by C. S. Poe
Pop considered that thoughtfully as he started on his third donut. “I didn’t hear anything about Mike’s shop in the news. That’s a shame, though.”
“I guess it’s still an open investigation.” I sipped my coffee, watching my dad get distracted by Maggie. “Hey, Pop,” I said quietly while setting the mug down. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, kiddo,” he answered while rubbing Maggie’s big head.
“Why’d you never get married again, after Mom left?”
Pop paused and looked back up. “Well, that came out of left field.”
“Just curious,” I said with a shrug.
“I was too busy raising you.”
“You’re not raising me anymore.”
“A father’s work is never done.”
“I don’t want to see you lonely. That’s all.”
He snickered. “Do you think I’m lonely, Sebastian?”
I wisely kept my mouth shut and just shrugged.
“I’m not. But do you want to know something?”
Do I? “What?”
“It’s not smart to project your own feelings onto others.”
NEW YORK City has over eight million residents.
Eight million.
And I was lonely.
I had been with Neil for four years. I had fallen head over heels for that smart, sexy cop, and six months ago I had finally asked him to move in with me. I remembered thinking what a milestone it was. Neil wouldn’t want to hide anymore if he wanted to live with me. He’d be out, and when we were seen together, people would know I was his partner.
I snorted to myself while walking down the sidewalk after finishing my visit with dad.
We lived together in that little apartment, and I had never felt farther away from him in all our four years together. Everything had gone to hell six months ago, and I was only just coming to terms with it.
Merry fucking Christmas, Sebastian.
It was cold and the wind was fierce enough to push me around, but I decided to go talk with Mike. I didn’t need Neil’s permission or approval. I was a goddamn adult, and if I wanted to ask Mike where he got off accusing me of stealing, I would.
Even though it wasn’t a far walk from Pop’s, by the time I got to Bond Street, I was sufficiently frozen through. The cars parked along the sides of the street were buried in over a foot of snow, but I could still pick out the back fins of Mike’s famous 1957 Chrysler New Yorker. It was supposedly painted an official color of shell pink, but the neighbors just called it the Peptomobile.
I guess it’d be funny if I knew what color Pepto-Bismol was.
At least Mike was sure to be home. He lived in one of the apartments directly above his storefront. I walked toward the doorstep on the right that allowed access to the upstairs, but stopped suddenly. Bond Antiques was dark inside, but the heavy front door was ajar just enough to swing lightly in the wind. Snow was piled up in the partially open doorway.
The hair on the back of my neck stood as I watched the door creak back and forth. Turning to look up and down the street, I couldn’t see anyone coming or going. My hands began to sweat in my jacket pockets as I stepped back from the door. I hurried to the apartment buzzer and hit Mike’s number.
No one answered.
“Come on, you grouch,” I muttered, hitting it again and again.
I jogged to the road to look up at the apartment windows, but between the snow and my vision, I couldn’t tell if there were lights on or not. Mike could have simply run down to his shop to grab something. He was probably inside while I stupidly stood on the curb.
But why wouldn’t he turn the lights on?
Why leave the door open in this storm?
Creak.
Creak.
Mike really needed to oil the hinges of the front door. And I nearly laughed out loud that that was suddenly the foremost thought in my mind.
My next immediate thought was to call the cops, but tell them what? I was standing outside the building of the business whose owner had, in so many apparent words, accused me of breaking into his shop? I grabbed my phone from my pocket and pulled up the telephone keypad. That suddenly seemed like a good idea, because what if the shop had been broken into again?
I had hit nine and one before stopping. What was I doing? I could go to the door and check myself. This was ridiculous.
“Mike?” I called into the dimness, knocking on the door as I slowly pushed it open.
Creeeeeak.
Jesus Christ.
“Mike? It’s Sebastian Snow,” I called again, taking a step inside. “You left your damn door open. The floor is all wet.” I was talking to a silent room. “I’m coming in, okay?”
I took another step before shutting the door behind me and cautiously looking around. The relative darkness of the shop, in part because there was no sun to shine through the big glass windows, made it easier for me to make out the shapes of chairs and tables. I hadn’t been by his shop in a while, and the layout was new.
I felt guilty about tracking snow and slush across the antique wood floors as I made my way around displays. It should have been obvious by now that Mike wasn’t here and that the door being left open meant something was wrong and that I should leave, but I did what any idiot would do—kept searching. The silence wasn’t exactly right. It was like when you enter a room you know someone else is in and you can just hear that person’s very existence—but not quite.
A shiver went up my spine, and I nervously wiped my hands on my jeans. I paused at the entrance of the T-shaped floor plan near the rear, with high shelving all around. The displays immediately ahead looked to be ladies’ accessories—brooches and gloves, that sort. I couldn’t see what was down the left or right aisles without entering.
Mike isn’t here. Mike isn’t here. Get out, you idiot!
