I put my hands on my hips. “I think Marc’s sudden appearance, of all possible dates in the calendar year, should be an itsy bit suspect. He’d originally called Calvin, but I answered. I don’t know how either of the siblings tie in with the Cope skull, but the personal motive to get rid of me or to take Calvin out of this life he’s carved for himself is—it’s there. For sure. Marc said he wanted to ‘fix this.’ I’m not so convinced that meant sharing a glass of eggnog with his brother over the holidays.”
Neil shifted from foot to foot. I could feel his sudden anxiety ripple off him like spikes on a Richter scale. He was, after all, pushing forty and still hadn’t come out to his own brother. Although whether Chester Millett believed Neil’s insistence of bachelorhood all these years remained to be seen.
“Third—Nico Rossi.”
That made Quinn snort. “Mr. Kiss-ass doesn’t exactly strike me as the sort who turns to cold-blooded murder in order to land himself a promotion.”
“But think about it,” I said. “Rossi doesn’t like Calvin. He mostdefinitelydoesn’t like me. And yet, when Calvin requested police protection, we got Rossi—who told me he volunteered for the opportunity. Why would he do that?”
“Go on,” she instructed, her expression hard and drawn.
“One of the first things he said to me yesterday was that my reputation preceded me. And he knew Calvin and I are engaged. What a perfect way to end up the new face of the NYPD than to be the one who arrests that busybody sleuth half of the force doesn’t like, while simultaneously rescuing Homicide’s golden goose.”
Neil was shaking his head. “No. At least, it couldn’t be Rossi working alone. He was with you at the time of Calvin’s disappearance.”
“So he’s got an as of yet unknown accomplice,” I agreed. “My other theories all involved two people.”
Quinn interrupted us. “How could Rossi know about anything related to the dinosaurs and whatnot?” I could tell from her forced civil tone and the stern lines around her mouth that this was the theory she not only agreed with most, but the one that was downright pissing her off.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s a hole in each suspect theory, but I know I can figure this out. So long as Wainwright doesn’t arrest me first, or the NYPD doesn’t piss off the Collector and Calvin gets—” I stopped and shook my head. I couldn’t say the thought out loud.
“What do you need from us?” Neil asked. “We’ve got to go before we keep Wainwright waiting.”
I said, “I need you both to hold the line. Give me the head start to find Calvin. Also.” I reached into my messenger bag, retrieved Frank’s key-ring, and held it up. “Did Daniel the Intern come up in your initial interviews? I need his address.”
Quinn was reaching into her coat for her notepad even as she asked, “I don’t want to know how you got his name, do I?”
“Probably not.”
“What’s with the keys?” she asked, flipping pages.
“I stole them,” I stated. “They’re Frank Newell’s.”
“Where the fuck did you steal them from?” Neil objected.
“Angela London’s purse.”
“I didn’t hear any of that,” Quinn said to herself.
“He was meticulous—Frank,” I said, watching Quinn rip a page from her notepad. “I mean, helabeledhis keys, so I can only imagine what his toiletries are like.” I jingled the ring. “These two are his apartment building, and another for his mailbox. But this?” I held up the last key. “No label. Why wouldn’t he mark this one? I think it’s a copy Daniel gave him. There’s no label, because why advertise you’re cheating?”
Neil frowned.
Quinn gave me the paper. “Calvin and I went by Daniel’s place last Sunday,” she said, indicating the address she’d written. “No one was home. We didn’t have a warrant to enter, nor was there any probable cause. Neighbors said he was a quiet kid. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen him.”
I shoved the paper and keys back into my bag. “Thanks.” I started for the door.
“How’s finding Daniel going to help?” Neil called.
“At the end of the day, this is about that stupid skull. With Frank gone, Daniel might be the only person left who knows of its whereabouts.”
“He might be dead,” Neil said solemnly.
I twisted the dead bolt and looked over my shoulder. “Yeah. He probably is.”
I SWAYEDwith the motion of the Uptown C coming to a stop at 135th Street. The doors opened, and more folks shuffled off than entered. I leaned over in my seat, spinning my cane impatiently between the palms of my hands. I’d started the trek to Daniel’s apartment at Chambers Street—way the fuck downtown, only a few blocks from the Police Plaza. My options for travel had been either subway or taxi. And at about five in the evening, traveling over 155 blocks in a car, during rush hour? I’d have reached Daniel’s by… oh… next week.
So I sucked up my dislike of the subway, hopped on the A, and made a straight shot on the express all the way to 125th Street. I transferred to a local train and was now willing the conductor to close the doors and pull out of the station. As if reading my mind, the doors slid shut and the train lurched ahead. A kid stared at me from across the aisle—the cane and sunglasses tended to have that effect—and a few seats away, a teenager was trying to push candy bar sales on disinterested riders. Other than the addition of a dank atmosphere due to melted snow and blasting floor heaters, the remaining ride was uneventful.
