“They make adhesive bras,” I concluded. “Which… sounds pretty awful.”
“Almost lost my nipple to one of those,” Quinn stated. “Had a rash for three days from the residue.”
Calvin cleared his throat. “Well, thank goodness we aren’t in the market for one.”
“Are you going to the Museum of Natural History?” I asked quickly.
“How did—” Calvin paused, mentally backtracked. “Sebastian.”
“It was a logic jump.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It was,” I insisted. “It’s in the news. Someone in the paleontology division was mailed human remains.”
Silence.
“Last Wednesday.”
Still silence.
“And I’m going to go out on a limb and suspect the undetermined remains were phalanges. I was thinking about the museum,” I said without taking a breath for subject transition. “I’m certain I don’t have any connection.” I put my feet down on the floor.
“You found a crime scene in February,” Calvin replied.
“But here’s the thing I wanted to tell you.” I stood from the couch, knees cracking as I straightened. “If you’re looking for a tangible relationship between me and this other event, I don’t think you’re going to find one. I don’t have any friends or acquaintances who work there. I have no relationship to anyone in the field of paleontology. The body of Meredith Brown was found in the museum only because it related to P.T. Barnum.”
“What’s your point?” Calvin asked.
“I didn’t have a relationship to Barnum either,” I answered. “But my reputation did.”
“No association, but also not a random target,” Calvin replied. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Basically.” I moved around the couch, watching as Pop came from his bedroom, winter boots having replaced his house slippers. “Obviously without knowing either of the victims or the staffer who received this first package, it’s impossible to contrast and compare to determine something more sinister, like a serial—”
“Stop right there, sweetheart,” Calvin interrupted.
“You saythat word, and I’m going to come kick your ass for an hour,” Quinn warned.
Realizing what I’d nearly said out loud, and with my father standing only a few feet away, I grasped for something—anything—to counteract the bad luck I was about to bring down upon the NYPD.
“F-fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you,” I quickly said. A theater superstition, but lucky Shakespeare was lucky Shakespeare, right?
Pop was staring at me curiously.
The tension over the line was thick enough to cut with a knife.
“I’m going to let you go,” I told them both.
“Please find another method of self-entertainment,” Calvin replied.
“Jack off and take a nap,” Quinn called.
Calvin sighed a little at that, then added, “I love you.”
“Love you too,” I mumbled before ending the call.
Pop walked to the coatrack, pulled on his jacket, and asked, “What’s withThe Merchant of Venice?”
