Quinn shook her head a little and leaned one arm on the door. “Trying to convince Major Cases that you’re a harmless pain in the ass is easier said than done. I’ve been suspended without pay.”
“What?” I protested. “Why?”
“Wainwright thinks I’m suspicious.” She took another puff. “Can’t blame him, under the circumstances. Why is Calvin’s partner trying to hold the NYPD back from rescuing him, you know?”
“Because Rossi took him, and if any cops see him, then his whole plan blows up in his face.”
“Yup.”
“And Rossi’s already panicking,” I explained. “Calvin called me this morning.”
Quinn shot me a look. Half a dozen different expressions seemed to dance across her face. She turned to the road again, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “And?”
“He’s alive.”
“Well, he sure as shit wasn’t calling from beyond the grave.”
“He sounded drugged. He could barely form coherent sentences.”
She swore.
“He gave me details about his location. Neil’s trying to reduce the search radius. He’s somewhere in Brooklyn. You were right about that.”
“Ever the soldier,” she said, mostly to herself.
“The Collector—you know, fuck it.Rossicaught him. I think he gave Calvin more drugs to knock him out. Then he told me I only had twelve hours left instead of twenty-four.”
Quinn made a sharp turn downtown, and the traffic she cut off honked noisily.
I grabbed the dash. “Could you stick to the road and not the sidewalk?”
“You heard his voice?”
“He used one of those modifiers.” I looked in the side mirror, although the hotel was long behind us. “What’s going to happen to Neil?”
“Wainwright’s probably seeing to his suspension too.”
ACCORDING TOthe missing persons’ report Neil had obtained that morning, Benjamin Dover was fifty years old, six feet tall, an estimated 170 pounds, with brown and gray hair. He’d last been seen leaving a bar at 2:00 a.m. in Greenwich Village and walking home a week ago last Sunday. He had not been heard from since. He was unmarried and had no known significant other, so a wellness check wasn’t performed until Wednesday when a colleague called the police. The responding officers noted that the apartment was orderly, nothing appeared missing or out of place, but that there was also no indication Dover had gone on any sort of impromptu trip.
Despite her suspension status, Quinn had been able to gather a few additional details on Dover while driving to the hotel to grab me before Wainwright did. Dover had been an instructor at New York University for eighteen years, with the occasional freelance gig or personal art show on the side. Before he’d landed his position of teaching the next up-and-coming Robert Corneliuses of our time, Dover had been pursuing a career in photojournalism.
“I don’t understand the connection Dover has to the museum.” I shut the passenger door and slung my bag over one shoulder.
I hurried across Sullivan Street with Quinn to a multiuse building. The ground floor storefront was under construction, despite the freezing-cold weather. Guys in hard-hats and reflective vests moved in and out of what was technically the window display. Hammers banged, electric saws deafened the city ambiance, and the side door leading to the apartments above had been left propped open from all the comings and goings.
My stomach growled noisily as I caught a whiff from the dumpling store to the left. I hadn’t partaken in the pastries or coffee Neil had brought up from the hotel’s morning buffet, because Calvin had phoned and I was, rightfully so, in a tizzy at the time. Now that I hadn’t had more than half a pretzel since around noon yesterday, I was getting pretty terrible hunger pains. But worse was the guilt over even wanting to take a breath and eat something. Because how was it fair—going into a warm restaurant, sitting down, and filling my belly—while Calvin was cold, drugged, and in imminent danger?
“I didn’t think college professors made such good money,” Quinn said, ignoring my statement.
“What?” I looked away from Divine Dumplings’ window decal and down at her.
“Didn’t your father teach at NYU?”
“Sure. I mean, Pop has a nice place too, although he’s been there most of his life. It’s rent-controlled.”
“This is an expensive neighborhood.” Quinn made a motion to her left and right. “Plus he’s got a view of the Empire on one end, and One World Trade on the other.”
I glanced either direction, and sure enough, I could barely make out the blurry, gray shape of spires on the horizons. “The report did say he freelanced,” I suggested.
