The Mystery of Nevermore

by C. S. Poe

  “I’ll say,” I muttered.

  “He works hard,” she said, and I could hear the defense in her tone. “Sometimes he forgets to sleep, gets cranky is all.”

  That wasn’t all. I knew it was more, but it would be selfish to think it was about me. It was something just out of my reach of understanding.

  “Sure.”

  Lancaster looked up and stopped walking. She puffed out smoke, and it smelled sort of like vanilla. “I know you’re interested in him,” she said, pointing at me with the cigarillo.

  “Yes, apparently I keep a sign around my neck,” I answered shortly.

  Lancaster shook her head and let the attitude slide. “And I think he’s got a hang-up about you too.”

  Hang-up.

  Lancaster wasn’t done, just sucking on the cigarillo again. “Seeing you in Mr. Rodriguez’s shop, covered in blood, I was ready to read you your rights then and there, but Calvin said no. It’s not you, and he knows it. He’s the senior detective—he calls the shots.”

  “You think I killed Mike?” I asked quietly, sort of horrified.

  She paused again, blew smoke, and shook her head. “Not anymore. I’m not sure. I can’t figure you out, Snow.”

  “Sebastian.”

  “Quinn.”

  “Pleasure,” I finished.

  “Yeah, well,” Quinn continued. “This case is ready to rip open at the seams, and we can’t afford to have superiors or the media looking at the two of you.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m a discreet person.”

  “Doesn’t fucking matter,” she replied, and I shut up.

  I’ll be honest, Quinn sort of scared me. But she had an authoritative air about her like she had to fight tooth and nail for respect—polar opposite of Calvin. And I’m sure she did. She was partnered with a real-life hero, and that might have made it easy for her at times, but I hadn’t seen any other female detectives upstairs. Boys’ club.

  “Don’t sniff around Calvin.”

  “Does… Calvin get this same speech?” I slowly asked.

  “He already did.”

  I bit my tongue. She needed to give it to him again.

  Quinn looked down at her cigarillo. “A police officer can’t be seen fraternizing with a person of interest. Even someone like you.”

  “What does that mean? Although I’m honestly not sure I want to know.”

  “I’ve only been working with Calvin for a few months,” Quinn said quietly. “And… if the situation had been different, I’d think you’d maybe be a good speed for him.”

  So did she know, or was she assuming about Calvin? “Look,” I said. “I won’t lie to you. I’m gay.”

  “I know.”

  “Swell.”

  “No straight guy stares at Calvin like you do,” Quinn said.

  “Okay, well, point to you, but—”

  “Calvin doesn’t have to say anything to me,” she said, finishing my thought. “If he wants to be quiet about it—and he should be—it’s for the best in our line of work. But I know.”

  As if there weren’t enough red lights and sirens now telling me to back away from Calvin. The sex was fucking amazing and so was he, but it was clearly a bad idea.

  I pushed my sunglasses up. “I understand.”

  Chapter Ten

  ELLA FITZGERALD and Louis Armstrong were singing to my soul as I entered Exotic Animal Haven on the Upper West Side after being shoved out of the police precinct by Calvin and cornered by his rightfully concerned partner.

  I lingered in the doorway, letting Ella’s beautiful voice soothe my nerves. I owned quite a bit of her work on 78 records, but hadn’t been able to play them since my antique gramophone fell into disrepair. Neil had just told me to buy a replica turntable for two hundred bucks if I liked the aesthetic look so much, but that wasn’t the point.

  I didn’t want a Bluetooth, USB-enabled gramophone. I wanted mine. The real McCoy that had the wear and tear from use and love. The one that needed to have needles constantly replaced to keep the records in mint condition.

  Antiques speak to me. It’s not just a job.

  Every little item had a story, a past. The gramophone now in a closet had seen how many owners in the last century? How many different records had it spun? What was the music that moved that person? It was all just another aspect of my life that Neil hadn’t understood.

