Pop took a breath.
“Start with the obvious,” I instructed. “See if his curriculum somehow involves fossils or dinosaurs or that sort of thinking. Check to see if he has any personal exhibits currently open somewhere in the city.”
“I’ll talk to a few colleagues,” Pop agreed. “But, kiddo, I’m no detective. I can’t promise I’ll find anything more than dead ends.”
I glanced up to see Neil had finished his phone call and was watching me. “I know, Dad. But I’ve only got twelve hours, and I need all the help I can get.”
Chapter Thirteen
“I WANTyou to go with Quinn,” Neil said as we exited the hotel. “Check out Benjamin Dover’s apartment and see what you can find.”
“It’s a waste of time,” I said. “My dad’s making some calls about this guy. We don’t need to go looking in his underwear drawer in the meantime. Let’s go to Brooklyn and—”
Neil stopped buttoning his jacket and took my shoulders with both hands. “In every you-can’t-make-this-shit-up mystery you’ve been involved in, the history has mattered. The murders have always been traced back to a thing—an artifact—with some kind of ridiculous significance.” He let go with a bit more care before adding, “Don’t forget you’re smart and history is what you do best.”
“But if we know—”
“Wedon’tknow where Calvin is,” Neil retorted. “And we can’t have the entirety of the NYPD running to the rescue, right? Calvin managed to make a phone call and pissed this guy off enough to cut our remaining time in half.And,” Neil continued, leaning closer, “if it is Rossi, the moment he sees uniformed officers or even me or Quinn, he might go to extremes. These remaining hours—these are the most dangerous for Calvin. We can’t get sloppy now.”
“I hate you.”
“You like me,” Neil corrected. “And you hatethat.”
After we spent a few minutes shivering in the morning cold on the side of the road, a light-colored car pulled to the curb in front of us.
The passenger window was rolled down, and from behind the wheel, Quinn called, “Get in. We’re going to solve a murder.”
“Seb,” Neil said, stopping me as I walked toward the edge of the sidewalk.
“What?” I looked over my shoulder, hand on the car door. “Be good?”
Neil smiled a little. “Be careful.” Both of our names were called from down the block, and Neil quickly looked to the left. I couldn’t make out the figure’s details, but I did recognize the voice.
Detective Wainwright.
Surprise, surprise.
Neil motioned discreetly for me to get going, walked toward Wainwright, and cut the officer off from approaching me.
“Sebastian,” Quinn snapped.
I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. I’d barely shut it behind me when Quinn pulled onto the road again and shot off toward Ninth Avenue. “Jesus, Quinn!”
“Buckle up,” she said around the end of her cigarillo.
I didn’t have to be told twice. Hell, I didn’t even need to be told once. I shoved my bag down onto the floor between my feet and quickly pulled the seat belt on. “That was Wainwright.”
Quinn gave her rearview mirror a quick look, removed her cigarillo to tap ash out her partially open window, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“Whywas it Wainwright?”
“Because Wainwright smells shit in the ranks.”
“Rossi.”
She snorted and took a puff of the vanilla-flavored tobacco. “Close.”
I furrowed my brow and looked at her. “What do you mean?”
