All good and relevant questions. Radcliff had been incredibly stupid back in Inwood, but at least now he was behaving like a competent detective and thinking with his brain, not his dick. And for a detective who hadn’t been main billing to many homicides, at least according to Calvin, I felt he was presenting the right attitude and thought process to be the boss. Maybe not for the Spirits situation, considering it had stumped even Calvin and Quinn so far—Ferguson had probably made the right call here—but a regular, run-of-the-mill murder? I bet Radcliff would do just fine without someone breathing down his neck.
I stacked my books and picked them up, saying, “A monogrammed flatware set made by Tiffany… yeah, I’d say that’d be a pretty unique sale. The problem is, that particular pattern was available between 1896 and 1913, andmaybethey keep customer records that old, but I wouldn’t count on it. The other issue to take into consideration is whether this is a family heirloom and has never been on the market, or if it was, whether it was at an auction or a private sale. Honestly, a paper trail on this might not be possible, but I’ll give it a go, regardless.”
Radcliff folded the paper neatly in two. “It’s worth a lot?”
“If it’s complete and in good condition? Definitely. Maybe somewhere around ten thousand plus.”
“For some dinner forks? I sure picked the wrong career.”
I snorted. “Anyway—”
Radcliff stepped aside to hold the door open. “I’ll see you out.”
“I, uh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
He hesitated for a beat, glanced back out into the hall, then stepped inside and let the door shut. “I think I should apologize.”
“I think you shouldn’t shit where you eat.”
Radcliff blinked owlishly. “What?”
“Look, I know you weren’t thrilled with Ferguson having you play second fiddle on this case, but Calvin’s a really good detective to learn from. Especially since this investigation is turning out to be as strange as a few past cases he was also lead on…. And Calvin will always have your back. He’ll be your champion if you let him. That’s not the sort of man you want to alienate so early in your career.”
“I—”
“You want to have an open relationship or casual sex or whatever it is you’re jonesing for, go nuts. I won’t judge. We all got our thing. But don’t betray the trust of your fellow detectives by trying to hook up with their partners—even if they’re interested. There’re apps for that shit.” I added after a heartbeat, “I know because my assistant is very forthcoming with the ins and outs of his sex life, not from firsthand experience.”
Radcliff carded his fingers through his neat hair a few times before nodding. “Right.”
“I appreciate thehandsomecompliment, though.”
“He told you that?” Radcliff asked with a bit of an embarrassed laugh.
“Sure did.”
Radcliff flashed a smile that was still kind of flirty, but then he opened the door and said, “Get home safe, Mr. Snow.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was roasting a six-pound chicken in the middle of the night.
After getting home, I’d walked Dillon and gone to bed, but after tossing and turning for half an hour, had gone downstairs to clean the dishes in the sink left from the other morning, hoping to wear off the last of the adrenaline I was still flying high on. But then I remembered the thawed chicken in the fridge, how I hadn’t let Calvin cook it yesterday, and at this rate, it would spoil before he was home at dinnertime, so I preheated the oven to ball-blistering temps and dressed the chicken the way Calvin usually did. Some salt, pepper, butter under the skin, liberal use of garlic and parsley, and half a lemon where the sun didn’t shine.
But I did it all on autopilot, my brain still wading deep into the unknowns of the spirit-happenings.
The lack of evidence pointing to any one potential suspect for our three murders ate at me. Sandra Habel was found dead Tuesday morning. Her cleaner had been an obvious person of interest until Marie Yang wound up dead as well, early Thursday morning. Sandra’s estranged husband was then a clear contender for Murderer of the Week until he was found deader than Julius Caesar Thursday night. Sandra died one week after neighbors had seen her arguing with an unknown person—an average-sized man or taller-than-normal woman. Marie died the same day local papers quoted her on details she knew regarding Sandra’s death. Brad was dead hours after I’d questioned who I believed was Rose at the time.
And yet… what did we have to show for it?
A possible murderer-for-hire, although the police hadn’t yet uncovered evidence to suggest this was anything more than theory; a total stranger dubbed the Ouija Killer who was exacting revenge on scammy psychics due to their own sick reasons, except that Marie hadn’t worked as a psychic; and one journalist who was suspiciously hell-bent on writing an article about a gay crime solver. But none of us had received any creepy communications that would imply my cat-and-mouse hypothesis was at work.
All three victims intimately knew each other, and yet there didn’t appear to be a common criminal who connected them. Maybe Calvin and Quinn and Radcliff would findsomeonewho’d gone unnoticed so far, as they spent the night questioning Sinclair and digging into the history of both the Habels and Marie, but if not…? There were the spiritoscopes at each scene and an item relating to the Fox sisters’ story—which to me, no matter what, seemed to be implying the victim was a fraudster. But then why kill Marie? That didn’t make sense.
The presence of the spiritoscopes, items which I’d originally been under the impression didn’t survive the nineteenth century, as well as the extremely collectable and expensive Tiffany flatware, proposed yet again that we were dealing with a killer who had a hell of a lot of money and perhaps little concern as to the preservation of said antiques. So maybe not a collector, per se, but someone who liked how being the owner of such rarities gave them a sense of status.
When the oven timer had gone off an hour and a half later, the chicken done but somehow not smelling as mouth-wateringly delicious as when Calvin cooked it, I was left with one spine-tingling thought: maybe we wouldn’t find the commonality between the murders until the killer struck for a fourth time. And if they did, who’d be the next logical victim?
Sinclair?
