The Mystery of the Bones (Snow & Winter Book 4)

by C. S. Poe

  I snorted, laughed dryly, and leaned back in the chair. “Unbelievable.”

  “Something funny?”

  “No, actually. It’s so far from funny that I want to smack you,” I said automatically and without consideration of the consequences. “I didn’t abduct Calvin. I didn’t kill anyone. And I certainly didn’t threaten myself in order to have a viable excuse to steal and profit off some long-lost artifact like it’s found pirate booty. Your little black book should be able to tell you that never once have I profited from these events I’ve gotten caught up in.”

  “That’s true,” Wainwright said calmly and with a nod of his head. “But the last one put you in the hospital for an extended period of time. I imagine that was a rough financial burden.”

  “You know what else was a financial burden? College. One more implication like that and I’m out the door and hiring a lawyer.”

  He held his hands up in an act of surrender. “My apologies. Let’s move on.”

  Detective Wainwright asked me more questions. He went over my statement with a fine-tooth comb, sometimes backtracking on my answers to see if I’d answer them the same as before or get caught up in a lie of my own making. If the circumstances were different, if this were a run-of-the-mill murder, maybe I’d have found it amusing, being investigated again. A Snow and Winter Christmas tradition.

  But it wasn’t funny.

  Not this time.

  On the plus side, Wainwright seemed to be more focused on the details of that Tuesday’s early morning than how I’d been spending the afternoon. If he’d pressed a bit more, I would have been honest. I would have told him about the conversations at the museum, tracking down Angela. I might have even told him I stole her missing beau’s keys. But he didn’t ask. And that was fine. Because unlike the cops, I was taking the Collector’s warning seriously.

  No LEO help.

  I stood, gathered my shoulder bag, and walked to the door when Wainwright deemed our conversation complete.

  “Oh, one last thing, Mr. Snow.”

  Hand on the doorknob, I turned.

  “Out of curiosity….” Wainwright looked up from his papers and clicked that dumb pen again. “What would Detective Winter’s siblings know about this investigation?”

  I had no idea.

  I couldn’t be sure how much an architect and CPA knew about Edward Drinker Cope and his mysterious, misplaced skull. Or why they’d even care. But they did have the personal relationship and motive angle to seriously consider. Maybe even greater motive than Dr. Thyne and Angela London, although in comparison, those two knew more about Cope and his involvement in the Bone Wars.

  And yes, this fact was most likely coincidence, but it was worth noting that both Marc and Ellen lived in Philadelphia, and that later in his life, Cope had lived and curated in Philadelphia.

  I opened the door and said, “I’m not sure. But isn’t that why you’re the detective?”

  “Stay in the city,” Wainwright responded.

  “I know the routine.” I shut the door behind me, started down the hallway toward the elevators, and collided with an officer as I rounded the corner. “I’m sorry,” I proclaimed, stepping backward and pushing my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. “Bad eye—Rossi?”

  Nico Rossi drew his thick eyebrows together and crossed his arms. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m on tour. 1PP was listed in Out magazine as one of the Top Ten Must-See Attractions of New York.”

  Rossi rolled his eyes.

  “This isn’t your precinct,” I stated.

  “I have a meeting with Major Cases,” he said, trying to make it sound more impressive than it actually was. And maybe that would have worked, if I hadn’t just concluded the same appointment.

  “Oh, you mean the interview with Wainwright?”

  Rossi narrowed his eyes.

  “Second door down.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Odd tone. Odder question.

  “The truth.”

  Was he concerned about how I might have painted his personality, knowing full well how desperate Rossi was for a promotion? But he didn’t matter. The truth had been, Rossi was an afterthought in this crime. And inconsequential to the timeline. I’d only mentioned his name to Wainwright once. Because as soon as Rossi had shown up, Calvin disappeared.

  I guessed the egotistical prick had made this all about himself in his head. “You’re going to be arrested if you keep interfering,” Rossi said.

  “I’m not interfering. In fact, the minute you arrived, nipping at the heels of your sergeant, you watched me get booted from the scene.”

  Rossi broke the stare-down first. He purposefully shoved my shoulder as he rounded the corner, walking down the hall I’d come from. I didn’t move, but cast my eyes down and titled my head a bit in order to listen to his retreating footsteps. There was an itch between my shoulder blades. A prickle of discomfort. A sort of sixth sense warning that I was being watched.

