by C. S. Poe
It was sometimes shocking I’d managed to make it to thirty-four.
I flipped to a blank page, took a breath, mentally reminded myself in and out, then started writing down everything I knew so far.
Frank had been curating, from what it sounded like, a very impressive exhibit about the history of the Bone Wars and its two leading men: Marsh and Cope. Thyne hadn’t been impressed. Gould described him as being upset the focus was on humans, instead of the creatures they had unearthed.
The aggressive hostility Thyne had toward the exhibit didn’t paint him in a pretty light.
Angela had recently been fired—possibly for stealing, although I suspected if that were gospel, she’d be in prison. But still. Couple that with the addition of her boyfriend cheating on her with an intern, and that made her one salty individual.
Motive could be professional and personal.
Which brought me to Daniel, the unextraordinary intern. Accepted to work a semester at one of the most prestigious museums in the country, most likely as a favor owed to the renowned Dr. Hart—a modern-day dinosaur hunter who sounded as if he would more often be found in the hills of sedimentary rock than behind a desk. Daniel hadn’t been seen or heard from in days, yet no one seemed terribly concerned.
Just a college kid. Probably on vacation.
And then there was the skull.
The skull of Edward Drinker Cope himself.
Apparently Frank had wanted to highlight this particular item in his visiting exhibit, which had pissed Thyne off to no end. But Gould hadn’t been able to provide me with further details and returned to the museum before Thyne had an opportunity to notice her absence.
This had to be the skull the Collector was alluding to. With the handwritten messages to both me and Frank implying the Bone Wars, and then adding that famous Cope quote, it was a conclusion I felt pretty comfortable making. Although why Cope’s skull was, in fact, a museum piece at all, and not attached to the rest of his body, seemed an overlooked detail that needed to be addressed. That, and why did the Collector want the skull in the first place? What about a century-old cranium and mandible was important enough to murder innocent people over?
Was it nothing more than a morbid fascination?
The Collector had already proven to have an affinity for fresh body parts…. God… I’d bet antiquated ones totally got their rocks off.
A ripple of discomfort went up my spine and made the hair on my neck stand on end. I tossed the notebook back onto the table as Max returned with two cups.
He sat down and offered one. “House brew,” he clarified.
“Thanks.”
Max took a sip of his own coffee. “So I found Frank Newell on Twitter. It’s not a very active account. Once a month retweet kind of thing, mostly museum stuff. Anyway. His girlfriend is—”
“Angela London.”
“Why am I digging into people’s social media dirt if you already knew the answer?”
I made a vague motion with one hand. “I found out by chance. One of his coworkers mentioned her.”
“Did they mention she’s about as toxic as they come?”
“Is she?”
“Oh yeah. From what I gathered of her totally unhinged ranting on Twitter, she’s recently been fired, has no money, hates Frank—”
“Frank’s been sleeping with an intern,” I interjected.
“Well, thirty seconds after tweeting about how much she despises him, she follows it up with how much she loves Frank,” Max continued. “Really unhealthy personality. She seems like the internet troll who would take it a step too far. Like doxx or stalk kind of too far. I had to scrub myself after going through her timeline.” Max inclined his head at my notebook. “What did you find out?”
“Enough to not have an answer.”
Max grunted and sipped his coffee.
“Frank had enemies. His girlfriend for sure. And his boss was really against an exhibit he was planning about the Bone Wars.”
“The Bone Wars? Did Frank work in the paleontology department?”
“Remind me to double your Christmas bonus.”
Max smirked. “Hey, man. Who didn’t love dinosaurs growing up?” He leaned forward across the too-small table. “So two people don’t like Frank.”
“At least.”
“But enough to want to kill him?” Max asked before lowering his voice when a woman to my left glanced our way. “This… Collector threatens, taunts, then murders people, right?”
I nodded. “I believe the antique I’m supposed to deliver in exchange for Calvin is the skull of Edward Drinker Cope.”
“Wait, what?”
I explained to Max what the highlighted artifact of Frank’s visiting exhibit was supposed to be. I told him about the two other messages I’d received, as well as what I’d pieced together at the hotel when Calvin was still…. No. That way madness lay.
“The head curator must be the Collector,” Max said with grim satisfaction. “Trying to stop the exhibit from happening because he wants the skull for himself.”
“But it’s been lost,” I answered.
“It still adds up.”
“Maybe. But Angela was fired for trying to steal from the museum.”
Max drummed his fingertips on the table, sipped more caffeine, then said, “Maybe they’re working it together.”
“I can’t imagine Calvin would willingly get into the car of a stranger or potential suspect,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’m under the assumption the Collector is someone who knows him and me on some level. It’s the only explanation to those text messages.”
“Set that thought aside for one minute,” Max said. “If this were a team effort, it’d certainly be easier to overpower Calvin.”
I frowned at his words. Felt myself deflate a little in the chair.
“I didn’t mean… fuck.” Max seemed to struggle with how to correct himself. “This is difficult to discuss, because it’s not a nobody.”
