I watched him take a drink. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” I said casually, “but why are you here?”
“You called me.”
“I did?”Butt dial?
“Yesterday.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t mean to waste your time. It was a mistake.”
“You said you may have an idea about Mr. Rodriguez’s murder. That’s not a waste of my time.”
“Why didn’t you just call me back?”
“I prefer these conversations happen in person.” Calvin took another sip. “So?”
“Sowhat?”
He looked more tired. “What did you want to tell me?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I… had a bad night.” It could be argued that Calvin was the reason. If he hadn’t talked to Neil—but no. It was childish to pass the blame. The fact was, Neil was a thirty-seven-year-old man that was ashamed of himself.
And me, by proxy.
“I’m sure,” Calvin muttered.
“What?”
“Detective Millett.” He looked up from studying the secret language of the barista on the coffee cup. “I assume you don’t need me to say more.”
I deflated a little. “No,” I admitted. For a beat there was no sound but that of Max using a box cutter. “Anyway. It’s kind of an out-there proposal.” I looked back up, Calvin watching and waiting in polite silence. “Do you know much about Edgar Allan Poe?”
A flicker of something betrayed his stoic features. I wasn’t certain what it had been, but I could tell I now had his undivided interest. “He was a writer,” Calvin supplied. “Poems and short stories, essays, and criticisms. Known for his mystery and macabre. Expelled out of West Point. Married his first cousin, Virginia Clemm. He died under mysterious circumstances in Baltimore, 1849.”
I was surprised but not really sure why. It had been sort of a rhetorical question, but Calvin knew more than I expected, which was rude because who was I to say that he wasn’t the literary sort? Or even someone intrigued by the mysterious death of a mysterious man? I was judging Calvin based off my knowledge of Neil, who wasn’t much of a reader of fiction.
“Ah… that’s right,” I stupidly answered. “Have you read much of his work?”
Calvin took a sip of coffee.
“Specifically ‘The Black Cat.’”
“I have not,” he answered.
“A madman kills his pet black cat by tying a noose around its neck and hanging it from a tree,” I explained. “The guilt from the killing of the first cat causes the man to try to kill a second, but he ends up murdering his wife instead.”
“I’m sure you’re reaching a point.”
I frowned at the interruption. “He kills her with an axe to the head. It’s considered one of his most gruesome tales.”
“With good reason.”
“What color was the cat? Yesterday, at the shop?”
“Right, because you have achromatopsia.”
“You remember that?”
He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled briefly before reading out loud. “Complete achromatopsia is a nonprogressive visual disorder, which is characterized by decreased vision, light sensitivity, and the absence of color vision. Affects 1 in 33,000 Americans. Individuals with complete achromatopsia have greatly decreased visual acuity in daylight, hemeralopia, nystagmus, and severe photophobia.”