But there was no obvious danger present, and I just needed to be certain a thorough search had been made before I considered calling the police for real to report… whatever I thought it was I needed to report. I took a quiet breath and moved forward. Turning left first, I walked straight into something furry. I yelped and jumped back, looking up and then ahead.
What the fuck!
It looked to be a cat. But—dead. Certainly dead. It had to be dead. The poor creature was hanging by a rope tied around its neck.
My heart raced, my breath coming out in short, panicked gasps as I looked up to see where the rope had been thrown around the blade of a ceiling fan. Nope. I was not having any of this. I turned, slipped on the wet floor, and grabbed a shelf to stay upright. A figure stood unmoving and staring at me from the right section of the T. Absolutely freaked, I hauled ass back to the entrance of the layout and made a hard right, running along the outer side of the T for the door. I didn’t get far before I tripped over something big and firm on the floor, crashing straight down on top of it.
I fell in something sticky.
“Oh my God,” I heard myself whisper as I braced my hands on the floor and shakily raised myself.
Mike stared up at me through lifeless, half-lidded eyes, a chunk of his head missing. Blood pooled and congealed all around him like a halo.
Chapter Three
TODAY SUCKED.
And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to: Sebastian Snow.
I had called the cops after that. Of course.
Those few seconds after finding Mike were almost surreal. I had fallen back on my ass, stumbling away from the body. My hands and jacket were covered in blood. For a moment I sat on the floor in a daze, my heart slugging against my chest as I tried to catch my breath.
What do I do?
Holy shit.
Then a lightbulb flickered in the recesses of my mind. Detective Winter. He had given me his card yesterday. I had considered throwing it out but ultimately stashed it into a pocket. Suddenly no other plan of action seemed better or safer than calling him. He was already dealing with Mike’s case—he’d help. He’d know what to do.
<
br /> I wiped my shaking hands on my Levi’s and fumbled through my pockets, eventually retrieving his card. I dialed and put the phone to my ear.
One ring. Two. Three.
Jesus. Please, please, pick up.
I was getting to my feet, feeling lightheaded and ready to vomit, when there was a gruff greeting on the other end.
“Detective Winter.”
“I-I need help,” I instantly said. Nothing like getting straight to the point.
“Who is this?” Winter’s tone was strong and concerned.
“Sebastian Snow.”
“Snow?”
“I—yesterday, you came—”
“I remember who you are. What’s wrong?”
How to explain this? I took a deep breath and, in a voice that may have come across as too calm, said, “There’s been an accident at Mike’s shop, Bond Antiques.”
I turned to the displays. Someone had been standing in there. Why hadn’t they come after me? They were the one who did that to Mike—right?
“What sort of accident?” Winter asked.
I didn’t respond, zoning out of the call as I warily approached the entrance of the T again. If I ran outside now, the killer would get away and no one would know what happened to poor goddamn Mike. I was shit scared but kept moving forward.
“Sebastian? Are you there? Sebastian!” he said more firmly.
“Shh,” I hissed.
“Are you okay?”
I was nearly at the turn. Something wasn’t right. This guy, or girl, should have come out by now. They should have heard my call, even heard Winter through the phone. I steeled myself and turned the corner.
The person was still standing there, wearing a heavy Victorian gown with a matching hat on their head.
Because it was a mannequin.
“Oh, fuck me,” I whispered, letting out a breath.
“Talk to me, now,” Winter ordered. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said quietly, feeling like a moron. “But, Mike is.”
“I’ll have an ambulance sent—”
“It’s too late for that.”
There was a brief pause on his end before he said, “I’m on my way. Don’t move.”
The following ten minutes, I stood at the counter in the store, staring at Mike. Every time I looked away, my gaze wandered back, like if I didn’t keep an eye on him, he’d get up and start coming after me for a replacement brain. I swallowed the bile threatening its way up my throat.
I wasn’t even able to wait outside. I think my current state—soaked in blood—would worry the neighbors.
When I felt like I couldn’t stand one more second alone in that shop without losing my mind, an ambulance showed up with its lights on but no siren. Three cop cars pulled up, followed by an unmarked car, which Winter and Lancaster climbed out of. They rushed across the sidewalk and to the door, uniformed officers following.
Winter immediately paused when I turned to face him.
“I can explain,” I stated, holding up my bloody hands as an act of submission, but I think it gave off the wrong signal.
“Where is he?” Winter demanded, then looked in the direction I pointed. He turned and gave orders for the store to be checked, and the officers split off to lock down the location. Both Winter and Lancaster pulled SIG P226s from their holsters. Winter moved forward first, with Lancaster following close behind as backup.
Interesting partner dynamic. I knew she wasn’t in charge, despite having taken the lead in questioning me the day before.
They were gone for several moments before the scene was declared secure. Officers came back to the front door, a few stepping out to cordon off the front of the shop.
Winter was on his phone, giving stern orders to some unlucky soul on the other end. When he hung up, he was standing near Mike’s body, looking down. He crouched to examine without touching. After a pause, he stood back up, asking for lights to be turned on as he studied the floor.