“It’s Calvin,” I said solemnly. I took another one of those deep, soul-cleansing breaths. “You might be onto something. I can’t rule out a joint effort yet. There are too many coincidences.”
“I bet Calvin thought so too,” Max said as he leaned back in his chair.
“He did think so.”
“Really?”
“Yesterday, after we’d both been sent home, he called to check in with me. He was on his way to the museum for some follow-up interviews. He must have smelled dirt in the department.”
“Here’s what I don’t get, then,” Max said. “Why bother coming after you? If this is about Calvin.”
“Calvin wasn’t the target—not in the beginning. We think, after who knows how many failed attempts at procuring the skull through others, the Collector took a different route and went to me because I’m… uh….”
“Well-known,” Max supplied tactfully.
“That’s it. And when I wouldn’t budge, Calvin became incentive. Maybe doubly so, when he started asking more questions. The Collector was able to force my hand and get rid of a nosy cop at the same time.”
Max leaned forward once more. “If they were able to get Calvin out of the way… why bother keeping him alive for forty-eight hours?”
The few sips of coffee I’d taken began to bubble and churn acid in my stomach. I said severely, “Because they need me agreeable.”
“I HAVE to talk to Angela,” I stated.
Max had been performing another social media search on his phone when he raised his head. “Calvin isn’t here, so allow me to be your common sense.” He kicked me hard under the table.
“Ow! What the hell?” I reached down and rubbed my shin.
“Dude. She might be the killer,” he whispered loudly.
I was still massaging my leg. “Did you find the intern anywhere?”
Max reluctantly shook his head before pocketing his cell. “Nothing on Twitter or Facebook that matches the Daniel Howard in question.”
“Don’t you
think that’s weird?” I asked. “For someone his age to not have online hangouts?”
“You’re not online.”
“I’m not a college kid.”
Max shrugged. “Maybe he values his privacy.”
“Then all the more reason I need to talk to Angela. I’ve got to find that intern. He hasn’t reported to work in days. Think about it. We still have two unidentified bodies—one mailed to Frank and one to me.”
Realization softened Max’s features. “He might be one of the bodies.”
“Right. And I can’t be certain if anyone on the museum staff bothered to mention Daniel Howard to Calvin during his interviews.”
Truth be told, I was actually a bit scared to meet Angela. From the way Max had described her, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she wasn’t playing with a full deck. And even if she wasn’t the Collector, that perverse personality still made her dangerous. Anyone willing to steal from a museum had to have unsavory contacts and at least a general understanding of what an item on the black market was worth. Edward Drinker Cope’s skull could be worth thousands. Hundreds of thousands. After being involved in three Victorian-themed murder mysteries, nothing surprised me anymore.
Angela had been fired before Daniel vanished on his maybe-college-break and the murders began, that much Dr. Gould had established for me. But I was still uncertain about the possibility of Angela and Thyne working together to obtain the skull. I could hypothesize certain events, but I would need more details to confirm or deny their potential and unsavory business relationship if I was going to make any of the shit I was flinging stick to the target.
Angela could have killed Daniel. This whole Collector business might have started as nothing more than a crime of passion. And in order to cover the death up—because she’d have been suspect numero uno otherwise—she fabricated this elaborate… murder machine. A bit outrageous, but she could have simultaneously exacted revenge on Frank while getting her hands on serious cash.
I took my sunglasses off and rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know why Cope’s skull is being punted around museums.”
“I hate it when you don’t know something.”
I snorted. “So do I.” I put my shades on again. “It’s extremely disorienting.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with mourning rituals?”
“Displaying a skull?” I asked doubtfully.
“They used to display the entire body in parlors.”
“Yes, but keepsakes of loved ones after burial were usually something small. A bit of hair preserved in a locket, or a ring made from a glass eye.”
“Gross.”
“Not by Victorian standards,” I chastised. “They had a much more intimate relationship with death than we do today.”
Max shrugged. He took out his phone again. “Well, I don’t know about the skull, but if you insist on talking to Angela, we have to set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.
He nodded, still studying the screen. “Yeah. Like meet somewhere well-lit and public, for one. Two, don’t tell her you suspect she might have offed someone.”
“You think so little of me?”
Max glanced up briefly. “You don’t have a good track record.”
“I feel personally attacked.”
He snorted and went back to whatever he was doing. “How are you going to ask her questions without it being suspicious?”
“I’m going to tell her I’m researching the whereabouts of the Cope skull.” I snatched my notebook and put it away. “If she’s the Collector, she’ll know that’s the truth but won’t realize she’s a suspect. If she’s innocent, she’ll know I’m contacting her because of her recent position in the paleontology division.” I grabbed my scarf, paused, and stared at the far wall of the coffee shop. “Except I have no idea how to reach her,” I said a bit absently.
“I was hoping you’d realize that before you walked out,” Max said with a quiet laugh. “Luckily you have me.” He turned his phone around.
I leaned across the table and squinted to read the tiny text. “What am I looking at?”
“Her public Facebook account.”
I took his phone. “This is her phone number?”
“Yeah.”
“You can do that?”