  Chapter Eleven

  I NEEDED a minute.

  A moment to collect my thoughts and soothe my hackles and plan my next line of attack. And the only place I could be alone, not freezing my nuts off, and without being watched by dozens of uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, or security cameras, was the bathroom on the ground floor. I put the lid down on the toilet and sat on top in one of the two stalls in the men’s room. My messenger bag toppled over on the floor, and I rested my elbows on my knees. I stared at the dirty grout between tiles.

  The door opened and someone stepped into the room, disrupting the stillness. The echo of voices, ringing phones, and pings of the elevator bay slipped inside before the door fell shut. A man walked to the row of sinks, ran water, and then grabbed a paper towel.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Seb…?”

  Neil?

  I opened my eyes, stood, and unlatched the stall door. I poked my head out and saw Neil standing at the sink, studying the stalls and urinals in the mirror’s reflection. “What gave it away? My loafers?”

  His mouth quirked a little. “Your bag.” He leaned to one side, tossed the wadded-up towel into the trash, and turned around.

  I looked down at the bag between my feet. Max had bought me a pin for my last birthday—it read SUPER SLEUTH under the lens of a magnifying glass. It’d been attached to the front pocket for months.

  “Oh.” I stepped out of the stall, hoisting the bag onto my shoulder. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Washing my hands.”

  “Smartass.”

  “Who do you think I picked it up from?”

  “If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…”

  “It must be Sebastian,” Neil concluded, smiling again. “I’m a cop. My presence here isn’t really a matter of conjecture.”

  “Except that you don’t work out of the police headquarters.”

  “No.” He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Why are you here, Seb?”

  “I got out of an interview that bordered on an interrogation.”

  “What?”

  I pointed at the ceiling. “With a Major Cases detective.”

  “Alex Wainwright?”

  “Okay, you need to stop doing that.”

  Neil shook his head. “I’m on my way up there to talk with him too. He’s one of the detectives assigned by the chief to investigate Calvin’s disappearance. I’m assuming he’s constructing a timeline of everyone who’s seen or worked with Calvin in the last few days.”

  “Do you have to go now?”

  Neil removed his hand to check his watch. “I have a few minutes.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Do you want to get a coffee or something?” Neil asked, starting for the door.

  I grabbed the sleeve of his winter coat, stopping him. “No.” I looked up at his face. “Those texts said no cops, Neil. This is getting dangerous for Calvin.”

  “You sound paranoid,” he answered, but Neil’
s voice was quiet. Subdued. There was no malice in that statement, because he knew as much as I did that this was not the time—not the victim—to challenge the rules set forth by the Collector.

  “I think I have good reason to be,” I replied.

  Neil put a hand up as if to say hold that thought. He walked to the main door of the bathroom, opened it, made a come-hither motion, then stepped back as Quinn walked inside. Neil threw the dead bolt, securing us in the men’s room and keeping out any prying eyes or ears.

  Quinn gave me one look and shook her head. She held her winter coat in one hand, the other resting on her hip. “Your ability to show up in all the wrong places should be considered an Olympic sport.”

  “Sebastian was called in by Wainwright too,” Neil supplied.

  “It’s protocol,” she said. “You’re not a suspect.”

  “But I am a person of interest,” I said. “Wainwright suggested my hospital bills are a financial strain I can’t handle. He not-so-tactfully suggested I could have easily set this dumpster fire myself in order to have a viable outlet in which to steal an expensive artifact.”

  Quinn scrunched up her face. “Let me see if I understand. In Wainwright’s version of the story, you’re the Collector. And you exchange an artifact with yourself for Calvin’s safe return?”

  “Basically,” I answered. “I’m an antique dealer, so I can find the item of interest, Calvin will miraculously come back safe, and then I’ll fucking sell it on the black market for cash.”

  Neil shook his head. “He was trying to get a rise out of you.”

  “Well, it worked!” I snapped. Before Neil could get his next word out, I added, “Don’t tell me to calm down. It’s bad enough he’s suggesting I’d hurt Calvin. But being accused of dirty business practices is like being punched in the dick after I’m already on the floor.” I took my sunglasses off, closed my eyes, and pinched the bridge of my nose. “No one is listening to me.”

  Neil said, quite low, “We are.”

  I hadn’t realized how badly I’d needed those words said to me.