One of the officers found the shop lights, and I winced slightly as the room blew up white and pushed my sunglasses back onto my nose with a bloody knuckle.
Winter took careful steps around my melted-snow-and-blood trail, eventually making his way back to me. “Mr. Snow.”
“Detective Winter.”
“Do you give all of the men in your life a murder case for Christmas, or just the really special ones?” he asked, hands in his pockets as he stopped to tower over me.
Shit. Why had calling him seemed like a good idea?
“Can I explain?”
“Please,” he said. I swear he nearly growled.
I started to give him an abridged story—Dad’s house to Mike’s shop, to no Mike, to dead Mike. “Want me to tell it to you backward?” I asked after finishing.
“Why?”
“Because you look like you’re sizing me up for a jumpsuit, and if I were lying, it’d be harder for me to get the facts straight backward,” I answered.
That made him snort. “Is that so? Why’d you enter the shop when it was clearly closed?”
“I told you, the door was open.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
“Well—no, I did, but Mike lives right upstairs. I thought maybe he had just run down for something.”
“Why continue when no one answered your entrance?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Something didn’t seem right.”
“Why didn’t you just call the cops?”
“I did.” I pointed at him.
Winter frowned and was silent for a moment, like a man desperately collecting his patience. “What happened when you called me?” he finally continued.
I glanced down at my sticky hands. “In the T display, over in the back. I—there’s a cat back there.”
“A cat?”
“Yes, but it was dead. I mean, it was hanging by a noose. I ran, and a stupid mannequin behind me looked like a person, and I was spooked. I didn’t see Mike, and I tripped over him. Face-first.”
“Ah.”
“And so, I thought the mannequin was the person who killed Mike. You knew who I was and who Mike was. I didn’t think I should call anyone else. Look, can we do this later? I really want to change.”
Winter shook his head and pointed a blunt finger at me. “Don’t move.”
“Come on, Detective! I’m covered in blood!”
The prick was already walking away.
I moved to look around the corner, watching him go into the T display with Detective Lancaster. I huffed and crossed my arms before quickly uncrossing them. So much for this jacket. And jeans. I’d have to scrub my skin raw in the shower too.
I was left to stand there under the eye of a uniformed cop who kept a hand on his belt, ready to put a bullet in my knee if I tried to duck out. That’s when the gravity of the situation began pushing down on my shoulders. I told myself everything would be fine. They’d confirm everything I’d said with evidence analysis done by someone like Neil.
Oh God.
“Neil….” Was going to kill me.
I was doing my best to come up with a bearable story besides I resented being treated like a child and wanted to defy you when Winter was approaching me with a short, middle-aged woman. “So, about changing,” I said again.
“We need your clothing.”
“You what?”
“Evidence.” He nodded at the woman who had just come in a moment before.
“I’ll need you to hand over the jacket and jeans, and whatever is underneath,” she confirmed while putting on latex gloves.
“I didn’t kill Mike!” I protested while looking back at Winter.
“You’re covered in his blood,” he pointed out. “You were found alone on his property with the body.”
“I called you after finding him!” I said, voice rising.
“I’m only taking your clothes,” Winter said sternly, moving a step closer and already filling up the space around us. “But if you keep it up,
I’ll be more than happy to book you and then strip you.”
Wow.
I swallowed audibly, clearing my throat. “Can I make a phone call?”
“Why?”
“I don’t have anything to wear. Just—let me make a call, please?”
A moment of internal deliberation was followed by a curt nod, and Winter backed off.
I pulled out my bloodstained phone and picked Neil from the contacts.
“Seb?” was the first thing he said. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” I admitted. “Can you go home—”
“I’m at work.”
“I know, but listen. I need you to go home,” I said quietly, glancing up to make sure Winter wasn’t listening in too much, but he was speaking with the woman waiting to see my nether regions. “I need you to grab a change of clothes for me, and a coat. Come over to Bond Antiques.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when you get here, but please hurry.”
Hurry he did. Neil was there in just under twenty minutes, which couldn’t have been safe in this storm, but I was thankful since the blood was fairly dry and crusty and making me extremely uncomfortable at this point. I watched Neil flash his badge and gain immediate entrance into the shop. He was carrying a backpack and looking around warily.
“Detective Millet?” Winter asked, intercepting Neil before I had a chance to shock him with my appearance.
Neil turned at the call of his name. “Oh, Winter. Hello.”
“You part of my evidence team? You’re late.”
Neil shook his head. “No… I’m not….” He paused, sort of at a loss with the situation.
“Neil,” I called.
He looked over his shoulder, and I was able to discern his startled expression from the distance between us and with the lights on, which meant he was probably going to freak the fuck out in three, two, one….
“Seb? What the hell?” he asked, approaching me. “Jesus! This isn’t yours, right?”
“No. Neil, I’m sorry I had to call. But they need to take my clothes into evidence, and I didn’t want to sport a onesie, courtesy of the NYPD.”
“Evidence for what?” Neil demanded.
