LUCKY CHARMSand coffee leave a decidedly offensive aftertaste upon coming back up. I didn’t have any mints or a toothbrush handy at the shop either, so I tried to mask the vomit-breath with saltwater taffy.
It didn’t work.
In retrospect, of course, it was the least of my problems. But since I had no control over the uniformed officers standing around my counter and inspecting a scene straight out ofThe Silence of the Lambs, I had to hyperfocus onsomething. I unwrapped another piece of candy.
“Did you call Calvin?” Max asked from where he sat on the floor, his back against the bookshelves situated in the farthest corner of the shop. Dillon was parked between his legs, enjoying the nervous scratches Max was giving him and not really all that concerned about the morning’s proceedings.
I turned from where I stood at the midpoint between the officers and Max and said, “No.” I tugged the taffy from the wax paper. It stretched into long tendrils and stuck to my hand. I raised my thumb and index finger to suck them clean.
“Why?” Max protested.
“I think it might constitute as crossing a professional line.”
“Yeah, because you’vezeroexperience doing that,” Max said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Things are different now.”
To say the least.
I rubbed the last of the sticky candy residue against my trouser leg.
“I don’t like this,” Max continued. “When Sebastian has a reverse Ichabod Crane situation, Calvin and Quinn show up. That’s how it works. The universe has established this.”
“I’m one money-order-made-payable-to-the-City-Clerk away from really pissing his sergeant off,” I explained. “I have to follow proper channels these days. That means starting with 911, and letting the NYPD decide which lucky detective team is investigating this mess.”
I turned my head just then to watch a third uniformed officer enter the shop. He muttered some nicety to the man standing guard at the door before immediately making his way toward the counter where a female officer stood.
I turned to Max and held both hands out, indicating for him not to move. “Stay here.” I started after the newcomer.
The cop was tall. Broad shoulders, dark hair, and thick eyebrows. He was watching me approach while quieting the radio emitting gibberish from his belt.
“Hi,” I said. I held out a hand. “I’m the owner. I called—”
“Sebastian Snow,” he answered for me.
I slowly lowered my hand. “Er—yeah.”
“You’ve got a reputation.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I got the distinct impression this officer did not find me to be a charming sonofabitch.
“Now, I know you like to play amateur sleuth, Mr. Snow,” he continued, hands on his utility belt. His accent wasso Brooklyn, it was practically a stereotype.
“I’ve recently retired.”
“I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t think you’re cute.”
“Good.”
“Being a cop is a serious job,” he said in a chastising tone. “And when civilians stick their noses into our business—”
