by C. S. Poe
“Why?”
“Because something in my gut told me you were up to no good.”
“It was probably indigestion,” I replied. “I’m at the Emporium.” I reached into the box again and this time retrieved a flour sifter, then cookie cutters…. The package was full of all the vintage kitchen supplies I’d been admiring at Mr. Robert’s house just the day before.
“But where did you plan to go after that?”
“Sunrise Film Academy.”
“This is why I left,” Neil stated.
“I know it’s Lee Straus,” I told him.
“What the hell are you going to do, Seb? Confront him?”
“I’ve done dumber things.”
“Don’t leave before I get there.”
“Bye, Dad.” I ended the call and stared at the baking tools for a moment.
A small pang went through my chest. Mr. Robert had given these to me, no doubt with the intention that “my boyfriend who likes to cook” should use them. I suddenly wished I could call and thank him for the thoughtful surprise. Here I’d been too distracted all week to seriously focus on gift-getting for Calvin, and a murdered old man ended up saving my ass. I carefully put the items back into the box, resealed it, and spent a few minutes wrapping it. Maybe Calvin wouldn’t notice the paper was from the Emporium….
My phone rang again as I knotted the ribbon into a bow. I picked it up and glanced at the caller ID. “Morning, Pop.”
“Hey, kiddo. Where’d you two hop off to so early?”
“Sorry about that,” I answered, adjusting the bow a bit. I was a master at gift presentation—my one award-winning domestic skill that came in useful about twice a year until Max and I had started offering gift wrapping to customers at the Emporium. “We went out for breakfast before Calvin had to get back to work. Sorry I left you with the dog again.”
“Not to worry. There are far worse fates in life than babysitting a good boy like Dillon.”
“I’ll come by in a few hours,” I said, walking toward the Kinetoscope, which was still behind the counter. “There’s something I have to do first.”
“Just give me a ring,” Pop answered. “I might bring the kids to the dog run again. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“Gotta make the best of it before the inside of your mouth is cooler than the air outside,” I said.
“There’s my positive thinker,” Pop said with a chuckle.
I crouched down in front of the Kinetoscope and ran my fingertips along the base. Just like the man in the footage had done.
Like Tom Howard in the footage, hiding the Dickson documents.
The frame around the base of the Kinetoscope moved—ever so slightly. I took a breath, grabbed on to it more firmly, and gave a tug.
“By the way,” Pop continued. “Is this your hoodie you left here?”
“Hoodie?” I asked, practically on autopilot. I set the corner piece of wood aside and got down on my hands and knees to inspect a bit of curled, aged paper seemingly stuffed into the very frame of the machine.
“This black one here… says Sunrise Film Academy on the breast.”
“It does?” I asked suddenly. I’d never bothered to inspect the clothing I’d torn from my subway assailant.
“Hm-hm. There’s some candy in the pocket… oops….” It sounded like Pop was bending down to retrieve something dropped. “I thought you didn’t like licorice?”
Licorice.…
That gross candy put the little punk outside my apartment. I had to hand it to him, he was fast and strong. So Lee was off the hook for the assault—son of a bitch—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t orchestrated all this! I’d bet my next paycheck this kid and Casey Robert were classmates. And that Lee was their instructor. He might have even persuaded my subway pal to kill Casey—so his own hands were clean of the entire mess. Lee would get off scot-free, while one kid was dead and another would inevitably end up in prison.
But at least he wouldn’t have the Dickson inventions.
The front of the cabinet easily popped free after the base had been removed, and inside a tiny cubbyhole were rolled-up documents from a previous century.
“Pop, I have to go,” I whispered.
“All right. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Love you,” I said.
“Love you too, kiddo.”
