And I really didn’t.
Chapter Six
CALVIN NEVERreturned my text about that murder. Had I really expected him to? Sort of. Or at least I was hoping he would, which was stupid of me because he was a cop and wasn’t going to divulge information via freakingtext.
I planned on going to the bank and grocery store before seeing myself home but ended up diverting toward Thirteenth Street, the location of the East Village murder. Quiet, clean, lined with bare snow-covered trees, just like my street. There were a number of little restaurants and a few dry cleaners, but the buildings were multiuse and had three or four floors of apartments above the shops.
It was already dark, and the temperature was dropping fast. I stopped halfway down the block, looking up at the brightly lit windows of those already home. I must have looked out of sorts, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, shivering, and wearing sunglasses.
A woman walking a big golden retriever stopped nearby. “Are you lost?” she asked, maybe pegging me for a very confused tourist.
I glanced over at her and smiled awkwardly. “Oh, no. Actually, do you live around here?”
She looked me over, but I guess I appeared harmless enough, or she trusted her dog to guard her, because she nodded. “Yeah, sure. Why?”
“This might sound really, really strange,” I warned, “but have you heard of any murders in this area?” You know—get right to the point.
She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “Oh my God, yes, but you’re not a reporter or anything, are you?”
I shook my head. “No, no. I live nearby. And am just a nosey jerk.”
She laughed at that, but slowly put her hand to her chest. “It was about two weeks ago, I think. People around here know, but the police are keeping it really quiet. I heard it wasterriblygruesome.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
She shrugged.
So, fifty-fifty on it being true. “Did it happen inside one of these restaurants?” When she hesitated, I could tell I might have been making her uncomfortable.Shit, shit.“I’ll never be able to eat pasta again,” I joked, glancing toward the closest shop.
She chuckled again and smiled. “It wasn’t in a restaurant, but one of the chefs from 1-2-3 Sushi told a friend of mine that it happened in one of the apartments above his shop.” She pointed with her free hand toward the building in question. “I guess the police had to close everything down for the day.”
“That must have sucked.”
She hummed and nodded in agreement.
“It’s scary,” I said quietly. “It’s such a good neighborhood.”
“Oh, I know,” she agreed. “I made my boyfriend spend the night for a week. I was so freaked out.” She sighed and switched the dog leash into her other hand. “Anyway, I better go.”
“Yeah, sorry, have a good night.” I smiled and stepped aside, letting her and the dog walk by.
I looked toward 1-2-3 Sushi, and a smile crossed my face. I felt—hell, like a detective, for lack of better description. I knew Mike’s murder and the break-in at my shop had something to do with Edgar Allan Poe, and the look on Calvin’s face had confirmed it. He seemed to have known a lot about the writer too, which could have been personal knowledge or something recently researched. And why? There had to be something afoot, and according to the NYPD crime statistics, there was only one murder in the neighborhood that wasn’t all that far from both Mike and myself.
Serial literary murders? I had no idea what to expect, but there was no way I could quell my curiosity except to keep moving forward. I felt a surge of excitement as I ran across the street toward the restaurant and entered. It was tiny and busy, but luckily there was a seat open at the bar where the chefs worked. It was only after I sat and started looking around that I began to second-guess my plan. There were a few chefs working—how was I to know which one the woman was referring to? Were they even working tonight? What was I going to ask?
Had any murders lately?
Shit.
“Can I help you?” a woman behind the bar asked.
Good thing I liked sushi, because I guess I was having it for dinner too. “Uh, sushi dinner plate,” I said, after quickly scanning the menu taped to the glass in front of me.
“Tamago or ebi?” Egg or shrimp for my cooked sushi option.
“Ebi is fine.” I watched her nod and start expertly crafting my meal. I drummed my fingers absently and read her nametag. “Worked here a long time, Ann?”
“No, I don’t want to go on a date,” she replied.
