I’d given Max a brief rundown of my day after watching the press conference, from the meeting with Homicide, to my conversation with Neil, to why me digging into Sandra, as one small business owner to another, might turn up pay dirt quicker than the cops’ involvement would. He’d been reasonably concerned—I mean, Sandra Habel had been brutally murdered, and it was looking a bit like deranged mysteries of yore—but he’d also been kind of psyched that I hadn’t opted to put my deerstalker on, but instead was professionally associated with the case.
“But on the DL, right?” Max had asked.
“Yeah. The NYPD doesn’t want word getting out of my involvement.”
“Because you’re famous?”
“More like it could be dangerous, especially if the perpetrator escalates.”
So my name being punted around by Sinclair had been problematic, but having a journalist call me at the Emporium? The situation had escalated to the next level really fucking fast, and now the detectives had a subproblem associated with Sandra’s killing.
Namely, me.
“He’s going to have a stroke,” I muttered while choosing his name from my phone’s contacts before putting the cell to my ear.
Calvin answered right before the call could click over to voicemail. “Sebastian,” he said, and the tried patience in his voice was as heavy as a brick and as painful as if it’d been thrown at my face. “I’ll have to call you back.”
“It’s—I’m sorry—but it’s a minor emergency.”
The half-second of silence sliced as deep as a brand-new razor blade. “What’s wrong?”
“I saw your press conference.”
“Wonderful,” Calvin said, deadpan.
“Cal… one of those journalists called me here at the shop. Not the one you were arguing with—this was a woman from theNew York Courier.”
The shop phone rang in Max’s hand. He answered with his usual greeting, listened for a minute, then threw a hand up. He made aggressive eye contact with me and pointed at the phone.
“Hang up,” I ordered Max. “Don’t say—no, hang up.” To Calvin I said calmly, “A second has called.”
He swore, very quietly, then said nothing.
I listened as Calvin took slow and deliberate breaths before I said, “For being professional busybodies themselves, they’re really not much for investigative journalism if it took five cases to figure out we were involved.”
Calvin made a noise that could have been a laugh, but I wasn’t certain. “This is a nightmare.”
“It could be worse.”
“When did you become an optimist?”
“I’m not sure.”
“A woman was murdered, and now these bottom-dwellers have jeopardized your involvement by turning my case into one big, salacious sound bite, as if gay detectives have never fucking existed until today.”
“I’m not a detective,” I reminded.
Calvin sighed a bit heavier. “Baby, I amwellaware.”
“There are plenty of detectives in the country who’re openly gay,” I continued. “But I think the star-studded treatment is because we bump uglies. Remember our trip to St. Louis? I found out afterward that those two weirdos at the hotel were actually PIs investigating the murder.”
“Those knuckleheads were licensed?”
“Uh-huh. But all anyone talked about on the convention’s forum was that they were dating. The dead person wasn’t nearly as interesting for the attendees.”
“Sebastian.”
“What I mean is, if Sinclair hadn’t put two and two together about our relationship, this would probably be like all the other mysteries.”
