The Mystery of the Curiosities Page 15

  Calvin took a breath. “So. If this is anything like the other day, the identity of this man may lead to him being a cold case suspect.”

  “Wanted for murder,” I added.

  “That Sebastian has to solve,” Quinn concluded.

  Calvin swore, shaking his head. “Sebastian is not solving anything. This has to stop.”

  “Cal—”

  “No,” he said over me. “You receive a threat, find a murdered person, solve it, only to be handed another threat. The cycle has to stop here and now.”

  “Can I at least check the note?”

  “What note?”

  I pointed to the floor. “It was taped to his back.”

  “And you touched it,” Calvin concluded.

  I motioned with my hand. “Just a little.”

  He let out a deep breath and reached into his pocket to pull out a pen. Calvin walked to the soggy, plastic sleeve on the floor, and crouched down beside it.

  I followed him and got down, holding out my magnifying glass. “I don’t know how anyone read print so small back then,” I stated, getting low to the floor.

  “What is it?” Calvin reluctantly asked.

  “I think it’s a clipping from maybe a brochure?” I got onto my knees and leaned over the paper, since I knew Calvin would protest me touching it further. “A Mummy from Thebes,” I read aloud. “Which now presents itself to the visitor.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Some of it is hard to make out—oh wait! It’s definitely P.T.-related. At the bottom of the paragraph, it thanks Mr. Barnum. Can you flip it over? Last time, there was a note on the back.”

  Calvin reached out with his pen and turned the sleeve over. “Solve the murder, win a book.”

  “Great,” I grumbled. “The last book I was involved with was quite enough, thank you.”

  “What book would this be suggesting?”

  I was thoughtful for a moment, considering the wording that described a mummy from Thebes and the small drawing that had appeared to be a bandaged body inside a coffin, although the quality wasn’t great. “I think it might be Barnum’s American Museum illustrated. It was a guidebook that patrons could purchase when they visited the museum.”

  “It is rare?”

  “Most definitely. The Library of Congress lists a copy as part of their Rare Book and Special Collections Division, if I recall. Plus, it covers in detail a number of the items that perished in the fire. Some we may have otherwise never known about. Newspapers of the time reported the death of live animals and the loss of artifacts belonging to the Founding Fathers, but there was so much more. Taxidermy—which you’d be surprised what that’s worth—Roman urns, Native American weapons, suits of armor—there’s even some advertisements for local businesses at the beginning. I love old ads.”

  “You’re a walking encyclopedia, Seb.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “That it is,” Calvin said dryly. “And yet here you are.” He looked at me.

  “Let me help,” I said quietly. “Whoever is behind this, they’re doing it to get my attention.”

  “If I had been thirty seconds later getting to Ricky’s, you might not be here, baby.”

  I swallowed. “Yeah, but—look, even when I was keeping my nose to the ground, someone blew my apartment up. This isn’t going to stop on its own, so let me do what I can.”

  Calvin let out a held breath, not breaking eye contact.

  “Wouldn’t you feel better knowing exactly what I was doing instead of me sneaking around?”

  “Nice try.”

  “Come on.”

  “You’re not a cop.”

  “No, but I am a busybody who gets lucky now and then.”

  Calvin rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  I stood, looking down at him. “Let me at least stay long enough to see who the victim is.”

  I HAD to admit, I was surprised when Calvin agreed to let me stay.

  The Sackler Wing was shut down and soon had a number of officers, a medical examiner, and—surprise, surprise—my ex-favorite CSU detective. Neil saw me, we made awkward eye contact, and then he set his kit down and busied himself rifling through the contents. I pushed away from the wall I was standing at and came up behind Quinn and Calvin, who were watching as the body was being removed from the reflection pool and laid on the floor to be photographed.

  “What do you think?” Quinn murmured.

  “Didn’t drown,” Calvin replied as he stepped forward to speak with the examiner.

  I moved to stand where he had been. “How do you know he didn’t drown?” I asked Quinn.

  “See how his head was turned to the side? Even in something this shallow, if the person dies in the water, the body tends to lay on its stomach, head and arms down. If they died on land and rigor begins to set in, you can see the unnatural position even after the body is removed from the water.”

  “I bet he was shot,” I muttered. “Why he’d be tossed in the pool after, who knows.”

  “Maybe our suspect wanted to be sure you found him,” Quinn replied. She looked away when a uniformed officer called her from the temple display.

  “Quinn—”

  “Hold that thought,” she said before walking up the stairs and leaving me.

  They’d probably found where the victim had been killed. If rigor had set in, there was likely at least some blood at the scene of the crime. What a bitch it would be to clean those ancient stones of some poor bastard’s arterial spray.

  I remained where I was, watching everyone around me go about their job in a sort of detached, professional manner. Calvin always said motive wasn’t what was most important. It was his job to gather the facts and make an arrest based on what was available to him. I tended to disagree. This wasn’t a crime of passion or opportunity. This was methodical, planned, and staged. There was reason behind these deaths, even if it were ghastly and made no sense to someone of a sane mind. I firmly believed that if we didn’t at least try to understand the motive the killer found to be a rational reason to off people, we were only looking at half of the picture.

