“I’m the owner,” I said, waving a hand at the store. “Could you just check if he’s available for thirty seconds?”
“I believe the detectives left a few hours ago.”
“He’s CSU,” I corrected.
She put her hands on her utility belt.
“Please?” I looked over her shoulder again as two people stepped out of the Emporium, carrying evidence kits. “Hey!” I called. “Neil!”
Both detectives stopped and looked at me. Neil said something to the other man, handed over his gear, and then walked toward the police tape.
I moved away from the officer and met Neil about ten feet away from her. “I have a question,” I stated.
Neil took in my rumpled, bruised appearance. “And I have several,” he countered. He reached out, touched the side of my head, and pulled his still-gloved hand back. He held up his fingers to show a dark stain on the latex. “What the hell is in your hair?”
“I was on the subway floor.”
“That doesnotnarrow the list in any way whatsoever. When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
“I’ll take a shower.”
“Make it a good one,” he agreed, yanking off the glove and checking his watch. “You’re a mess, and it’s been, like, five hours since I last saw you, Sebastian.”
“A lot can happen in five hours.”
“Jesus,” Neil swore under his breath. “What’s your question?”
“What kind of bullet did you get out of my wall?”
He put his hands up. “No. No case questions.”
“But I—”
“No.” He turned around and was already walking away.
“Was it a lead ball?” I called after him.
Neil stopped. He looked over his shoulder.
That was a yes.
“Lead balls look like pancakes after being fired,” I continued.
Neil glanced at the officer to my left before he returned to loom over me.
“We know it wasn’t a musket,” I said, trying to sound helpful. “That’d have drawn attention. But on the other hand, those shots were in pretty quick succession.”
“Yes,” Neil reluctantly admitted. “It’d need to be something with a revolving cylinder. How do you know this?”
“I have a suspicion an antique collector I visited today may be behind everything happening. He had a lot of well-kept weapons on the walls.”
“That’s not proof.”
“No, I guess not. But I challenge you to a scavenger hunt. First one to find someone in New York City who owns a nineteenth-century pistol with a stock of black gunpowder and lead balls wins.”
“Sebastian.”
“Who’s also the grandfather of the kid in the dumpster.”