“Hm-hm.”
“For God’s sake why?”
Max smirked. “I love you, you cantankerous old man.”
ANGELA LONDON had been suitably suspicious of me on the phone, which suggested she was not completely nuts. She agreed to meet me at Spirits, a bar on St. Marks.
At 2:45 p.m.
On a Tuesday.
During the daylight hours, the cultural hub, famous for its accumulation of individuals on the fringes of society, looked almost lackluster. Several of the storefronts were shuttered until evening hours, while the others that stood open were intended for tourism appeal—shit like sunglasses, funky winter hats, and glass pipes that’d make suburban moms gasp. Once it was dark, the street really came to life.
My taxi drove off, leaving me standing curbside between two massive trees. To the left was a shuttered body-piercing salon and a Japanese restaurant. On the right was some kind of alternative clothing store and a comic shop. Nestled smack between them—Spirits. I crossed the sidewalk and took the steps down into the underground establishment.
Spirits was dim, enough that I was able to change into regular glasses and be comfortable. I shoved my sunglasses into my messenger bag and took a look around. It was very cramped inside—almost no space widthwise, making it impossible to fit more than half a dozen very small standing tables to the right of me. The bar was, at least, quite long, going back the entire length of the room. The walls were painted a dark color, and window décor purposefully blocked out the daylight.
I recognized the musician playing on the overhead speakers—not because I was a fan of Marilyn Manson, but because I’d dated Neil for four years. Despite his uptight, stuffy demeanor, he was a serious hard rock and metal fan. One can imagine that music had been a point of contention in our household. I thought idly, while walking toward the bar, that Manson seemed too mainstream for a place like this, but maybe it was suitable during the slow daytime hours.
A woman sat alone at the bar. She tilted her head and took a shot before wincing and slamming the glass down. She wiped her lips on the back of her hand before noticing me standing several feet away. “The fuck you lookin’ at?”
Charming.
“Angela London?”
She started laughing and grabbed for her second shot. “Sebastian?”
“That’s right.”
She shook her head, muttered, “Fuckin’ nerd,” then tossed back the next drink.
I took a seat and left an empty stool between us.
The bartender moved to stand in front of me. He was clean-shaven, both face and head, with those big gauged ears like my friend Aubrey Grant had. “Can I get you anything?”
“A club soda.” I shifted and looked at Angela. She definitely didn’t fit the dark, morbid aesthetic of the bar any more than I did and, until quite recently, had held down a job at a science museum. I wasn’t sure why she was judging my dress pants and loafers. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“You’re researching Edward Cope, huh?”
I nodded. “I own an antique business.”
Angela pursed her lips and nodded. “Wow.” She leaned over the empty barstool and put a hand on my thigh. “That’s so interesting.”
I cleared my throat loudly. “Yeah, I guess so. Cope surfaced during some research I’ve been conducting on a project.”
She kept drunk-nodding her head. “Uh-huh.” Angela pushed her hand up higher and very nearly learned I dressed to the right.
I took her wrist, firmly removed her hand, and put it on the bar top. “I’m not interested, Ms. London.”
Angela narrowed her eyes and gave me another slow once-over. “Fuckin’ queer.”
> The bartender came back with a club soda and another shot. Before Angela could grab her drink, I quickly took both and reversed their positions.
“Hey—” she protested.
“Why don’t you pace yourself. So we can talk.”
“Is talking all we’re gonna do?”
“Yes.”
She rolled her eyes and drunkenly sipped the club soda before sticking her tongue out in disgust. She was pretty trashed, so it was difficult to tell if she knew what I looked like—who to expect when the door had opened—or if my physical appearance was a surprise. There was the possibility that even if she were the Collector, she hadn’t necessarily ever seen me in person. Reputation and all that. Folks remember my name, not my face. It was also tricky trying to determine if she was aware that I was gay, or if she was simply so sloshed that her knee-jerk reaction to any perceived letdown was to hurl homosexual insults.
Either way. I didn’t like her.
“About Edward Cope,” I tried once more. “My studies led me to your boyfriend—Dr. Newell? It seems like he’s been organizing—”
“My boyfriend,” Angela said slowly and methodically, but his name dripped from her tongue like snake venom, “was a sack of shit.”
Was.
“Really?” I asked. “Why?”
“Have you ever been cheated on?”
I nodded. “Yeah.” I was no saint, but my college boyfriend, Brian, had been a real ass.
Angela pouted and touched my chest. She tried to wriggle her fingers in between the buttons of my winter coat. “You poor thing.”
I politely pushed her hand away again. “I’m quite okay, Ms. London.”
“Well, I’m not,” she clarified before slurping the club soda again. “Frank slept with his intern. It’s so cliché!” And without warning, she burst into loud, drunken sobs.
Startled, I grabbed a wad of napkins from a nearby dispenser and offered them.
She took the cheap, thin paper and wiped her face. “His male intern,” she added before looking at me. Her eye makeup wasn’t waterproof. “But I’d guess you know what that’s like.”
“I don’t sleep with male interns.”
