by C. S. Poe
I pushed my slice of pizza toward him. “What do you know about the work Daniel did at the Museum of Natural History?”
Jason again shook a mountain of peppers onto his pizza. “He helps Frank with exhibits. He wants—wanted to be a curator.”
“Did you intern there as well?”
“Nah.” Jason folded the slice. “I’m scheduled to go on a dig with Dr. Hart in a few months. I like playin’ in the dirt.” He took a bite and said around the mouthful, “Museums got too much politics. Dan liked it, though. Or liked it ’cuz Frank did. Whichever.” Jason looked down and dragged the slice through the blobs of grease drip-dropping onto his plate.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Jason continued.
“Dan thought Angela was gettin’ suspicious. I told him to drop the internship.”
“You seriously thought she would kill him?”
“Yeah! What’s that shit called—crime of passion or something? But Dan said no. He had to help Frank with some issue regardin’ an upcoming exhibit—”
“I heard,” I answered. “Dr. Thyne thought it was unnecessary to focus on Edward Drinker Cope more so than the fossils discovered during the Bone Wars.”
Jason didn’t seem convinced on the matter. “That’s what Thyne says. I think that buttoned-up fossil is full of shit. AMNH accused the University of Pennsylvania of sending a box with no skull inside. UPenn accused them of losing Cope’s skull. Dan said the drama’s been fuckin’ wild.” He finished the slice, downed the last of his soda, and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Frank fired his own girlfriend. He thought she’d stolen the skull.”
“But the skull,” I continued quickly, “has it been found?”
Jason shrugged. “I dunno. And Dan told me Frank got a package at the museum—fuckin’ human toes or some shit. Frank got real squirrelly. Dan was scared. Last time I heard from him was Friday night.” Jason stopped, apologized under his breath, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “He was cryin’, said Angela killed Frank—he was going back to Michigan. Never saw him again. I’ve gone by every day to check.” He tapped the tabletop with an index finger. “Thanks for dinner, man. I gotta go, though.”
“Sure.” I nodded. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Jason’s mouth worked, but he shook his head and started for the door. “You know,” he said with a glance back at me, “if that cop had done his fuckin’ job, Dan might still be alive.”
I bristled a little. “What cop?” I couldn’t imagine a situation in which Calvin and Quinn would have met Jason, since he didn’t work with all the other monkeys at the circus.
“Dan said the new doc at the museum had a boyfriend on the force. Dan told the guy what was going on. Like I said, he was afraid. And naïve enough to think all cops are good cops.”
I scowled a little at that last comment. Sure, dirty cops were a thing, this much was true. But I didn’t like or appreciate the negative attitude on principle. This was news, though—so I reined myself in. Dr. Gould was new to the museum. And she knew and worked with Daniel the Intern. It didn’t seem too outrageous to suspect the poor kid had reached out to her Main Squeeze for help. Possibly with Gould none the wiser. If she’d known Daniel sought out help, I felt like that bubbly young woman would have been honest to a fault with me during our chat earlier.
“Did Daniel tell you the cop’s name?” I asked.
Jason ran a hand through his grubby hair. “He might’ve. I don’t remember. I got a Snapchat, though.”
“What’s a Snapchat?”
Jason gave me a skeptical look but kept talking. “Dan thought he was cute. I ain’t into dudes, but I’ve no problem appreciatin’ them.” Jason was digging his phone out of his jeans pocket.
I stepped away from the table and squinted at the screen he held out. It was a discreetly taken photo, like Daniel didn’t want to be caught creeping on a hottie. Some kind of text flashed over the picture, and little hearts bounced up and down, nearly distracting me from the face of Officer Nico Rossi waiting on the steps of the Museum of Natural History.
What a small world, after all.
Chapter Twelve
POP OPENED his apartment door. His face was solemn. “Kiddo.” He reached a hand out and pulled me inside.
I let my messenger bag slide off my shoulder and hit the floor with a loud thud, and I wrapped my arms around Pop’s neck. “Dad,” I choked out.
