“I’ve had a long day.”
“Where the hell is my brother?” Marc asked.
“It’s… an overwhelming story. I can’t really explain on the phone.”
“Then it’ll be convenient forCalvinto explain it to me in person. I’m staying at The Bellows on East Forty-Ninth. He can meet me there. I’ll even send a car.”
“Calvin is busy—”
“Bullshit,” Marc said, cutting off my lie. “I was there for that phone call before cops swarmed your cheap spook store and threw me out.”
“Let’s keep the blows above the belt.”
“Tell me the truth. Tell me where Calvin is or I’m hanging up,” Marc threatened.
I pulled my cell back and hit End. “Beat you to it, asshole,” I muttered.
Okay, so… that hadn’t gone according to plan.
Not entirely, anyway.
Marc was for sure in New York on business. That much the receptionist had confirmed by internally transferring me to his desk in Manhattan. But he didn’t like me. I daresay Marc might have even hated me, although so long as it was because I was an unapproachable ass and nothing more—fine. No love lost.
But despite his animosity toward me, his concern regarding Calvin’s radio silence had seemed sincere. Of course, a psychopath would fake genuine human emotion in order to better blend into society…. And a psychopath with a murderous streak—no. I was letting my personal opinion and flair for the occasional dramatic conclusion color Marc in a light that was simply not true.
I was certain he wasn’t working a side hustle after the closing of Architect Business Hours, which included lopping off body parts and mailing them to guys like me as a not-so-veiled threat to find him the skull of Edward Copeor else! I mean, what would a paper-pushing guy like Marc evendowith the skull of a once-infamous man, now barely recognized outside of his extremely specific scientific focus? Senior architects made good money, so I couldn’t imagine him wanting to sell it. And unless Marc’s suburban lifestyle included an impressive collection of human skulls that he kept in his basement man cave….
I started walking again.
I supposed anything was possible. But to be honest, I was no longer convinced of Marc’s involvement. Maybe I never had been. Not really. The problem was, he and Ellen were the only “suspects” who had the personal connection that could have possibly explained the text messages to our friends and family. Without them, I had to consider Dr. Thyne and Angela London to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than I’d initially given them credit for.
Or perhaps Rossi knew us a lot better than I’d realized.
A residential building up ahead advertised its street address in big impossible-to-miss numbers above the arched doorway: 637. I took out Quinn’s note, confirmed this was the address I was hunting for, and went to the front door as I fished out the keys. I chose the one without a label and tried the lock.
Schiiick.
I smiled and slipped inside. I eased the door shut behind me and immediately checked the half a dozen mailboxes on the wall to the right. I scanned the handwritten names and then stopped on 3B. It was left unlocked by the carrier, due to an overflow of mail. I nudged the box open and scanned the dates of D. Howard’s post.
Huh. The oldest envelope seemed to have been stamped and delivered on Saturday. Considering the pileup, it was likely Daniel hadn’t been home since then. Only three days and there’d been enough deliveries to stoke a cozy fire for some time. Kid needed to lay off the subscription services.
I shoved the magazines and other junk back into the mailbox and took the stairs to the third floor, holding on to the handrail as a guide through the unfamiliar building. I opened the door that separated the stairwell from actual apartments and tiptoed in salt-encrusted loafers to 3B. I tried the doorknob. It was old and shitty, definitely not something that’d been replaced by the landlord in my lifetime, but it was locked all the same. I tried each of the keys on Frank’s ring just in case, but it seemed like Daniel had only provided Frank with a copy of the key to theouterdoor. I guess he assumed he’d be home to let Frank into his actual apartment when the other man stopped by for a midnight tumble.
I swore under my breath and turned to 3A. It appeared dark under the door. I creeped close, pressed my ear to the wood, and listened. It was quiet. And not the sort of quiet where you can still hear a humanexisting. Maybe—hopefully—they were at work.
I straightened and returned to 3B. I turned sideways, gripped the doorknob in one hand, and without giving myself the opportunity to second-guess this potentially awful plan, slammed my shoulderhardinto the door. It splintered and flew open with me following suit, shouting expletives the whole way down. I crashed to the floor as the broken door knocked hard against the wall.
I rolled onto my back and looked up at the threshold. If I’d had a gun and badge, that would have come off as a really cool action-movie entrance. But seeing how I was me… I sat up and staggered to my feet, winced, and rubbed my shoulder.
“God,” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s gonna leave a mark.” I flipped a light switch above an end table near the door and took a step into the studio apartment. The very first thing I noticed was…. “Decomp.”
Things were not looking up for Daniel.
I put my sleeve to my face, trying to mask the stench as I poked about the home. There was no body in the neatly made bed. Or underneath. No one lay across the floor like a broken doll, and no goodbye messages were written in blood on the walls. The studio was quite orderly, in fact. A bookshelf housed mostly nonfiction, likely titles assigned throughout Daniel’s college experience.
On the desk at the foot of the bed was a neat pile of spiral-bound notebooks and a day planner. I flipped through a few recent pages. No personal memos. It was all school-related. A space in the middle of the table suggested a laptop usually sat there but was suspiciously absent now. A single picture—a retro Polaroid—was propped against the desk lamp. I picked it up by the corner, brought it closer, and fished out my magnifying glass from my bag. I studied the photo, and my stomach dropped like a rock sinking in water.
It was my Head-in-the-Box. Daniel.Danielwas the victim couriered to the Emporium!
