“The gays are taking over,” I stated.
Calvin snorted. “Yeah, well, for someone who’s been absolutely relentless in the pursuit of his gay-crime-solver story, it’s odd that he jetted at the first sign of something significant to write about.”
“I agree.”
Calvin pulled back the sleeve of his shirt, checked the time, and said, “I have to go.”
I followed him out of the kitchen and watched as Calvin picked up his suit coat from the back of a chair at our little table for two. “I’m assuming he’s not in custody.”
“Sinclair says he was out with a colleague the night of Sandra Habel’s murder. We’ll be speaking with that gentleman this morning to confirm this alibi. Sinclair also claims to have already been atOut in NYC’s office by the time of Marie Yang’s death, which would make him a hell of an early riser, since the ME estimates her time of death being 5:00 a.m. We’re currently waiting to hear back from his supervisor about that. And while Sinclair admits to not having an alibi for the time of Brad Habel’s killing, finding his business card on the deceased isn’t enough reason to hold him, given the circumstances.” Calvin pulled his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the lapels. “I still don’t think he’s a raving killer vying for your attention, but I will admit something just doesn’t feel right. If he reaches out again to you at all, in any capacity, call me immediately.”
“Will do, Major.”
“I got the notes you gave Radcliff too.”
“Good. I’m going to make some calls and poke around today, see if I can find out if that Tiffany set was ever at auction, but no promises it’ll lead anywhere.”
Calvin moved into my personal space, kissed me, and said, “Thank you.” He touched the hickey on my neck, and a very satisfied smirk ghosted across his face. “Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m definitely not. It looks good on you.”
“Get out of here.”
“I like you,” he said.
“I like you too.” I watched Calvin shut the front door behind him before I picked up the sound of my phone ringing from upstairs. “Crap.” I ran up the steps, stumbled to one side to avoid Dillon, who lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of the bed, and fell onto the mattress. I grabbed my cell from the nightstand and answered breathlessly, “H-hello?”
“Did… I interrupt, kiddo?”
“Pop! Hey, no—I was—ah, how’s it hangin’?”
My dad laughed. “It’s early, I know, but I’m on the way to Tompkins Square to let Maggie use the dog run. I thought you’d like to join us.”
“Right. Because we were having coffee today.”
I definitely didn’t forget.Not at all.
“We can grab some on the way.”
“Sounds good,” I answered.
“We’ll be by Tenth in fifteen.”
“I’ll have time to put my fancy dress on.”
“I’m happy if you put on a pair of pants,” Pop replied.
“Dad, my streaking phase was thirty years ago.”
“I remember having to wrestle you into clothes for your third birthday party and you promptly discarding said clothes in the toilet.”
“Who throws a birthday party for a three-year-old, anyway? I don’t remember any of it.”
“You were very happy, running around stark naked and smearing buttercream frosting all over yourself.”
“If you say where I put that frosting, you’re going to the dog run alone,” I warned.
