“Promise you’ll be back before noon.”
“Sure.”
“Sureisn’t a promise,” Max said firmly.
“I promise,” I replied. “But out of curiosity, what happens if I’m not?”
“You buy me lunch.”
“Done.”
“For a week.”
I pursed my lips.
“I’m a growing boy,” Max warned.
“You are not. You’re twenty-three.”
“And I still make Mom fear my return home for Thanksgiving. Don’t test my ability to eat you into a financial crisis.”
“I’ll be back before noon.” I hopped down from my stool. “Come help me move shit to the car.”
THE LONGERI had to ruminate on the missing film and what Pete had said last night, the more uncomfortable I became. I mean, on one hand, he didn’t strike me as a complete moron. And only someone with supreme stupidity would have broken into my shop to steal the very item they’d been waxing poetic about to my face. But that didn’t change the fact that out of the handful of people who knew I’d obtained such old and rare footage, there was only one individual I didn’t trust.
But what would Pete have done with the movie if he’d actually stolen it? Play it at the fair, as suggested? Like maybe I wouldn’t notice that? Come on. It was absurd.
The lower-level exhibition hall of the Javits Center was enormous, brightly lit, and echoed with the voices of event planners, coordinators, security staff, and paying dealers making last-minute preparations before the event opened to the public in a few hours. Even with contacts and sunglasses, the huge spotlight lamps were washing out my sight, which was making the job of preparing my exhibit harder than it should have been.
I draped a runner over my assigned table, smoothed the top out, and then ducked under the ropes that separated our sponsor collections from the foot traffic of attendees. There was a provided stand with a box on top meant for business cards, which I started to fill up.
“I was beginning to wonder if the empty table was actually some sort of esoteric art installation.”
I didn’t bother turning around. I wouldn’t have been able to identify the individual in this asinine lighting. So I relied on my ability to recognize him by voice alone. Gregory Thompson of Marshall’s Oddities.
“Hi, Greg,” I said, finishing with the business cards.
I heard Greg’s shoestap,tap,tapacross the robust exhibit hall floor. I finally looked up when I felt him stop at my side. Greg’s hands were in his pockets, and he had that usual cocky expression. We hadn’t seen each other since the Nevermore events, but little had changed. I was still crotchety. He was still arrogant.
“It’s been a while, Sebastian.”
“That it has. How’re you?”
“Fine, fine.” Greg looked at my table and nodded at Calvin, who was helping set up. “I remember you.”
Calvin paused his quick and efficient placing of small displays and artifacts on the tabletop. “Calvin Winter,” he said politely.
“That’s right. The detective.” Greg looked down at me again. “So not a rumor, hmm?”
“Aw, Greg, did you miss the latest community newsletter where I took out a front-page ad proclaiming my relationship status?”
Greg smiled in that way one did when they didn’t mean it. “Lovethe ensemble, Sebastian. Green shirt, maroon sweater, and what’re those—plaid pants?”
I glanced down at myself. “It matches,” I insisted.
“Oh, of course,” he agreed.
I huffed. “Have you seen Pete?”
