“Tell us the origin of ‘brain trust,’” Neil quickly suggested.
“Ah… the phrase was originally patterned after the term used to describe economic consolidation in the latter half of the 1800s. It was associated with politics by the turn of the century and is most famously connected to the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration.”
“Great,” Quinn stated dryly, putting her hands on her hips. “Now I need facts relevant to our current crisis.”
Facts.
Focus on the facts.
Quinn was still talking. “Ms. Harrison has your dog. I sent Marc on his way. The ME is inside collecting the teeth. So let’s hear it.”
“Calvin left the hotel at 7:50 a.m.”
“Are you certain?” Quinn asked.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I left with Rossi a little after eight to come here.”
“Did you see Calvin’s car?”
Now that I thought about it, no. I hadn’t seen Calvin’s Ford Fusion parked anywhere on the hotel’s block. “No, but I don’t know how close he parked to the hotel after getting off work last night.”
Quinn was already on her phone. “ATL on a navy blue Ford Fusion, last seen around Thirty-Seventh and Eighth—might still be parked in the neighborhood.”
“You said the Collector laughed,” Neil continued. “This person called you?”
Quinn turned her head away from us as she concentrated on the call. “Yes, that’s correct. New York license. Plate number….”
“I phoned Calvin,” I corrected Neil as Quinn rattled off more information regarding Calvin’s car than I ever knew about myself. “The Collector never spoke.” I watched Quinn end her call and finished, “You need to track Calvin’s cell.”
“That was the first step I took,” she answered. “Hopefully this motherfucker hasn’t turned it off, so we can get an accurate ping on his location.”
“I think it might have been tossed,” I said. “But I can tell you the Collector was outside when they answered my call.”
“Outside doesn’t narrow the scope,” Quinn said sternly.
“All right, all right.” I closed my eyes and hyperfocused. I tried to catalog all of the clues I could, which wasn’t many, about that one-sided conversation, when all at once, a very simple thought occurred to me. “Calvin knows the Collector.”
“Excuse me?” Quinn asked.
I opened my eyes. “Think about it. This wasn’t some dark alley at two in the morning where he could have been jumped without a witness. Calvin’s a big guy—with military training, no less. Who could coerce someone as wide as a doorframe, during morning rush hour inMidtown, without drawing an audience? The only logical conclusion is he knows the Collector. He’d trust this person, was probably even asked to get into a car with them.”
“It makes sense,” Neil murmured, turning his attention to Quinn.
“It implies someone in law enforcement,” she hissed.
“Sowhat?” I replied. “Dirty cops exist. Remember Brigg and Lowry? One tried to blow me up, and the other nearly had me swimming with the fishes.”
“Calvin knows too many people,” Quinn argued.
“We’d only need to consider those who also know Sebastian,” Neil corrected.
“Just about all of New York City knows about the NYPD’s tumor,” she said.
“I’m benign, thank you,” I retorted, crossing my arms.
“Max, Ms. Harrison next door, and Sebastian’s father all got texts in regard to keeping the police out of this,” Neil explained, ticking the names off his fingers.
Quinn’s eyes darted from Neil to me. “Anyone else?”
