“Same nose and deep-set eyes. No muttonchops, but he’s got impressive sideburns. Says he was twenty-nine in 1886. Was considered a first-class burglar in what sounds like the tristate area today. Arrested in 1884 after being caught on a second-story job and—he murdered a servant while trying to escape the house. Sentenced to ten years at Sing Sing, escaped in April of 1885.”
“Holy shit. Was he caught?” I studied the block of small, dense text.
Calvin shook his head after a moment. “No, doesn’t sound like it.”
“Work on the Kinetoscope didn’t even begin until six years after his escape. By then, if he hadn’t been recaught, I doubt anyone would even remember him,” I said.
“It’s possible,” Calvin murmured. “Add thirty pounds and the muttonchops, and he’s never going to be mistaken forKidJohn….”
“So help a guy with shitty eyesight out,” I said, leaning back to stare up at Calvin again. “Are John McCormack and Muttonchops one and the same?”
Calvin’s cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket. “The probability is high enough that I wouldn’t bet against you.”
“This isn’t Vegas.”
“Hey, Quinn,” Calvin answered.
I watched Calvin’s stance stiffen as he listened to his partner on the other end of the call. Out was my boyfriend; in was the police officer.
“When was the body found?” he asked.
Shit.
“I’m on my way,” Calvin confirmed. He ended the call and glanced at me.
“What happened?”
“James Robert was found dead in his home by his housekeeper.”
“Oh my God. Was he—I mean, he was ninety and smoked, Calvin. Maybe—”
“He was murdered,” Calvin interrupted. He took his wallet from his back pocket, removed several bills, and put them on the table. “I have to go. I can drive you to your father’s first,” he offered.
I shook my head. “I’m going to hit up NYU.”
“All right.” Calvin leaned down and kissed me. “Be safe.”
“You too.” I touched his hand and gave it a final squeeze before Calvin left the table.
I sighed and set the tablet on the stack of books. I grabbed my phone, held it close, and began the arduous process of sifting through New York University’s 101 webpages in search of a phone number that would at least get me through to the correct school. This would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t put Dr. Freidman’s business card in my so very cursed messenger bag.
I was lost in art history undergraduate courses when the waiter returned to collect the dishes from the table.
“Is your partner finished as well, sir?”
I looked up. “You can take his. Duty called.”
He picked up the plates. “I understand the feeling. Mine’s finishing his fellowship in pediatric surgery.” He flashed a smile. “Duty calls at the least opportune times.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I met his smile with one of my own. Once he’d left, I continued poking through university pages before finding a listing of graduate faculty members.
Lo and behold! Dr. Bill Freidman.
I tapped the phone number provided on his bio page and put the cell to my ear. I was expecting voicemail this early in the morning, so color me surprised when Freidman—a man as gritty as gravel but with a voice as smooth as whiskey—answered.
“Bill Freidman.”
“Er—hi, Dr. Freidman. My name’s Sebastian Snow. I used to be one of your students. Uhm… about twelve or thirteen years ago….”