  And yet, even as I racked my brain, I couldn’t understand what anyone would gain from this. The antiques involved were bizarre, yes, but they definitely had monetary value. And yet, the suspect was giving them to me as a job well done for solving a cold case. So they weren’t looking for cash, and they weren’t even trying to keep the items for themselves.

  What remained? What was constant?

  Me. I was always in the thick of it.

  And why? Because I wanted to be here. I wanted to be smart and clever and piece together real-life puzzles. I just couldn’t walk away from something only partially solved.

  Of course, our mystery killer knew this about me. Everything was so carefully organized and addressed to me. Perhaps I was a scapegoat? What if sooner or later I was going to find myself in a situation where I had to kill or be killed—what if I were playing right into what somebody wanted from the start?

  I am not a smart man….

  I swallowed hard and tried to calm the nervous flipping that my gut was beginning to do.

  Okay, so whether or not that was the motive or reason or plan behind all this, it still didn’t confirm who was behind it.

  Someone who knew me.

  Someone who clearly didn’t like me.

  Luther North was still Grade-A prime suspect to me. The shithead had keys to my shop, had already admitted to breaking in to plant the mermaid—who’s to say he hadn’t planted the bricks? He knew where I lived too. And he definitely wasn’t a BFF. At most he tolerated me. He had to. I was under lease and followed the rules. He may not have liked me, but trying to kick me out of the shop because he thought gay guys were icky was grounds for a lawsuit, and Luther wasn’t that stupid. He could have made up that shit about the cop that threatens via text.

  Neil shoved me on his way by just then, looking over his shoulder while hiking up the st
airs to the temple.

  And then there was that guy. Not that I suspected Neil of killing people. Because I had not dated a psychopath for four years.

  He was just pissed.

  Instead of getting away from me after a bad breakup, he had not only Calvin—but me as well—shoved in his face. I could see why anyone would be upset from that.

  Except….

  The completely insane, illogical, I-must-be-drunk-or-something part of my mind said: it’s possible.

  It wasn’t.

  No. It absolutely was not possible.

  But the facts were still the same as they were in December. Neil knew where I lived. He knew where I worked, how to get around the cameras—and as a forensic detective, he for sure must have known a way to bypass security systems. And even more than Luther, Neil knew me. He knew my habits and tendencies.

  If I were playing into the killer’s hands and getting myself involved in something I didn’t quite understand yet, they knew the way to keep me active in the game. They knew to keep me curious—just like P.T. Barnum had done with his crowds of museum patrons.

  Neil knows I’m a curious shit.

  What if Luther wasn’t making up that crap about a cop threatening him?

  I mean…. Neil was a cop.

  I shook my head and balled my hands into fists to hold them against my temple. I wasn’t being smart about this. I was taking the evidence and suspects I had and forcing them to fit.

  Right?

  Because this was nuts.

  Neil wasn’t handling a breakup well. That didn’t mean he lost his fucking mind and turned into a murderer.

  “Hey.”

  I looked up so fast, I nearly got whiplash. Calvin was staring at me, those pretty and intense gray eyes burning a hole right through me. “What?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Something wrong?”

  I swallowed and looked over Calvin’s shoulder, watching Neil go into the temple. “No. I don’t think so.”

  He turned briefly in the direction I was looking before meeting my gaze again.

  Was… Calvin having the same thoughts I was?

  “Come here,” he said with a nod of his head toward the pool.

  I followed close behind him, resisting the desire to grab his hand and let his strength ground me. I took a deep breath and peered at the waterlogged body before us. “So he was killed in the temple?”

  Calvin looked at me curiously.

  “Well, Neil wouldn’t be collecting evidence in the temple otherwise.”

  Calvin didn’t have a response.

  I looked back down at the dead guy. His face and hands were kind of bloated. He’d probably been dead since at least yesterday for rigor to set in, but also enough time in the water for his skin to be reacting like that. I didn’t want to say he was familiar—because in life he’d have certainly been less gross-looking—but the nagging feeling that I had met him before persisted.

  “Sebastian?” Calvin asked quietly.

  I looked up briefly. “I think I might know him. I mean, not know, but met him once before…. He tried to sell me shit once upon a time.”

  The medical examiner pulled out a soggy wallet from the back pocket of the man’s pants and offered it to Calvin.

  Calvin quickly put on some gloves, accepted it, and briefly searched the contents. “Richard Newell, Brooklyn.”

  “Got a museum ID here, Detective,” the examiner said as he pulled a badge free and held it up.

  Richard Newell of Brooklyn, working security for the Met.

  “Son of a bitch,” Calvin said quietly to himself.

  “Cold case?”

  He nodded with a bit of reluctance. “Yes. One that has been unsolved since before I joined homicide. The detective on the case had tunnel vision.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was so sure of his person of interest that he didn’t seem to even consider other evidence.” Calvin motioned to Richard. “Four years ago a man working in acquisitions here at the museum was found dead in Central Park. It was gruesome. Personal. The detective on the case uncovered that he had been stealing artifacts from the museum, and it was suspected that he had been working with another staff member.”