Pop hugged me hard, and that made it all the more difficult to keep from crying. It was after eight at night by the time I returned from the Daniel Debacle. And if there was ever a moment in my life that I needed my father, it was now. Now that my shoulder hurt, my face hurt, my soul hurt.
And he knew. He knew everything. I didn’t care how.
Pop patted my back firmly and stepped away. He reached under my sunglasses with his thumbs and discreetly wiped my face. “Neil told me,” he murmured.
“Neil did?”
Pop nodded and pointed across the room. I followed his line of direction and was surprised to see said man sitting at the dining table. He and my dad hadn’t gotten along well when we’d been dating. At least, nothing like how Pop was with Calvin. I realized afterward it was because even from the start, Pop hadn’t approved of Neil. He knew four years before I did that we were far too different for each other. And not the sort of different that had two people complementing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We were the kind of different that made us simply want to punch each other.
But that was in the past. And it’d stay there forever. Neil and I, I think it was safe to say, were finally friends. He’d more than proven his commitment to our new relationship while I was in the hospital after being shot. In fact, he’d been the bigger man in working to establish this new closeness from the get-go. I accepted equal fault for our breakup, and maybe I’d come to terms with it sooner than Neil had, but he’d been the first to show his apology through action.
Neil stood from the table, absently picking up his coat from the back of the chair. “I thought your dad should know what’s going on.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” What I meant was thank you for being a cop and knowing how to tell him and what to tell him because I’m too close and too committed to the outcome of this case and… I can’t.
“Sure,” Neil said simply.
Pop left my side and walked to the freezer in the kitchen.
Dillon trotted across the room and stopped in front of me to lick my hand.
“How’d Dillon get here?” I asked.
“Ms. Harrison gave me a ring earlier this afternoon. I picked him up from Good Books,” Pop explained.
I gave Dillon a good scratch behind his ears.
Pop returned and held out a bag of frozen peas.
I straightened, took the offering, then smiled wryly. “I was going to ask Santa for one of these.”
“It’s for your face, troublemaker,” Pop answered with a forced smile.
I put the bag against my bruised jaw and swollen lip, meeting my dad’s gaze.
“Sebastian,” he murmured with a simple shake of his head.
“Dad—no. Don’t tell me to stop. Don’t tell me I can’t do this.”
Pop’s jaw tensed, and he crossed his arms. “You’re not a cop, kiddo.”
“Good. That’s the only reason Calvin is still alive.”
“Whoever is behind this,” he began, severe upset barely contained beneath a calm tone and precise speech, “is not a person. They are a monster. And I’ll be damned, Sebastian, if I see you in one more hospital bed. If I—” He stopped.
Bury my son.
I lowered the bag of peas, started to speak.
“William?” Neil interrupted. “Major Cases is investigating Calvin’s disappearance. And they’re good detectives.”
I snorted.
“But they aren’t your son,” Neil continued. “Sebastian has the intelligence, persistence, curiosity, and dumb luck that without, I’m confident we won’t find Calvin in time
.” He looked directly at me. “I’ve had every opportunity afforded to me to do right by you, and I never have. Not once. I told you I’d have your back on this. And I meant it.” Neil turned his head to look at my father again. “Even if it costs my badge and my career, I won’t let anything happen to your son that a bag of frozen peas can’t fix.”
Pop took a deep breath. “I have your word?”
“You do, sir.” Neil stepped closer, reached his hand out, and shook Pop’s.
I looked down at the bag, now beginning to sweat in my hands as it thawed. I really hoped, for everyone’s sake, I wasn’t the cause of Neil losing his only real sense of purpose in life.
IT TOOK further convincing before Pop was okay. Not that he was actually okay. But… until he was at least agreeable to me forgoing the safety of his nest for the big bad world. I didn’t want to leave my dad alone, not with everything going on, but I also didn’t want my mere presence to rain shit down on his parade. He promised to check in with me, had never removed Neil from his cell phone contacts, and had both Maggie and Dillon as frontline home defense. So I hugged and kissed Pop before absconding to the Times Square hotel with Neil and a bag of mushy peas.
