And while Calvin was sort of a diversity poster child for the force, this bozo journalist had still outed him, without permission, to a room of reporters on a live feed being made publicly available to anyone in New York City.
“Sebastian Snow,” the stranger clarified. “An antique dealer here in the city—Snow’s Antique Emporium.”
And… so had I. Although this had been happening, to a greater degree with every mystery I’d—er—sleuthed, mine and Calvin’s personal relationship had never suffered from any sort of intrusive fuckery. It was our public personas the media had latched on to, and nothing more. So this bold declaration ofHey, Cop, I know who your significant other is and I’m going to spout their fucking name and occupation without considering whether it might be problematic or dangerous, given your line of work—well… it wasn’t going to end well.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered.
“In fact,” Dingbat continued, “he was responsible for your rescue and the apprehension of Dr. Asquith—”
“What’s your name?” Calvin interrupted.
“Joe Sinclair, withOut in NYC.”
“This is a press conference regarding the homicide of Sandra Habel, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Calvin’spissed,” Max murmured.
Calvin’s tone was still professional, still polite, and nothing he’d said or done so far would suggest he was currently seeing red. But that presence he had about himself—when he’d walk into a room and could hold an audience in rapt attention without saying a word, when folks instinctively showed him respect and couldn’t pin down what it was about Calvin’s attitude that encouraged them to act in a subordinate manner—that gentle authority was gone. In its place was a man who’d had the drop made on him and now had his back to the wall, hackles raised. I couldn’t explain it, but Calvin’s unease was practically tangible through the video feed. It made the queasy feeling in my stomach grow worse.
Sinclair countered with, “But is it true that Mr. Snow is working in conjunction with the NYPD to solve the Habel case?”
“You’re doing what?” Max exclaimed.
Calvin answered on my behalf. “Mr. Snow is a private citizen. I won’t be taking any further questions from your publication, Mr. Sinclair.”
Sinclair, clearly, was not a man who gave up easily. “If Mr. Snow isn’t aiding in the investigation, can you explain why he was seen entering a police precinct with you in the middle of the night?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The first phone call came less than an hour later.
I’d been in the middle of a conversation with one of my longtime customers who’d stopped by the shop for a bit of morning perusing—a real down-to-earth guy in his late-fifties who was absolutely loaded. Christopher “Please, call me Chris” Manzi had founded some internet startup twenty years ago and now lived in a multi-multimillion-dollar Fifth Avenue mansion. It was the sort of place where you could use a different bathroom every day and still not see them all in a week. He drove a Mercedes worth more than what I brought home in a year, and he definitely had one of those invitation-only credit cards.
But like I said, Chris was sweet, and he’d been one of the Emporium’s first customers. He and his wife were always searching for “quirky things”—their words—to fill the rooms of their historical home.
“A teapoy?” I repeated. “No, that’s not something I’d have in the shop. I don’t typically deal in furniture unless it’s a specific request from a returning customer.”
“I’d love one in mahogany,” Chris said in a warm, almost sultry voice, using his hands to emphasize his point.
“Sure. They’re more common in rosewood, but I’ve seen mahogany floating around over the years.”
“Think you can grab me one?” he asked hopefully.
“Yeah. Let me make a few calls and get back to you with a price—”
He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “You have my card on file. Just charge it when you find one. Remember, the funkier the better. Brass paw feet or something like that.”
“Does Cynthia know about this?”
Chris chuckled at the mention of his wife. Bit of a May-December romance there—Cynthia was an ex-model, now that she was something like twenty-eight and the industry felt she was past her prime. Nowadays, I think she upheld the time-honored tradition of millionaire wife who chooses not to work, and organizes dinner parties and volunteers twice a month for some good-cause charity. “You’re suggesting if I come home without a gift for her, I’ll be in the doghouse?”
“Naturally.”
“She’s been in such a funk this last week… a gift is a great idea.”
“How many mantels do you have?”
Chris grinned. “At least ten.”