I hung up, grabbed some gloves, and while holding my breath, eased the drafts from their 120-year-old hiding place. It was true that just before the shop got shot up, I’d accidentally noticed something awry with the cabinet—but I’m not sure I would have made the connection without the last movie. In the test reel shot inside Black Maria, all I could assume was that Assistant Tom must have known Albert and Gilmore were already suspicious of Dickson, and he took it upon himself to protect the inventions of his beloved boss.
I laughed suddenly. It was overwhelming. I was holding a man’s legacy in my hands.
This was his passion, his creation, his genius.
I was holding everything that would have put Dickson’s name in textbooks instead of Edison’s.
I shifted on my knees and reached under the counter for a stack of plastic sleeves kept beside shopping bags and gift boxes. In the dim, silent shop, I carefully unfurled the lost camera inventions of W. K. L. Dickson and slid the documents in between the protective covers. I’d barely gotten to my feet and set the drafts beside the brass register when there was a knock at the front door. I leaned over the counter to peer past the column to the left and saw Neil cup his hands around his face and look through the door’s glass front.
I walked down the steps, through the maze of clutter, and unlocked the door. “You won’t believe what I found.”
“The code to the Voynich manuscript?” Neil asked, stepping inside.
“It’s heartening to know that the men in my life have in fact been listening when I talk,” I said, putting a hand to my chest.
“We tune you in and out,” Neil corrected.
“Asshole.”
“What did you find?”
I walked to the register and lifted the pile of now-protected documents. “The lost inventions of William Dickson.”
“Who’s that?”
“To make a long-winded story short?” I held out the papers. “This is motive.”
“ARE YOU sure those documents are going to be safe at the Emporium?” Neil asked as he drove us to the Sunrise Film Academy in Midtown.
“Inside a hatbox on the top of a display shelf beside the bathroom is a hell of a lot safer than me holding on to them. Especially if we’re going to see Lee.”
“You honestly think it’s him?” Neil spared me a glance.
“He teaches at the same school the first victim and the unknown assailant attend.”
“And why couldn’t those teenagers be working this together without the influence of a third party?”
“It’s not possible,” I said firmly.
“Are you sure you aren’t merely hoping it’s not possible?”
I turned my head and glared at Neil. “Really?”
“You were led to believe unsavory narratives about me.”
“That was different.”
“Not really.”
“I know those two kids aren’t doing this alone,” I said again with a tone of finality. “I know someone is pulling the strings. And Lee visited Marshall’s Oddities just before the revolver went missing, and he was with me when I learned of Mr. Robert’s home address. Just wait until Calvin gets Casey Robert’s transcript. That’ll prove it.”
Neil turned west on Twenty-Fifth Street and made his way through uptown traffic on Third Avenue. “Just remember that this case belongs to Winter and Lancaster.” He parked on the corner of East Twenty-Eighth Street. “I’m not here as an officer of the law. I’m here as your friend.”
“How sweet,” I said dryly.
Neil gave me that charming, annoyed expression I’d never once missed since we broke up. “And unless Lee Str
aus looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘I murdered the Roberts, please arrest me,’ I can’t do anything.”
I gave him a mock salute. “Understood, Detective Millett.” I climbed out of the car.
Sunrise Film Academy was directly across the street from a Starbucks and a bar, which I thought was pretty excellent planning on the school’s behalf. We walked to the sidewalk and toward the heavy glass doors, where a handful of summer-course students stood smoking. Neil grabbed the handle first and pulled it open, letting me walk in.
“Afraid I’m going to hit you again?” I asked over my shoulder.
“I can never predict what you’ll do next, Sebastian.”
I approached the guard’s desk and set my arms on the counter. “Good morning. I’m here to see Lee Straus. He’s an instructor.”
The guard picked up a sheet of paper with a few lines on it. “Name?”
“Ah, it might not be on the guest list. I was… called… last-minute.”
The guard raised an eyebrow. “Called for what?”
“Seb,” Neil murmured from behind me.
I ignored him. “Acting. We’re actors. For his… acting class.”
