And I didn’t really suspect I’d find much on the internet. This seemed—if anything—to be the sort of crime the police would try to keep out of the papers, lest they spook the bastard behind it. Unsurprisingly, Google pulled up a plethora of articles tagged withmurderandNYC. Some were years old but sensational enough to remain at the top of the search results. Homicide had been steadily on the decline in The City That Never Sleeps, but until that number hit zero, Calvin was still gainfully employed. I thumbed through the sound bites of urban atrocities before taking pause at one posted five days ago—last Wednesday.
Human Remains Mailed to AMNH Staff.
Color me intrigued.
I clicked the article and scanned the contents. On Wednesday morning, a staff member of the paleontology division at the American Museum of Natural History received some kind of delivery that included unspecified human remains—and not the ancient sort. There wasn’t much more information beyond that. The museum staffer wasn’t named, and the lead detective on the scene—Calvin, I’d bet—had directed the news outlet to the Chief of Detectives for comment.
I wished Neil had shown me a photo of the entire note, and not only the drawing….
Regardless, this was too coincidental to not be related to this morning’s adventure.Thatmuch was for sure.
But I didn’t have a connection to the museum. I loved it, visited quite a bit, and of course had discovered a dead exotic dancer in one of their displays…. But did I know anyone who worked in the field of paleontology? Personally or professionally? I was drawing a big blank on that. The article added weight to Pop’s suggestion that it was my reputation that had been targeted and notme-me.
My phone’s screen blackened, rang obnoxiously, andCalvin Winterpopped up. I quickly accepted the call. “I swear you’re a mind reader,” I said upon answering.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“I was thinking of you.”
“In a positive light, I hope.”
“Professional context. But if you’d rather, I can imagine you stark naked.”
The distinct murmur of Quinn’s voice was much too close for this to have been a private phone call.
“I’m on speaker, aren’t I?” I concluded.
“Yup,” Calvin answered.
“Hi, Quinn,” I called.
“Sebastian,” she replied.
“We’re caught in a traffic jam at Columbus Circle,” Calvin continued, not missing a beat. “I just wanted to check in with you.”
Huh. If they took a right onto Central Park West and headed uptown for almost twenty blocks, they’d land at the Museum of Natural History. Funny how that works.
“Uptown murder?” I asked casually.
“Some follow-up interviews.”
“Can I tell you something?”
A few car horns blared in the distance before Calvin said, “I know you will. Further discussion is a matter of topic, isn’t it?”
I glanced to my right. Before delving into internet snooping, I had honest to God pulled out my battered spiral-bound notebook that was my “wedding planner” and wasted time drawing squiggles around the to-do list.
I put my fingertip on the scrawled note to myself and said, “Did you know that ‘purchase undergarments’ is part of a wedding itinerary?”
Calvin was quiet for a beat. “I really don’t think that applies to us.”
“Sure, I know. But I’m having to make this up as I go, and most of these to-do lists are for brides.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s a whole industry dedicated to specialized bras for wedding dresses,” I continued.
Calvin’s silence was palpable confusion.
