“Unfortunately, yes,” I agreed. “I’m not sure how Dr. Asquith learned about the Cope skull. She doesn’t appear to have any sort of connection to either museum. But I don’t thinkhowis important to our case. I’d jump right to thewhy.”
“If the skull is worth whatever someone is willing to pay,” Neil said, “that might be good incentive for someone saddled with medical school student loans.”
“Could be.”
“But she’s five foot nothing,” he continued. “How does someone like her take down a tank like Calvin?”
“Feigned innocence. A true psychopath.” I looked at Neil again as we came to a red light. “He knows her. Has no reason not to trust her. Hell, he’d have willingly jumped into an ME’s van if she asked for assistance. One shot of something like diazepam to a major artery, and he’d be down, maybe unconscious, in under a minute. As long as she can keep him drugged enough not to escape but also not die, I’m at her mercy and this game of hers continues.”
Neil hit the accelerator again. “All this because the drawings were too anatomically correct?”
“She said ‘sensational.’”
“What?”
“At the ME’s office. She said she was so happy to finally meet me. And that the Emporium’s name wassensational.” I took in a slow, steady breath. “The Collector said that on the phone this morning… like… asking if I failed, would I promise to battle them until the very end and make it sensational.”
Neil snorted. “A modern war between intellectuals.”
“Marsh and Cope all over again, losing everything in an effort to destroy each other,” I said quietly.
Neil reached and turned the radio off.
The clock read 5:00 p.m.…. We barely had three hours left.
The transition to Vinegar Hill was understated, but the tiny little neighborhood made its historical mark known through the architecture of the homes and streets.
“A whole other sort of war was waged in Vinegar Hill,” I murmured, staring out the passenger window at the passing high-rises and converted warehouses.
“What’s that, Sherlock?”
I smiled absently. Neil had always refused to call me Sherlock when we were an item. It was nice to hear him say that now. A subtle apology between us.
“The Whiskey Wars. After the Civil War, a large population of Irish immigrants in this area became infamous for their moonshining business and what became the IRS battling them over not paying taxes on the alcohol.”
Neil didn’t say anything, but I heard the quietest chuckle escape his lips.
We’d turned onto Bridge Street, and out of the darkness, an all-brick—count them—seven-story warehouse appeared. It was nearly the expanse of the entire block in length, and the boarded-up doors on the ground floor suggested it was still sitting empty and unused, despite being prime real estate in the next “big neighborhood” to turn into apartments or a rooftop bar or even an art gallery.
“Stop! Neil!”
He slammed on the brakes. “What?”
“This is it.” I turned my head and pointed. “Look there—the power plant. You can hear the humming from here.”
Neil shut the engine off and quickly climbed out from behind the wheel.
I followed suit, still clutching Cope in one hand and moving around to the trunk of the BMW as Neil opened it. I watched him grab a pair of bolt cutters and shut the top. “Really?”
“I’m CSU,” he said with a wide, easy smile. “We’re prepared for anything.”
We quickly moved from the side of the cobblestone road and toward the nearest door, which had a heavy chain wrapped around the handles. Neil put the cutters on it and managed to slice through the hefty links after a few attempts. He grabbed the broken chain, pulled it free, and threw it into the dead grass. He silently handed me the tool, removed his weapon and a small pocket flashlight, then took the lead up the dark, crumbling set of stairs inside.
“This place ought to be condemned,” he whispered in between each creak and groan.
“Historically—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