The guard didn’t appear entirely convinced of my acting, but she set the paper down and picked up the phone. “What was the name, again?”
“Lee Straus.”
She dialed a number and put the receiver to her ear.
“You’re looking for Mr. Straus?”
I turned to my right. A girl with a wicked Mohawk, those gauged ears my friend Aubrey had, and a backpack sagging off her shoulders had stopped about two feet away from me. “Um, that’s right.”
“Class was canceled today.”
“He’s your teacher?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She reached into a pocket of her—I think—purposefully tattered jeans and removed a compact mirror. Mohawk flipped it open and checked her eyeliner. “He rescheduled for tomorrow.”
“Where is Mr. Straus now?”
She was taken aback by my forwardness. “Uh—he had some event to go to. Our teachers are working professionals, you know.” She said that with a hint of pride, as if no other colleges hired teachers with actual experience in their field. “It’s at the Javits Center, I think. Some of my classmates are working there too.”
“The antique fair?” I asked.
“That’s it,” she answered, snapping the compact shut. “I guess there are supposed to be some collectors there with film exhibits? But I don’t know. The ticket was too expensive for me.”
I thumped my fist against the counter in annoyance, nearly turned away, then paused. “What class do you have with Mr. Straus?”
“I thought you just said you were here for his acting class?” the guard interrupted.
Mohawk looked confused. “We only have one teacher for the summer intensive classes.”
“Of course,” I answered quickly. “Do you have a classmate named Casey Robert?”
She raised a lip. “Casey, yeah. He’s in my group. He’s supposed to be working at the show, which I guess is why he’s flaked out of class for the last few days.”
“You don’t like him?”
She pulled out some kind of gloss from another pocket and wiped the wand over her bottom lip in a distracted manner. “He’s kind of weird,” she finally said, then smacked her lips together. “Him and this other guy in class were talking once about how they were going to make a million dollars.”
“Next Hollywood blockbuster?” I asked.
“No,” Mohawk said with a disbelieving laugh. “Like, robbing someone. Or—I mean, it could have been that. I know trouble when I see it, so I stay clear of them. I’m here to seriously learn. I want to direct movies when I get older.” She finally tilted her head a bit and took in Neil’s appearance. “Are you guys cops or something?”
“Seb, let’s go,” Neil murmured.
“Hold on,” I protested when he took me by the shoulder. I turned to Mohawk one more time. “This other kid Casey hangs out with—does he like licorice candy?”
“How’d you know that?”
“MY SPONSORSHIP lanyard was in my bag,” I told the ticket guy in the lobby of the Javits Center. “My bag was stolen yesterday by a punk-ass kid who might be responsible for a murder or two.”
Ticket guy startled and looked at me as if I were insane. Couldn’t blame him. I was starting to feel that way.
“For Christ’s sake.” Neil joined me at the counter and showed his badge. “Detective Neil Millett, CSU. Can you tell us if there’s a Lee Straus registered and attending the event today?”
The guy swallowed convulsively at the sight of Neil’s badge. “I don’t—I think I need a warrant to show you that information,” he stammered. “It’s just—because it has people’s addresses and credit card numbers, you know? I can’t afford to get fired, I’m late with my rent.”
“Then we need to go downstairs into the exhibit hall,” Neil concluded, tucking his ID away.
Ticket guy nodded quickly. “Sure. Whatever you want, man.” He cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted to the security personnel at the escalators to let us pass without lanyards.
Neil led the way, pausing briefly and looking over his shoulder when I accidentally stepped on the heel of his expensive shoe. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
I caught the motion of Neil raising his head upward, and then he wrapped his hand firmly around my wrist. Not romantically. It was all business. But it was nice that he’d put two and two together pretty quickly about the lighting of the Javits Center.