I think what also helped—believe it or not—was Neil suggesting to my dad that he’d stay the night with me, and me actually not bitching about police protection. Not that I’d turn my nose up at Neil’s aid. Not anymore. Not after he put himself in the line of fire on both the Curiosities and Moving Image cases when any other man could have and should have, despised me.
“I still smell like that basin,” Neil said upon closing the door to the hotel room.
“A bit, yeah,” I replied. I shed my coat and scarf, changed into my glasses, and cast my bag aside. “You might want to get one of those little pine trees for your car.”
Neil gave me side-eye before hanging his winter clothing in the closet. “Can I use your shower?”
“Sure.” I sat down on the bed. “Do you still carry a change of clothes in your car?”
Neil held up a small bag he’d brought inside with him. “Always.” He went into the bathroom and shut the door. The shower turned on a moment later.
From the day he’d gotten that swanky BMW, Neil had always kept a change of clothes in the trunk. Apparently you could only work so long at a job that dealt with as much human excrement, fluids, and remains as Neil’s before you just needed a spare change of socks and maybe a fresh shirt to get you through the rest of the workday.
I stood again, walked to the duffel still beside the desk from that morning, and bent down to paw through the contents. I pulled free one of Calvin’s ties in my quest for wherever I’d shoved my pajamas. I smoothed the silky material and slowly rose. There were a few creases from being carelessly shoved into the bag. God. It’d been so long since I’d worn a tie, I didn’t really take care of them the way I should.
Would I wear one at our wedding?
Would I even have—
The bathroom door opened to my right.
“Is it silk?”
I startled and looked up. Neil stood in the doorway—jeans, no shirt, wet hair. I glanced down at the fabric I was still trying to rub the wrinkles from. “Oh. Yeah. It’s Calvin’s.”
He took a spare hanger from the closet, walked toward me, and took the tie. He brought it into the bathroom, hung it on the back of the door, then exited. “The steam from the shower should fix it.”
“Thanks.”
Neil shrugged and sat down on the opposite bed. He ruffled his hair with one hand.
“I mean, for—a lot,” I stated. “What you said to my dad. And—other stuff.”
“I don’t like you speechless. It makes me uncomfortable.”
I laughed. “Asshole.”
“There you go.” I felt Neil watching me as I returned to rummaging through the duffel bag before finding my pajamas shoved into the outer pocket. “How’s your face?”
“It’s been better. I was hit with a table.” I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it aside.
“Jesus Christ.” Neil stood. “What happened to your shoulder?”
I put a hand on the bruise and suppressed a wince. “I had to open the door somehow.” With a bit of a struggle, I pulled the T-shirt over my head.
“Quinn says you confirmed the identity of the victim delivered to you as Daniel Howard.” Neil pulled the covers back on his bed and let me finish stripping without an audience. “And that Frank is dead.”
“Frank’s hands were delivered to Daniel’s apartment. They’re decomposing in a box on his kitchen table.”
Neil shook his head. “Cleaning up after your adventuring is going to require cashing in every favor I’ve been saving for a decade.” He sat. “And I might still owe a hand job afterward.”
“You’re good for those.”
He grunted. “What else?”
I walked across the room and went into the still-warm, damp bathroom. I explained what I’d gleaned from my afternoon of breaking and entering as I washed up and removed my red-tinted contacts. From confirming Frank’s identity via his college ring, to my gladiator battle with cheap furniture against Jason, and all of the disheveled student’s damning evidence against Angela London and my Brooklynite buddy Rossi. I even begrudgingly mentioned my call to Marc Winter.
“Calvin’s brother did not do this,” Neil called from his bed. “I’m in full agreement with Quinn on that.”
“Yeah. He probably didn’t,” I agreed. I turned off the lights and walked carefully through the dark. “But I also don’t think Angela killed anyone.” I set my glasses on the nightstand and climbed into my bed.
“No?” Neil asked quietly.
