“Yes, of course. He lives here in the city and I wanted to ask if you’d ever done business with him or if you know someone who has?”
I glanced around the empty dining room a second time before wading out of the packing supplies. “That’smyChris. The one who drops like twenty thousand a year at the Emporium. Calvin, it can’t—I’m at his house now,” I whispered harshly.
“What?” he asked in utter disbelief. “Get out right now. We’re already on our way.”
“He’s not here,” I said. “He’s at work. In a stockholders’ meeting. This is absurd. It’snotChris. That auction was years ago. Maybe he sold it privately since then.”
“I spoke with one of their client liaisons who’s a personal friend of the Manzis. He dined at their house three months ago and confirmed the spiritoscope was on display.”
“In what room?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“They live in a seven-story mansion, Calvin,” I hissed. “I’ll confirm it’s not here, but some guidance would be great.”
“No. If you say he’s at work, we’ll go pick him up there, but just get out and go somewhere safe in the meantime.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I replied, absently walking toward the corner right of the fireplace. “What does Chris have to do with the Habels or Marie?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Right now, I can place that spiritoscope in his hands, so he’s coming in for questioning. Why are you at his home?”
“Because he made a purchase at the Emporium yesterday morning and needed it delivered right away. My moving company was booked, so Aubrey gave me a ride.”
“Yesterday… after the press conference?”
“Yeah, why?”
“After Sinclair floated your name and the probability of your involvement, Manzi suddenly appears out of the blue to make a purchase that he then needsright away, forcingyouto bring it in person?”
I glanced over my shoulder at those two stupid fucking spaniels.
“Get out now,” Calvin repeated.
I started to take a step, but my eyes caught a wooden box displayed on a shelf all its own against the wall. It had small, rounded brass handles, with a seam in the wood indicating a drawer. Ah, a storage chest.
Wait.
A storage chest in a dining room?
I reached out with one hand, drew the lid back, and inside was a bright and polished set of Tiffany sterling silver flatware. Two different-sized knives and forks and three different spoons. My hand shook as I drew out the bottom portion, revealing a gravy ladle, cold-meat forks, serving spoons, and in the very back—an empty swath of velvet in the shape of the roast-carving set that should have been there.
She’s been in such a funk this last week.
Maybe a tall woman.
I just hand over my credit card and let her do as she pleases.
I try very hard not to do that anymore—make assumptions.
“Calvin.”
“What is it?”
“It’s not Chris.”
“It’s his name—”
“It’s his wife,” I said. “Oh God. She’s the one who couldn’t wait for the purchase to arrive over the weekend.”
