Okay, not entirely useful, but it was something to consider—a suggestion that whoever had fought with Sandra outside her shop a week before her death was big enough for one to assume they were a man. And if they were actually a woman, tall enough for them to stand out.
Rose was tall. Granted, it was difficult to discern literally anything about her because she’d stayed in the shadows and behind those ridiculous tapestries, but she was at least as tall as me, and while I was completely average, five foot nine wasn’t so much the case for women. And, of course, this was also assuming the fight and the murder were connected, when they might have easily been two separate events, but give me a break, I was working with what I had.
The next name I wrote down had been automatic—it hadn’t occurred to me what I was doing until I stared at my chicken scratch.
Joe Sinclair.
Huh. That was weird. Did I view Sinclair as a suspect in this shitshow?
I did a gut check and realized… yeah, maybe.
Why, though? What sense did that make?
The part of his story that I couldn’t figure out was the fact that he’d seen Calvin and I enter the precinct in the middle of the night. Because… what the fuck, right? I was supposed to believe that he’d been stalking us? Me, sure, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I’m oblivious to a lot. But Calvin not noticing? I didn’t buy it. And I didn’t buy that he’d hang out outside our apartment building in the middle of the night, hoping something would go down.
So what if he’d originally been tailing Radcliff?
Radcliff, who’d been the first detective on the case.
Radcliff, who’d been on the scene after Sandra Habel’s body had been found.
Radcliff, who’d also been called in at 3:00 a.m.
Then Sinclair saw me. And if he really was a reporter for an LGBT-centric publication, it wasn’t unreasonable that he could have recognized me or made a logic jump as to my presence. He wasn’t wrong when it came to my media history, after all.
My hand shook a little as I jotted under his name:Knows my involvement with NYPD. Knows my profession. Am I a loose end?
The question made my blood run cold.
Gooseflesh pebbled my skin.
The hairs on my arms stood straight up, like I’d seen a ghost.
If Rose were our culprit, I could imagine that the killings would end with Marie. A crime of rage or jealousy, then an attempt to cover her tracks. If Sinclair was our guy… it opened the possibility to a whole different sort of killing. Because who was Sandra to him? What was his motive for striking at her in particular, when New York has plenty of modern charlatans to choose from? Or… what if… it’d been about me since the beginning?
And someone, Mr. Snow, wants your attention.
I shook my head fiercely and waved a hand like I was trying to slap an errant bee.
Nope. I wasn’t even going to entertain that level of psychosis.
I’d just finished the rest of the gyoza and beer when a key in the lock signified Calvin’s return. Considering it was—I checked my phone—barely seven o’clock, I knew he wasn’t home for the night. He was home to finish our fight.
“Fuck that.” I grabbedHistory of Victorian Flatware, rose, and started for the stairs as Calvin stepped inside.
He said my name in his usual deep and affectionate tone.
I didn’t stop. I climbed the stairs to the loft and heard his heavy footfalls making a swift ascent behind me. I walked across the bedroom to the bathroom and shut the door as Calvin reached the landing and called my name a second time.
The one problem with our renovated apartment? The only door available to slam shut when I was mad was the fucking bathroom. Now I was trapped on the second floor. Genius. I moved to the tub, pushed the curtain aside, and sat on the edge. After a moment, I slid back to sit in the tub, my legs hanging over the side. I put the research book in my lap and leaned my head against the tile wall. I could hear Calvin hovering on the other side of the door—hear him in the way you could hear someone living, even if they weren’t doing anything that’d make actual sound.
And it was another minute of that silent existence before Calvin spoke, his voice a bit muffled as he asked, “Can I talk to you?”
“No.”
“Baby—”
“I’m reading.”