  “Richard?” I concluded.

  “That’s what I think. From what I’ve uncovered, the victim—Earl Franklin—put in a good word to get Richard the job. Richard had a juvenile record for theft.”

  “You don’t think he changed his ways?”

  “No. Not really. Something about the case always sat wrong with me,” Calvin murmured.

  “Who did the other detective suspect?”

  “Earl’s boss. Apparently they had had an on-and-off relationship that on its last off didn’t end so well. The boss was found innocent by the courts, though.”

  I looked down at the late Richard. “So you think Richard and Earl were stealing together, maybe someone got greedy, and the end result was Earl’s untimely demise?”

  “That’s about the long and short of it.”

  “And if this is like the other day, then our resident psycho killed Richard because he was guilty of murder and now wants me to prove it. Prove that he killed Earl, maybe.”

  Calvin shook his head. “This’ll be a fucking trip to explain to my sergeant.”

  I stared at Richard again. “Were any of the stolen artifacts found?”

  “A few that I know of. The FBI got involved at that point. Art Crime Team,” Calvin clarified.

  I perked up. “Do you think you could find out where they were recovered from? Or at least what the items were?” When Calvin stared at me expectantly, I said, “I have an idea. It might not lead to anything, but if you could let me know….”

  “Sebastian.”

  “The antique community is small, just like any other specific interest. We talk to each other, so bad deals, theft, or forgery all come up. If memory serves me right, Richard here couldn’t provide paperwork for the items he wanted to sell. Someone else must know about him.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MAX ALMOST knocked me over when he ran from the front door of the Emporium and crashed into me. He practically squeezed the life out of me with a hug. “Seb!”

  “M-Max! God—can’t breathe!”

  “How are you? Are you okay?” He pulled back and put his hands on my shoulders.

  “I think you broke a rib.”

  “I’m so happy to be at work again!”

  “It’s only because Calvin doesn’t trust me alone.”

  Said redhead frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Max dropped his hands. “Are you still being a sleuth?”

  “Yes, he is,” Calvin supplied before I could speak.

  “With police permission,” I added.

  Max made a face. “I’m not following.”

  “I’m making a few calls, with Calvin’s approval.”

  “But he’s not allowed to leave and sneak around,” Calvin said.

  “It’s like house arrest without the fancy ankle jewelry,” I finished.

  “Very funny,” Calvin muttered.

  “So I have to babysit Seb?” Max asked Calvin. “You know, if he tells me to do something, I technically have to listen. He signs my paychecks.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Calvin answered.

  I pulled my phone out and checked the time. It was already after noon when Calvin finished at the Met and drove us over to the Emporium. “I should call Aubrey. I might be able to catch him on his lunch break.”

  “All right,” Calvin answered. “But I’m serious. Tell me what you find out and stay here with Max.”

  “When do I get to go home?”

  “I’ll have someone pick you up. It’s not safe to be alone right now. Understand?”

  “Copy, Major.”

  Calvin pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. “I’m leaving.” He leaned down and kissed me.

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, sweetheart.”

&nbs
p; Max held his hand up and gave Calvin a high-five as he walked by and let himself out the front door. “So,” he began. “We’re calling Aubrey?”

  “That’s right.” I walked up the steps to the register and went into my tiny office. I sat at the computer, powered it on, and then switched on the low-intensity lamp.

  Max dragged a stool from the counter into the room and sat beside me. “So what’s Aubs know that you don’t?”

  “Plenty,” I said, signing into my account. I sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  “Oh, life was getting a bit too normal, so I bought some pig guts and stuffed them under the floor,” Max said with a shrug.

  “You what?” I shouted.

  He started laughing. “Chill, boss. I think that’s my fish sandwich in the fridge from last Sunday.”

  “Gross. Toss that out before we leave tonight.”

  I signed on to Skype, leaned close to read the contacts list on the screen, and then called one. The program rang a few times, and Max made stupid faces at the webcam. “Stop,” I grumbled.

  “Sourpuss.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  The ringing stopped and the receiver’s webcam turned on to show the image of a hand adjusting the camera. Then Aubrey Grant sat back and smiled at the screen.

  Aubrey is not the sort of guy one assumes to be remotely involved with the antiquing world. You come to expect older people or crotchety shits like myself. Aubrey looks like a kid, which made it all the more horrifying when I learned he was actually five years older than me. Dark eyes, dark eyebrows, but really light hair, which he explained was bleached white. He had a nose ring and those gauged ears too, which I didn’t like but Max always complimented him on.

  “Hey guys!” Aubrey said, waving at the screen. “Long time, no see!”

  “Seriously,” Max answered. “When are you coming back to New York?”

  “Maybe this summer for the antique fair at the Javits Center.”

  “Want to be my plus one?” Max asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

  Aubrey laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

  “How’s the island life?” I asked after shushing Max.

  “Good. Hot as hell. I’ve got the AC running.”