Stage Fright

PrologueCase file #101: The Forever Haunt He titled the thick file so because it was appropriate, the haunting unrepentant even on sunny days but mostly on dark nights when sleep would come and his nightmares consumed him. Unsolved mysteries lived inside the recesses of his mind, as well as deep in his aching heart, seemingly lodged there for forever. Being unable to close the most important case of his life represented his own phobia, a fear that answers would always elude him. He had been fourteen when the deafening shot rang out, claiming the life of NYPD officer Joseph McSwain and leaving his son an empty shell at the spent bullet. That son was thirty now, and on stormy nights when thunder rumbled across the sky and he tossed in bed alone, he heard that gunshot over and over. The blast would make him jump. He would awaken in a bath of sweat, the events of that warm spring day having come screaming back. The police—his father’s brethren—had never solved the murder, relegating the case to a steel file cabinet in the basement of some dusty precinct where it had grown, at least figuratively, cold. Jimmy McSwain, his son, not now or never a cop but a private detective, had sworn to keep the heat on, and only when the truth was uncovered would he find peace. In the past year, he’d redoubled his lone efforts, the tragic realization that fifteen years had passed fueling him. The senseless execution of NYPD officer Joseph McSwain remained as much a mystery now as it did then. And execution was how Jimmy defined it. Someone had wanted his father dead. And someone knew something, still, and that person continued to remain quiet. A case-altering clue existed out there, it had to, waiting to be found. He just had to search in the right place. To find it, he was forced down to the lowest depths of the human condition, perhaps even to the highest ranks of the NYPD. Sometimes he felt they were one and the same. Jimmy felt he’d gotten close this past summer. A crime wave of robberies at Manhattan delis had mirrored the manner of his father’s death, but the suspect—a recent parolee—had been gunned down by Captain Francis X. Frisano of the 10th Precinct, during a tense hostage situation. The suspect had died on the spot, never able to confess to being involved in the shooting years ago of Joseph McSwain. Since then, the case had grown colder still, as the city had boiled, as the heat and humidity of August raced to the top of the barometer. Jimmy fought an attraction to Frisano, an ambitious career cop with his own secret, though the two of them had once spent a passionate night together But that relationship was over, another case of hope bled out by the blast of a gun. On this hot day, Jimmy McSwain, dressed only in a pair of shorts and sweating despite the hard-working air conditioner, sat on the floor of his office, a studio apartment on the second floor of a building owned by his uncle. Paddy Byrne ran his own pub downstairs, and the floorboards often failed to hold the raucous music and laughter at bay; one of the reasons Paddy allowed his nephew to use this space for his private detective business, and at quite the discount. Any other tenant might object to those late-night disturbances, but as Paddy explained, “You can’t complain, the rent is cheap.” “As cheap as that swill you serve as beer,” Jimmy had once shot back. “Talk to me that way again, I’ll have Maggie wash your mouth out with soap.” Maggie was Paddy’s sister, Jimmy’s mother. “Better than your beer.” Paddy had been a much needed father figure throughout Jimmy’s teen years and as he hurtled toward his adult life. The two men could joke about anything, knowing their banter fed good times. And as much as Jimmy appreciated having his uncle a part of his daily life, he couldn’t replace the tough-as-nails, heart as big as Manhattan Joseph McSwain. No one could. Speaking of beer, Jimmy had a sweating green bottle at his side, Yuengling. He took a sip while he flipped through the recent articles he’d added to his father’s case file. They were from the Post and the Daily News, both of which had covered the deli robberies closely, and had, on July 4th, splashed across the front pages the bloody hostage situation which had ended Rashad Assan’s reign of terror. A photo of the day’s hero stared back at Jimmy: Frisano was dressed in his uniform, slightly disheveled from an afternoon of taking down a killer but still as sexy as ever. Regret wound its way around the strings of Jimmy’s soul, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he’d been hasty in dismissing Frisano from his life, and his bed. He stole a look at his iPhone and picked it up. He scrolled through his contacts, landing on Frisano’s name. Was there a reason he hadn’t deleted the man’s personal number? Was he holding onto it because he was secretly wishing that he would once again find comfort in the burly cop’s strong arms? Or because he was an influential captain in the NYPD and might one day be useful in finding out what really happened the morning Joseph McSwain was stolen from him? Because Jimmy couldn’t be sure of his motives, he set the phone back down and closed his eyes. Usually he saw only blackness, but today the image of Frisano unspooled before him, their time in an upstate motel when the only thing exploding had been their passion for each other. He could feel that sizzling kiss on his neck, the scrape of Frank’s whiskers while slowly unbuttoning his shirt…temptation leading them toward more. Jimmy’s eyes flashed open and suddenly time forced him back to the present. He rose from the floor, finished off his beer, and tossed the empty bottle into a trash bin. Frustration filtered through his system, and he knew he had to do something. Anything. The summer had been quiet, case-wise. Two simple assignments where he had to trail two separate married men whose wives thought they were cheating; both suspicions turned out to be true. Jimmy filed his reports, took the money, and wondered if anyone was really happy. But the final two weeks of August were proving to be quiet; maybe all of Manhattan was on vacation. Maggie and his pregnant sister, Meaghan, were still upstate at Peach Lake, staying at Grandma Hester’s cottage. Soon enough they would both return to work at the Calloway Theatre, since its new show was scheduled to begin previews on September 13th. His other sister Mallory was on vacation at some luxury resort. All that meant Jimmy was alone, rattling around his office or at the McSwain apartment over on Tenth Avenue, or just stopping during the late hour into Paddy’s Pub for a pint or two, as directionless as he was miserable. He hated August. Life was as still as the air. Jimmy McSwain needed something to jumpstart his heart. As he put away his father’s file, securing it in the metal cabinet inside the closet, he put on his sneakers and then headed out of the office. Craving company, maybe he’d just go down to Paddy’s and drown his sorrows. That changed when he reached the bottom of the staircase, the ring of his phone echoing in the dim hallway. He looked at the screen. No Caller ID. He still preferred to answer the call. Prospective clients often hid behind the curtain of anonymity. “This is Jimmy. How may I help you?” “Hello,” came a woman’s voice, accented, timid, uncertain. “This is Jimmy McSwain?” “As stated. Who is this?” “I have information for you, at least, I think I do.” Again he heard that uncertainty in her voice. Jimmy paused mid-staircase, not wanting to trip himself up. This call had his attention. “I’m listening,” he said. “My name is Seetha,” she said, “Seetha Assan.” It wasn’t the first name that stopped him in his tracks. It was the last name. “Tell me more.” “Rashad Assan was my brother,” she said. “I’d like to meet with you.” “Where and when,” he said, barely pausing between words. There was a pause, and then he heard, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.” “No…wait…” Did his voice betray his desperation? There was no reply. He looked at the screen and saw the call had ended. His heart raced as he stepped out onto Ninth Avenue and a busy summer afternoon. Cars and cabs backed up the traffic on the avenue, pedestrians passed by, immersed in their own lives. Countless souls, going through the motions of life, oblivious to what ailed Jimmy. Except there was one person out there who shared his pain. One person who maybe had access to that elusive clue he’d been seeking all summer, all his life. The call from the mysterious Seetha Assan had changed everything. The solution for the Forever Haunt was back on. Joseph McSwain, father, your killer will be found, Jimmy thought. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses, as much hiding as shading his expressive eyes, and then he allowed himself to be absorbed onto the crowded, steamy sidewalks of the city, his steps fueled with newfound confidence. Despite the humidity, he felt he could breathe again. Case file #101: The Forever Haunt Case Status: Unsolved Part 1: A Preview to a Kill