We bypassed Bruno the Security Officer and got on the escalator, making a slow descent. The noise level rose exponentially as the huge crowd came into view. The layout seemed pretty organized despite the teeming masses—uniform rows of dealer booths in the middle of the showroom, with sponsors lining the ends. I had to admit, while dealing with Pete White might have been a disaster, this was an awesome turnout and I was sort of glad I’d sponsored.
“This is crazy,” Neil stated. He stepped off the escalator and pulled me to the side.
“Yup.”
“I mean, us being here.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Winter is going to have my ass for this.”
“I just want to talk to Lee,” I replied. “I have a knack for getting the guilty party to spill their most intimate secrets.”
“You just harass them until they’d rather be in jail.”
“How did we manage not to kill each other for four years?” I asked, motioning back and forth between us.
Neil finally smiled. “So what do you want to do—walk around and hope for the best?”
“Actually, I want to talk to Greg first.”
“Who?”
“That guy I don’t get along with,” I teased. “Marshall’s Oddities has a booth over on this side.” I pointed to the left of the exhibit hall.
Neil took my wrist again, and we walked through the crowds to the far wall. We kept close to the rope barriers, where there weren’t quite as many attendees as the middle of the aisle. We’d walked about halfway through the exhibit hall before I could make out the general shape of who I knew was Gregory Thompson. Blurry though he might have been, it was hard to mistake the tall, lanky build and ponytail for anyone else.
“Just up ahead,” Neil said, confirming my poor eyesight.
I bumped into his back when he stopped abruptly. “What gives?”
“Traffic jam.”
I peered around Neil’s shoulder as a group of people untangled themselves and headed in different directions. One came straight our way, made eye contact with me, and froze dead in his tracks.
Mr. Licorice, aka my assailant and thief, aka JD Malory, according to the girl from the academy. He had a lanyard around his neck with a vertical badge—which I’d realized indicated staff, versus the horizontal passes of attendees and dealers—and a fucking Twizzler hanging out of his mouth. I was pretty sure Calvin was still wait
ing on convention staff to return his inquiries about Casey Robert’s involvement with the event, but after speaking with his classmate and seeing JD here, it was confirmed for me. They had been working together, and JD was here with Lee.
JD did a quick about-face and walked the way he’d come.
“Neil,” I said, pointing at JD’s quickly disappearing figure. “That’s the kid—JD Malory.”
Neil, with his extra half a foot of height, was able to follow JD through the crowd. “Are you sure?”
“I’m a thousand percent sure. I told the responding officer the night I was attacked that the guy smelled like licorice. He’s eating some now!”
“Sebastian—”
“I saw his face twice before. I’m positive.”
“Okay, okay.” Neil turned and held his hands up in front of himself. “Don’t move. I’ll go talk to him.”
I nodded and watched Neil ease into the foot traffic, but I quickly lost sight of him in the blurry sea of gray faces. I went ahead and finished walking toward Greg, dragging my fingertips along the rope so as not to lose my sense of direction. Greg’s table was still close enough to where I’d been told not to move from that Neil would easily find me upon his return.
“Greg,” I called.
“Sebastian,” he said coolly, leaving his setup and moving to stand in front of me.
“Look, let’s just pretend for one minute that we like each other, okay?”
Greg’s eyebrows rose, but he crossed his arms and leaned his weight to one side. “All right.”
“I heard you had a Colt Walker revolver stolen.”
“Yes, last Thursday. Should I also pretend you aren’t using your police contacts to your advantage?”
“Actually, I was contacted as a professional, to verify the value of the weapon. Don’t worry,” I continued, waving a hand. “I said it was worth a lot, even without having seen it for myself.”
“Warms my heart to hear you agree with my appraisal.”
“Do you know who took it? What I mean is, I’ve had a break-in this week too and lost something.”
“A pistol?” Greg asked, now curious.
“No, a movie from the 1890s.”
“Apples and oranges.”
“True, but I think it may be the same person. Or people. Have you had any teenagers hanging around your place the last week or two? Their names are Casey Robert and JD Malory.”
