned by parents who could no longer be there for you. You were sent to live with a relative, but you never forgot. You never forget their profession, or the way in which they died. You took advantage of us all—all of our fears—so you could conquer yours. If you helped us, so be it. So long as you could face the number thirteen.”

Dr. Florian was still rocking back and forth, on his knees, head bent toward the floor.

“No…no…no…”

He kept saying it, kept repeating it, and Jimmy assumed he was allowed to say it until he had reached, of course, the number thirteen. It was then that Charles Henry approached him, and as the lights dimmed further and the haunting music grew in intensity, a knife appeared. The glint of the metal caught in the light. Like a hopeful sign from above, knowing destiny had taken control of the world. Mr. Henry brought the knife down once, and an agonizing scream reverberated all over the theatre. The music continued to escalate, and Henry continued his violent attack, all while the scrim came down, separating the audience, at last, from the violence on the stage to the safety of the auditorium. Suddenly the number 13 appeared on the scrim, briefly, before the house went dark.

Applause rippled throughout the house, allowing Jimmy a moment to take a step back and absorb the shocking finale to a play that was all about shock value. Before he even had a chance to recover, the stage lights came up and the actors, one by one, were running out from the wings, standing center stage and taking their bows. Jimmy half-expected Gareth Fitzroy to be unable to take his curtain call, so real—and surreal—was his character’s demise at the end of the show. But there he was, taking the final bow, clasping hands with the actors closest to him. They all took one last bow before the scrim came down for the last time that night. Suddenly the house lights came up and the audience began its ritual of filtering out into the night. Back to their lives.

Jimmy thought about those notes sent to Casey Crais. What are you afraid of?

They were words he’d thought about before he’d taken this case, now more imbedded in his soul than ever. Still shaken by the ending, Jimmy made his way downstairs to the lower lounge, where he used the restroom. He eventually made his way backstage, witnessing actor after actor saying goodnight and escaping through the stage door to sign Playbills for their new fans. The stagehands returned from the stage, having done their post-show routine. Ushers said goodnight; Caroline, the porter, along with Reno, the doorman, headed to the front of the house to ensure all patrons were gone from the building. Jimmy was alone, caught between the real world of backstage and the allure of the pretend. He passed through the swinging double doors that led to the wings, immersed in sudden darkness. He thought about the end of the play, the unexpected, violent death of Dr. Florian, and given all that had happened today with Seetha Assan and the connection to his father’s case, Jimmy felt unsure of who he was, where he was, what age he might be.

Was he that kid, running around the theatre, awash with innocence?

Was he that kid who witnessed his father bleed out on 10th Avenue?

Or was he that adult who would never fully sleep until he understood who had killed his father, and why?

Was he that adult who would find out what was really going on behind the scenes of T13?

Lost in his own world, it was only a jarring sound that snapped him back. It was a cry for help, spoken not in words but in a shudder of emotion. Jimmy leapt into action, moving from the wings to the stage, following his instincts more so than the sound which had broken his reverie. It was here in the present now, he was not that kid but a private investigator, and he’d been hired to stop the threats, and hopefully ensure nothing bad happened.

The sight of dripping blood made him realize he hadn’t achieved his goal.

With the ghost light situated at the edge of the stage, Jimmy was alone with shadows. That didn’t stop his feet from progressing. He’d seen a lot over the years, and he knew you never learned anything from stepping back. Life was about moving forward, even if you didn’t want to. With his heart in his throat, beating rapidly, nervously, he hoped the blood was just a remnant of the end of the play, something the stagehands had missed…

He knew otherwise.

Creeping forward, Jimmy emerged center stage, the leading man of his own investigation.

He wasn’t the only person there.

He recognized Gareth Fitzroy, but his eyes were glassy, his pretention seeped out of him.

Along with his blood.

He sat in his own character’s chair, a knife protruding from his torso. It had been delivered by a direct hit from behind, right through the material of the doctor’s chair and into his body…and beyond. He was dead. Not just stage dead, like Jimmy had witnessed his character suffering not less than an hour ago. The curtain had finally come down, and the case of Triskaidekaphobia had reached a new, and much more palpable, level of fear.