  Louis was still craving her kiss when a spunky girl walked out of a side door and waved at me. “Good morning!”

  “Hi,” I said, forcing a smile. “Is William Snow here?”

  “Sure, but he’s actually with two dogs right now, doing behavioral lessons. Can I help you instead?”

  “I’m his son.”

  “Oh…. You’re Sebastian!” She pointed at the stairs that led up to where Pop most likely was. “Your dad and Maggie are the best. We have a lot of volunteers, but everyone here loves William the most.”

  “I know it means a lot to him,” I agreed.

  “I’m Charlotte.”

  I shook her hand.

  “Want to adopt a lizard?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

  “Uh, not really in the market,” I said. “Actually, you do deal with parrots, right?”

  “Sure!” she said excitedly, and I felt bad because I think she thought I would take one home.

  “Can I ask you a question about African greys?”

  “Oh yeah. What do you want to know?”

  “Why would one pull its feathers out?”

  She frowned and tapped her chin. “Sounds like a behavioral problem. If they become agitated or are uncomfortable with their environment, they could harm themselves from the stress.”

  “What if one lost their owner very suddenly? Would that freak a bird out?”

  “Sure. All animals have a bond with their owners. It isn’t yours, is it?”

  “Er… no, a friend of mine suddenly ended up with it when the owner… died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Charlotte answered.

  I glanced to the stairs when I heard dogs barking and someone laugh. “One last question? This grey can speak. Is that common?”

  “Yeah, they all can learn. African greys are extremely intelligent.”

  “Could they learn a word after hearing it only once or twice, though?”

  She shrugged, turning to watch the first dog on a leash coming down, tugging an employee along. “They could. If they like the sound or it’s easy to mimic. We actually have a grey here, and after hearing a customer cough, it started to imitate it the next day.”

  Huh.

  I thanked Charlotte just as a big pit bull hurried down the stairs. Maggie jumped on her hind legs, slobbering my face. “Maggie!”

  “Down, girl! Oh, Sebastian!”

  I pushed Maggie down and took off my sunglasses. “Hey, Pop.” I kept my eyes closed while wiping the lenses on my shirt under my jacket, then put them back on.

  My dad reached out and gave me a quick hug. “How’re you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah?” The question held significant weight.

  “I’m okay,” I said again with a nod. “Hey, Pop, can I ask you a question if you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” He turned to Charlotte and said, “Those pups are going out on their walk now.”

  “I saw Teddy come down with one already,” Charlotte answered. She perked up when a customer walked into the shop and excused herself to hurry over.

  Pop turned back to me. “You could have just called, kiddo.”

  I shrugged, moved toward a side counter, and flipped through a binder of adoptable animals. “Dad, do you know a lot about Poe’s ‘Tamerlane’?”

  “Yeah, what did you want to know?”

  “He released that and some other poems in a book and called it Tamerlane, didn’t he?” I asked.

  “It was Poe’s first publication.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed, the old information slowly coming back to memory.

  “It w
asn’t credited to him, though. Only, a Bostonian.”

  I had been considering my next question on the subway ride over. Maybe we—that being, the police and myself—didn’t know who would kill and assault several people on behalf of Tamerlane, so perhaps we should focus on why and follow those clues.

  I knew this case was becoming high profile within the NYPD, and everything Calvin did was scrutinized. And he was overworked and stressed. Quinn had said so herself. So it wouldn’t hurt for me to look into what I felt wasn’t being given ample consideration, right? Fuck it. I was helping.

  Why would someone kill for this book?

  Value.

  Literary and historical value—sure, it had that—but I’ve read about people who have killed for twenty bucks. It’s always about money.

  “Pop, do you know if the book is worth a lot?”

  He smiled and patted Maggie’s head. “You’re the antique dealer, Sebastian.”

  “And you know more about Poe,” I answered while shutting the adoption folder.

