“How do you know all that?” Ferguson interrupted. His tone had sobered some.
I opened my mouth to spit back that “walking encyclopedia” jab, but I think hesincerelywanted to know, given that a cursory once-over of any of the Hare spiritoscopes would not indicate, in any manner, how they were meant to be used, let alone why. I made ahang onmotion with both hands, moved to the far corner of the shop, just to the right of the front door, and plucked a book from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
“Experimental Investigation of the Spirit Manifestationsis the book Hare wrote on his spiritoscope studies,” I explained, holding up a hardcover for Ferguson to see as I returned to his side. I thumbed through the first pages. “He has a few plate illustrations of each device and then page-long descriptions of their appearances and methods of utilization.” I showed him.
“So there’s more of these goddamn things?”
“Well… therewas, once upon a time. Today, there’s no known surviving devices. So I’m curious where you found—”
“Sonofabitch.” Ferguson shoved his gnarled cigarette into his trouser pocket, grabbed the box with the spiritoscope, and slammed out the front door. The overhead bell chimed, adding an obnoxious peal to the raw and smoky voice of Etta James singing over the shop speakers.
After a few seconds had passed, Max asked, “What just happened?”
I was staring at the door, book still open in my hands, and slowly shook my head. “I have no idea.”
June in the city was a hot, humid, gross existence. A brief walk around the neighborhood with Dillon after the Emporium had closed for the evening left me sweating like some kind of water buffalo. And then, as I dragged ass down the fourth-floor hall of our walk-up, unlocked 4B, and let the dog inside, I realized I had no idea where that imagery had come from, or if water buffalos even sweated, for that matter.
I shut the door, flipped the lock, dropped my messenger bag, and let Dillon off his leash. He was already in the kitchen, lapping water from his doggie bowl as I kicked off my loafers and made my way across the front room. The apartment was dim—we made sure to keep the curtains and blinds shut during the day so we didn’t come home to an Easy-Bake Oven—but the air was stale and warm enough to be uncomfortable. I put a knee on the couch cushion, turned on the AC unit in the window directly behind it, and made a sound of relief that I fully admit was something I usually only did in bed.
“Sweet fucking Christ, I hate summer,” I groaned, dropping my head so the arctic air blew through my hair and over my scalp. After a minute of that, I climbed off the couch, undid my trousers, and dropped them to the floor. More cool air licked at my sweat-slick legs, and I made another really embarrassing sound.
I left the trousers puddled on the floor and returned to the front door, looking like Tom Cruise inRisky Business, only without the dancing and singing and general merriment. I found my regular glasses in my bag, put them on, and went to the kitchen. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took alongpull. The bottle was a little less than half-full by the time I set it on the countertop beside the toaster and several of those organizational canisters.
Flour. Sugar. Coffee. What did Calvin keep in the last one? I tugged it forward and popped the top. Oh right—oats. Calvin had been on that overnight oats kick. It was simple to make and quick to eat, which, because I was still occasionally on his ass for skipping meals, was a plus. But a morning of soggy oatmeal with peanut butter and fruit wassonot appealing to me. I’d stick to Lucky Charms, thank you very much. The health consequences of eating sugar for breakfast until I was thirty-five was a future-Sebastian issue.
I pushed the canister back against the wall, picked up my beer, and finished it. I’d fetched a second drink and taken a sip before I felt somewhat cooled down, the sweat on my body beginning to dry, shirt sticking uncomfortably in places, but at least I was capable of rubbing two brain cells together again. In typical fashion at the Emporium, something interesting had happened—something very interesting—and then I’d been almost immediately bogged down by calls, emails, and walk-ins for the rest of the day. Don’t get me wrong, as a small business owner in the most expensive city in the country, being busy out of my mind was a good problem to have. But now I had this… curiosity. And a curiosity for me was like a hickey—fantastic in the moment, problematic in the future.
Problematic for any number of reasons, up to and including that sleuthing was always going to be a weakness in my genetic makeup, and in order to enjoy a happy marriage, one of the concessions I made was to be indefinitely retired from any and all mysteries. So Lieutenant Ferguson barging into my shop, thrusting an oddity in my face, and grilling me for explanations while on the city’s dime was… fuck me, it was the most captivating thing to happen since Calvin had managed to snag Transit Museum tickets earlier in the year so that we could tour the secretive Old City Hall subway station in-person.
The spiritoscope was sort of like that—like being trusted with some incredible secret. Except unlike the security protocols taken to protect the Old City Hall stop, I had no clue what Ferguson had been on about this morning, and when my brain didn’t knowwhy, it set out to right that wrong. Come hell or high water.
“Oh, that way madness lies,” I quoted under my breath. I glanced to my right.
Dillon sat there, staring up at me, and the moment our gazes locked, he cocked his head as if to say, “I lick my own butt. Don’t look at me.”
“What should I make for dinner?” I asked instead—anything to distract me from what I really wanted to hem and haw about.
I took the front of my shirt and fanned it while returning to the fridge and peering inside. There was a whole chicken on the shelf.Goddamn it, Calvin. He’d want to marinate it or tenderize it or season it or whatever the fuck you do to a whole chicken, then heat the house up for hours with the oven running, turning it into the surface of the sun. I’d said it before: I could cook—I was even decent at it—but I didn’t enjoy it. Surely not enough to sweat over a six-pound chicken. I closed the fridge and opened the freezer.
“We could have ice cream for dinner,” I suggested, moving aside a few packages of various frozen meats and tugging a container of Ben & Jerry’s free. “Peanut Butter World… gross. What’s with all the peanut butter lately?”
“That’s mine.”
I jumped, nearly lost my grip on the pint of ice cream, and peered around the freezer door. “Holy shit. Announce yourself, will you?”
My husband—tall drink of water and patron saint of busybodies everywhere—stood in the threshold, suit coat in one hand, the other loosening the knot of his tie. Calvin Winter was a big man. In height, in shoulders, in the way his biceps strained shirtsleeves with chef’s-kiss-perfection…. He was what some would describe as “unconventionally handsome.” Red hair—fiery, carrottop, ginger, whatever the adjective of choice was—and a strong face smattered witha lotof freckles. Calvin had told me during the Nevermore case that he’d not dated very much when he was younger. Sure, being in the closet had definitely been a big part of the reason why, but he’d said it was also due to people wanting redheaded girlfriends, not boyfriends. His freckles had been a hard sell for most guys, I guess. But you know what? Fuck them. Calvin was the most beautiful man I’d ever met.
Calvin’s gaze was currently taking a very slow and very apparent course down my body. He finally said, “I hope you didn’t go to work like that.”
I put the ice cream back and shut the freezer. “I was about eight seconds away from a very unfortunate case of swamp ass.”
Calvin pulled his tie free in an easy motion. “And they say romance is dead.” He closed the distance, leaned down, and brushed my mouth with his own. “Good day?”
I thought of Ferguson, sucking hard on an unlit cigarette, frustrated that he needed help—that he felt he couldn’t turn to anyone in all of New York City butme—and somehow I knew right then that Calvin had no idea of his lieutenant’s visit. Because he’d have led with that. So what did it mean? Ferguson never said anything about keeping his harassment on the down-low. Did he think I wouldn’t tell my husband? If Ferguson was worried about any conflict of interest, he would have gone to a different antique dealer… right?
“Seb?”
“What?”
