Ben Bradshaw, a private investigator, is not just any detective. He delves into the mysteries of the living and the dead, his past spirits guiding him through the shadows of crime.
One evening, college wrestling champion Levi Franklin visits Ben and urges him to help find his missing father. After listening to the client’s impulsive request, Ben refuses to accept the young man’s offer. Something does not seem right. Then, something shifts in Levi's desperate plea. His heart-wrenching demand to find his father rattles the skeletons in Ben’s closet and compels him to search for the missing family man.
As the case develops, a few ghosts from Ben’s life emerge at the most inopportune time. Still, they guide him through a treacherous labyrinth of sinister twists and turns to a shocking reality Ben could not have anticipated. Will he continue this line of paranormal work after discovering the horrible truth behind the missing man's disappearance?
I met his dubious stare and questioned how a twenty-year-old could get his hot hands on so much cash. I found it odd and suspicious, but I didn’t press him. I needed to pay this month’s electricity bill.
“I gotta go,” Levi said. “But here. Take this.” He handed me a scrap of torn and coffee-stained paper with numbers scribbled in furious handwriting.
I held up the paper a few inches from my tired eyes. “What is the significance of these numbers: eighty-seven and four-eighteen?”
Levi leaned into the car, his anchor arms resting on the windowsill, sculpted in grooves of muscle and sinew. I got a whiff of his cheap cologne (musky -- probably his father’s) and meaty, pastrami breath. “My dad was in town last night.”
I must have looked confused because Levi cocked his head and asked, “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“You didn’t answer my question. What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, waving the paper in front of him.
“Those are the numbers to my father’s client’s apartment address and the apartment number south of town.”
“How do you know that?”
He raised his dim blue gaze to the bank of houses lining the side of the street, then looked back at me.
I could see a dangerous shift in his sinister expression, like the schizophrenic upstate New York weather. He closed his eyes and dropped his head, as if defeated. His hair was still damp, probably from a recent shower, and his bloodless complexion was dewy with beads of perspiration.
I leaned forward and turned the radio dial to soften the background music of Charlie “Bird” Parker’s saxophone. “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Franklin?” I asked, knowing how this PI game worked after five years of strange cases.
“You can’t let my mother know what I’m about to tell you,” he said, his voice full of deep sadness and anxiety.
I shook my head. “That sounds ominous. What if I need to talk to your mother about this case?”
“You can’t. My mother can’t know I hired you.”
I shot him a hard stare. “I’ve been at this job for many years and worked with many people. I also know when a client is lying. So, let’s stop beating about the proverbial bush and set things straight. Honesty is what’s going to help me find your father.” I watched him squirm in his too-tight dress suit. “So, let me ask you again. What aren’t you telling me?”
Levi was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, and wiping sweat from above his thick eyebrows. He pulled himself up to his full height and looked away, pacing the small area of grass separating the sidewalk and street. It was as if he knew more than he was letting on, which was the case, I presumed. “He’s been having an affair with another woman,” Levi said, returning to the open window, cagey and distracted, looking at me, then turning away, watching for movement in his house.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I’ve been eavesdropping on my father’s secret phone calls at night.”