  “It’s worth a lot,” he agreed, nodding. “There are only twelve copies known to exist. It’s one of the rarest first editions to be had when it comes to American literature.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “I don’t know, but a lot I bet.”

  “Where are the twelve copies these days?”

  Pop looked thoughtful for a moment. “I know some are privately owned. Oh, the New York Public Library has one in their rare books vault.”

  “What, really? Can the public view it?” I asked quickly.

  My dad cocked his head to the side. “What’s with the twenty questions, Sebastian?”

  “It’s—”

  “Nothing?” he finished for me. He shook his head and checked his watch. “Want to get some brunch?”

  WE LEFT Maggie at the shelter and hopped over to a little restaurant across the street. He sipped at a glass of orange juice, and I ordered an Irish coffee.

  “Whiskey before eleven?” my dad asked curiously.

  “It’s the least I can do for myself.” I took a drink of the whipped cream and spiked coffee.

  “Drinking isn’t going to make this better.”

  “I’m not drinking because of Neil,” I insisted, though without knowledge of the case Calvin was working, I could understand why my dad thought it was only about Neil.

  Pop didn’t speak much more until our meals arrived. I was poking at my eggs when he asked, “Why are you not at the Emporium?”

  “I had some chores to do.”

  “Sebastian.”

  I glanced up. My dad was staring sternly at me, and I felt like I should ask for a second drink, hold the coffee. I knew he was worried. I had been attacked by an unknown assailant and then broke up with my long-term boyfriend the next day. I guess if I were a father, I’d be worried too, but I couldn’t explain to him that I thought the man who attacked me had killed two people and would undoubtedly strike again if he didn’t get what he wanted soon.

  So I lied. Sort of.

  “I’m just a little preoccupied.”

  “Keep going.”

  “I went to the precinct today that Calvin works at.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure,” I said, failing to mention the roses and note. “He wasn’t happy to see me.”

  “He was probably busy,” my dad supplied.

  “He’s closeted,” I blurted out. “I don’t know why I assumed he wasn’t.”

  “What exactly do you feel for him, kiddo? You’re sending conflicting reports.”

  I laughed out loud. “I’ll say. So does he. I don’t know, Dad. When it’s just the two of us, he’s so different. Calvin is quiet and charming and sweet. I’ve never been treated like that by a guy—like I’m a prince.”

  “Does he treat you like Neil did in public?” he asked, that sharp tone in his voice again.

  “No. I mean, not really. I don’t know. It’s usually been a professional setting when I see him in public. He’s stern.”

  Pop set his fork down and leaned back in his seat. “Are you fishing for an opinion?”

  “Am I getting a bite?”

  “He’s a nice boy.”

  “He’s forty-two, Dad.”

  “A nice man,” he corrected. “But I don’t think it’s wise of you to get involved with someone right now. Neil hasn’t even moved out yet.”

  “I know. I know you’re right,” I insisted. “And I don’t think he’s interested in a relationship anyway. At least, he’s made no indication that it was more than sex.”

  Dad held his hand up. “Seb, you slept with him?”

  “Uh. Did I say that?”

  Motherfucker.

  My dad sighed. “Were you safe?”

  “Of course, Dad. Come on. I’m not a teenager.” I finished the last of my drink. “I just wish I didn’t have such shitty luck. I meet a guy I really click with and it’s another closeted cop.”

  “Don’t push him. If it’s meant to be….”

  I felt I had been quite calm and down-to-earth about all of the events the past week. Two dead bodies—one that I found, no less—the break-in, getting knocked out, losing Neil, the harassing notes—I’d taken it all in stride. I’d been able to deal with a murder investigation pretty damn well. God, I was even sleuthing around despite the threats of being in hot water with a certain redheaded cop.

  But it was that same cop that made me feel like my heart was breaking.

