I watched them confer briefly before she got on her radio. “So,” I said, “do we need some hazmat team or something?”
“Can I get your name, sir?” the officer replied as he removed a notepad from his belt.
“Sebastian Snow.”
“And do you run this business?”
“Yes.”
“Own the building?”
“No. I wish.”
He looked up. “Approximately when did you suspect something was in the store?”
“You mean—that?” I asked while looking down at the floor. “When I opened the door this morning, I could smell it. It was about seven.”
“Does anyone else have access to the store?” The officer looked over my shoulder at Max.
“Max has keys, but only I and—only I have access to the security code,” I explained.
The truth was, my partner of four years, Neil Millett, also had keys and the code, but mentioning his name around cops was a bit tricky. He was a detective with the NYPD’s forensic investigations unit, and very much in the closet. So much so that the only people who knew we were living together were Max and my father. Neil didn’t want other officers knowing he was gay, and when I was twenty-nine with a heart all aflutter for a sexy detective, I didn’t mind. Now I was thirty-three, and it was wearing me out.
The officer wrote down a few notes. “Do you have cameras? You have a lot of expensive-looking items in here.”
“I have one, but it’s been on the fritz for the past month.” I had been suffering from a lack of mental stamina lately and just hadn’t found the energy to give a shit about a number of things, camera included.
It wasn’t like me. I knew that.
Neil made a point of bringing up my recent attitude. A lot. It only pissed me off more.
The officer continued taking down my contact information, then asked for Max’s as well. A few more basic questions followed, and then Brigg led two plain-clothed cops from the front door toward us. Glancing around the now congested aisle, I saw yet another woman entering, carrying some sort of medical kit.
The overhead lights, which I never used, were switched on without warning, and the entire room was washed out of sight. I hastily covered my eyes and turned away, stumbling and reaching around the countertop. Max went to the other corner to avoid the police and the heart, grabbed my sunglasses, and handed them over just as someone spoke my name.
“Mr.… Snow, is it?” a woman asked.
Turning as I put on my shades, I was confronted with the two new cops. The woman who spoke was maybe my age and couldn’t have been an inch over five feet, with a strong build and closely cropped hair. The other, a man, was tall and big and filled out his suit with nothing but muscle. He looked older than Neil, who was thirty-seven. His hair was light, so I guessed it was what I have been told is blond.
I squinted to better study him. He had freckles. A lot, actually. I kind of had a thing for guys with freckles. Cheeks, nose, forehead—he had freckles all over, and it gave him a sort of sweet look initially. Maybe his hair was red instead.
“Sebastian Snow,” I agreed.
The woman took the lead, extending her hand to shake. “I’m Detective Quinn Lancaster, and this is my partner, Detective Calvin Winter.”
“Uh, hi.”
Lancaster smiled. “How’s business been, Mr. Snow?”
“Fine,” I said, confused. It was strange to be looking down at such a short figure of authority, but she had an air of confidence I wasn’t willing to question.
“What can you tell me about your clientele?” Lancaster continued.
I shrugged while crossing my arms. “Regular folks, some with big money, some looking for curiosities. Corporate types, hipsters—I get a little of everyone in here.”
She nodded. “Would it be all right if you removed your sunglasses, sir?”
“I can’t.”
