A threat. Or perhaps a clue.
Where had the murder taken place?
Unknown.
And when?
While I hadn’t given the head much consideration before blowing chunks, the presence of blood in the bag suggested decapitation happened hours after death, versus days. Had it been more than, say, ten hours, the liquid would have coagulated and solidified inside the body and produced next to no bleeding, despite severing major arteries.
And perhaps the most important of the Five Ws:Why?
No damn idea. But since it appeared to involve me… this Collector was undoubtedly looking for something antiquated, weird, andclearlyfelt it was worth killing for.
“What can you tell me about that drawing on the note?” Calvin asked.
“I’m torn between the Eye of Providence and some wackadoo conspiracy theory, or the 1800s Pinkerton National Detective Agency logo.”
“It’s not a reference to anything? Or anyone?”
“If it is, it’s not obvious to me,” I said. “But the handwriting is Spencerian script.”
Calvin cocked his head a little.
“Cursive from the nineteenth century. It’s accurate too. Someone did their homework.”
Calvin looked away and studied my desk and the shelving overhead, as if the answer to his latest quandary resided somewhere among the clutter of reference books, binders of inventory, accounting files, and office supplies.
“I can’t say if you’re in immediate danger, but based on past events, I’m not taking any chances.” He turned to me.
“Stalker, vigilante, or art thief,” I said, ticking off past players on my fingers.
Calvin enclosed his hand over mine. “I know you don’t like it, but is your father home today?”
“Maybe.”
“Give him a ring? I’ll have a black-and-white drive you over.”
POP ENDEDup being home and with no plans of his own until later that afternoon. I kept our conversation brief. No reason to explain over the phone what I could lie by omission about to his face. Not that lying to my father was something I found particularly enjoyable. In fact, it rarely worked to my benefit. Pop could smell my shit from a mile away.
But he was in his sixties, and I had no desire to be the reason he had a stroke.
It’s the thought that counts, at least.
Donned in coats and scarves, Calvin saw me and Max out the door. The sky was still spitting big fat snowflakes. The air froze my lungs on every intake and settled around me in a jagged, razor-sharp cloud with every outtake. Our steps crunched loudly along the salt-coated sidewalk as we walked away from the shop front and a parked NYPD Crime Scene Unit van that advertised a crime, probably gruesome, had occurred on the property.
“He needs to get to Brooklyn,” Calvin told an officer as he pointed at Max.
Max handed Dillon’s leash to me. “Thanks, Calvin.”
He nodded. “Let Sebastian know when you get home safely.”
“10-4,” Max said with a salute. He spared me a look. “Don’t get into trouble, boss.”
“Me? I’m hurt.”
Max snorted. The cop opened the back door of the cruiser for him, and Max walked to it, got inside, and gave us both a wave before the car pulled onto the road.
Calvin motioned to the second cruiser. “It’s a good thing we’ve got this routine down pat.”