  It’s a bizarre sensation, the feeling that you’ve met your other half, but that’s really what Calvin made me feel. Like I’ve been wandering through life with a half a circle on my chest and everyone I’ve been with had a square on theirs. Except that when I finally found the guy that completes my circle, it turns out he can’t stay mine.

  For whatever reason it was. Married to the job, not a relationship sort of guy, too closeted—maybe he was even the self-loathing gay man who marries a woman to try to be “normal.” Thinking of Calvin asleep in that chair at the hospital when he was unwilling to leave my side, coming back to drive me home, cuddling after sex—it had all meant so much to me.

  “Sebastian?”

  I picked up my napkin and reached under my sunglasses to wipe my eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Kiddo, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I don’t want you crying,” my dad said quietly as he reached out to pat my hand.

  “I’m okay,” I heard myself insist, my voice sounding very unlike my own. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Did Calvin say something to you this morning?” Pop asked, on the defense again, seeing his adult son was actually a pathetic baby crying in public.

  “No. Dad, don’t worry.” I finished drying my eyes.

  “It’s hard not to when you’re this upset.”

  I steered the topic away from myself after that. We finished brunch with an uncomfortable weight over us, me avoiding discussion of Calvin and my dad trying not to press his concern onto me.

  Maybe some people just weren’t meant to have a partner in life. I suppose I could deal with that reality.

  It was just lonely.

  MAX CALLED when I was walking back to the subway. “Seb?” He sounded concerned.

  “What’s wrong?” I immediately asked. “I’m on my way back now.”

  “Okay. Cool.”

  “Max?”

  “I was just finishing with all those boxes of books…. Sebastian, I think someone went through them. Nothing is missing! But my organization is all messed up, and I swear when your dad and I were here yesterday, it was perfect.”

  I stopped walking and moved to the edge of the sidewalk, out of the way. “Are you sure no one this morning—?”

  “No. Only two customers have come in so far, and I had eyes on them the entire time,” Max insisted. “Can you please come back soon? This place is starting to freak me out a little.”

  “Is Beth open?”

  “I assume so,” he answered.

  I took a breat
h. “If you’re nervous to be there alone, Max, lock up and go next door.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Something weird is—” My breath caught.

  Holy shit. Holy shit.

  I’d completely forgot. I fucking forgot!

  Holy—

  “Seb? Hello?”

  “I’ll be there soon, okay? Go next door.” I hung up and flagged a taxi.

  I went back to my apartment instead of the Emporium. Sidetracked by my argument with Calvin and the brief period of self-loathing that followed, I’d overlooked the fact that the books from the estate sale in my shop were not the complete inventory.

  I still had several boxes sitting in my living room that I hadn’t even gone through.

  If our mysterious, Poe-obsessed killer was anything to go by, there was a thirteenth copy of Tamerlane in existence that they were hell-bent on finding, and the way it played out to me was that it was part of my estate winnings. But the joke was on them, because it was starting to look like I did have it.

  A book thought not to exist—just sitting in my apartment.

  I raced up the stairs, my stomach making nervous flips. I was excited, like I were opening an ancient tomb only to find that grave robbers had never looted it and all of the mysterious and rich artifacts were still intact.

  What sort of condition would the book be in? Poor? Fine? Very fine?

  My fingers shook as I tried to unlock my door.

  That book would have been around when Edgar Allan Poe was alive. For all I knew, he could have touched it—held it.

  God, that rush of excitement I got from treasure hunting was back.

  I shoved open my door and stopped dead.

  My apartment was a mess.

  The boxes were all open and tipped over, books strewn across the floor without worry or care to their condition. My personal books had been pulled from the bookcase against the wall, mystery novels tiling the wooden floor.

  Someone broke into my home.

  As if it was hard to guess who.

  I looked down at the doorknob before crouching to examine the lock. The door had been securely fastened—how had they gotten inside? Pick the lock? How were they managing to get in and out of both my shop and apartment without breaking locks or tripping alarms?