“Sebastian sits on his ass and Calvin catches the bad guy.”
“You got it.”
“Make sure you lock up the shop when you’re done,” I finished. I gave Calvin a hug and took a step away with Dillon before my name was called. I turned and, despite sunglasses, needed to shield my eyes to look at the Emporium door.
Neil stepped outside, sans jacket, with his camera around his neck. He yanked his latex gloves off as he walked toward us. “Be honest with me,” he began.
“This slim-cut suit you’ve been sporting for the last month is sure to bring all the boys to your yard,” I answered.
Neil gave me an incredulous expression, glanced at Calvin, then drew out, “Thank you?”
“Sure. Lose the PPE, though.”
He tucked the used gloves into his suit coat pocket.
“Unless you’re looking for a cop groupie,” I continued.
“I meant,” Neil interrupted, “about the package.”
I stared at him. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“You have a tendency to conveniently misplace details so you can snoop into the matter yourself,” Neil pointed out.
“I’ve stopped doing that,” I told him while patting my abdomen, where I was now rocking one hideous scar.
“Yeah.”
“Boy howdy, do I remember that tone,” I stated.
Neil looked at Calvin again. He let out a held breath, and it puffed like a cloud of smoke.
Calvin shook his head in response to the stare, which I caught from the corner of my eye.
“If he knows—” Neil started.
“No,” Calvin said in his don’t-fuck-with-me voice, which I’d say no one ever wanted to be on the receiving end of. I speak from experience on the matter.
I waved my hand between the two, breaking their showdown. “I’mrighthere.”
Neil lifted his camera and began to press buttons on the menu. After a moment, he removed the strap from around his neck and turned the digital screen for me to see. “What do you think?”
“Millett,” Calvin barked.
“It’s an ear,” I stated, staring at a photo taken of a drawing on a sheet of paper. Antiquated in appearance. Similar in style to the eyeball rendition left on my own note.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Neil answered.
“I’m sorry,” I said dryly. “Was I supposed to glean a deeper meaning behind van Gogh’s love note?”
“You could try,” Neil said. “I’m in the doghouse now. Make it worth it.”
I rolled my eyes and took the camera from his hold. I brought the screen closer and stared hard at the drawing. It was a very good piece of art, as far as I was concerned. Done by a professional. Or a gifted amateur. But it went beyond an understanding and respect for realism. It was almost… clinical. Not a drawing of an ear, but the study of one.
“There’s no color in this, right?” I asked.
“Black ink,” Neil confirmed. “Probably a run-of-the-mill ballpoint pen, judging by the strokes left behind. I’m having it analyzed.”
I shook my head after another moment and handed the camera back. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”