“She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could do that—take a life. Let alone several. Maybe in the heat of the moment, something awful could happen, but it’d definitely be directed at Frank. As far as she’s concerned, he’s the enemy, the one who broke her heart.”
“Hmm.”
I rolled onto my side and studied the blurry outline of Neil a few feet away. “But chopping off a man’s hands at the wrists requires a certain kind of steel stomach. I don’t think hers can handle much more than cheap whiskey.”
Neil was quiet. A thinking quiet. He shifted to cross his arms under his head.
“Rossi has the motive,” I stated into the dark.
“You said that before.”
“Well, if he’s really dating one of the staff members in the paleontology division…. You know how easy it is to learn a thing or two about someone else’s profession when sharing an intimate relationship.”
“Do I?”
“Hi, honey. How was your day,” I said teasingly.
“Yeah, that sounds familiar,” he agreed. “But do you think enough honey-how-are-yous would give Rossi all the information he needs on the Bone Wars in order to plug those minute details into the messages?” Neil turned his head to look my direction. “He managed to stump you, if that’s the case.”
“Ouch. Now I’ve got a bruised ego to go with the rest of my boo-boos,” I answered. “Maybe his girlfriend is his partner.”
“In crime?”
“It’s possible. Dr. Gould met with Calvin in his initial interviews. She’s got a really sweet personality. And if it’s a ploy—it’s a believable one. She wouldn’t have necessarily had to overpower Calvin. A few sweet words may have been all it took.”
“I suppose it’s the most we’ve got to work with,” Neil replied.
The central heat kicked on.
“I learned that the Cope skull was originally an artifact housed at UPenn.”
“Does the backstory matter in this instance?”
“You’re asking me if history matters?” I said mockingly.
Neil looked at the ceiling again. “You’re right.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say after that. To do—sure. There was plenty I could be doing. I didn’t want to stop moving, not until my redhead was in bed again, his legs twined arou
nd mine and his head on my chest. But as it stood, I was already operating on too little rest, not enough food, and I could confirm from experience that multiple adrenaline spikes could wreak havoc on the human body. I was on a crash course toward making mistakes. Maybe critical, life-threatening mistakes.
I yawned so deeply, my jaw cracked. My eyelids drooped. “Neil?” I murmured. “You awake?”
“No,” he responded.
“Last night, at my place,” I continued, “you said I’d interrupted your night.”
Neil was silent.
“Was it a date?” I could feel, rather than see, his surprise. “It was your clothes,” I told him.
“What about them?”
“You were wearing your it’s-not-a-date date clothes.” I was well acquainted with that particular portion of Neil’s wardrobe.
“All right, Miss Marple. Calm down.”
“Where’d you meet him?” I asked.
Neil let out a long pent-up breath. “I swiped right,” he said, before adding, “Pretend you know what that means.”
“How’d it go? Before you got called in.”
“It didn’t.”
“I’ve clearly assigned a value to ‘swipe right’ that’s nowhere close to accurate,” I muttered.
“I was stood up,” Neil answered with a tinge of embarrassment.
I propped myself up on one elbow. “Why?”
“I can only presume that if I knew why, I would have been able to avoid waiting at the bar for over an hour.” Neil rubbed his face. “Sorry. I should listen to a few angsty Depeche Mode songs and get on with my life.”
After a moment of consideration, I said, “You’ll find someone.”
“That no-sympathy thing works both ways, just so you know.”
“It’s not sympathy,” I answered, getting comfortable once more. “Trust me on this: stop being afraid.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
MY STOMACH woke me from a deep sleep. I sat up and rubbed my tired eyes. Anemic light crept in between the not-entirely closed curtains, and the room had that briskness unique to winter mornings. I grabbed my glasses off the nightstand. Neil wasn’t in his bed, but a piece of paper with the hotel logo lay on the comforter. I crawled out of the warm nest of blankets, reached across, and snatched the note. In Neil’s clean handwriting was a notice that he’d gone downstairs to grab us breakfast.