  My eyes still closed and head down, I muttered, “This is usually when Calvin lets me bounce ideas off him. Where he gives in to my sleuthing enough for it to be of some use to him.”

  “So start bouncing,” Neil replied. I heard him pull the sleeve of his coat back to check his watch again. “You’ve got three minutes.”

  “Any additional factoids will need to be the abridged version,” Quinn added.

  “I have three sets of suspects,” I said.

  “Three?” Quinn repeated warily.

  I put my sunglasses on and looked at her. “First—Dr. Logan Thyne, head curator of the paleontology department at the Museum of Natural History, and accomplice, Angela London, who was recently fired from said division.”

  “Reasoning?” Quinn asked. She was all business now.

  “Frank Newell’s upcoming exhibit on the Bone Wars was set to feature the actual skull of famed paleontologist Edward Drinker Cope. Thyne was against the skull being on display, and Angela was let go for possibly attempting to steal? The details are a bit murky.”

  “Is that the skull referenced in the Collector’s notes?” Quinn asked.

  I made a shaking motion with my hands. “The Magic 8 Ball says… all signs point to yes.”

  “What’s the skull worth?” Neil asked.

  “See, you always ask me that,” I replied, indicating toward him, “when I’m not holding an antique in my hands to appraise.”

  “Ballpark it,” he growled.

  “Zero dollars. A million dollars. It’s a human skull, Neil. It’ll go for whatever someone is willing to pay.” I held up two fingers. “Second—Marc and Ellen.”

  “Who?” That was Neil.

  “Calvin’s brother and sister?” Quinn spoke over him.

  They both looked at each other.

  “It’s a bit of a long shot—” I started.

  “It’s a fucking tinfoil-hat theory,” Quinn corrected.

  I put my hands on my hips. “I think Marc’s sudden appearance, of all possible dates in the calendar year, should be an itsy bit suspect. He’d originally called Calvin, but I answered. I don’t know how either of the siblings tie in with the Cope skull, but the personal motive to get rid of me or to take Calvin out of this life he’s carved for himself is—it’s there. For sure. Marc said he wanted to ‘fix this.’ I’m not so convinced that meant sharing a glass of eggnog with his brother over the holidays.”

  Neil shifted from foot to foot. I could feel his sudden anxiety ripple off him like spikes on a Richter scale. He was, after all, pushing forty and still hadn’t come out to his own brother. Although whether Chester Millett believed Neil’s insistence of bachelorhood all these years remained to be seen.

  “Third—Nico Rossi.”

  That made Quinn snort. “Mr. Kiss-ass doesn’t exactly strike me as the sort who turns to cold-blooded murder in order to land himself a promotion.”

  “But think about it,” I said. “Rossi doesn’t like Calvin. He most definitely doesn’t like me. And yet, when Calvin requested police protection, we got Rossi—who told me he volunteered for the opportunity. Why would he do that?”

  “Go on,” she instructed, her expression hard and drawn.

  “One of the first things he said to me yesterday was that my reputation preceded me. And he knew Calvin and I are engaged. What a perfect way to end up the new face of the NYPD than to be the one who arrests that busybody sleuth half of the force doesn’t like, while simultaneously rescuing Homicide’s golden goose.”

  Neil was shaking his head. “No. At least, it couldn’t be Rossi working alone. He was with you at the time of Calvin’s disappearance.”

  “So he’s got an as of yet unknown accomplice,” I agreed. “My other theories all involved two people.”

  Quinn interrupted us. “How could Rossi know about anything related to the dinosaurs and whatnot?” I could tell from her forced civil tone and the stern lines around her mouth that this was the theory she not only agreed with most, but the one that was downright pissing her off.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s a hole in each suspect theory, but I know I can figure this out. So long as Wainwright doesn’t arrest me first, or the NYPD doesn’t piss off the Collector and Calvin gets—” I stopped and shook my head. I couldn’t say the thought out loud.

  “What do you need from us?” Neil asked. “We’ve got to go before we keep Wainwright waiting.”

  I said, “I need you both to hold the line. Give me the head start to find Calvin. Also.” I reached into my messenger bag, retrieved Frank’s key-ring, and held it up. “Did Daniel the Intern come up in your initial interviews? I need his address.”

  Quinn was reaching into her coat for her notepad even as she asked, “I don’t want to know how you got his name, do I?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What’s with the keys?” she asked, flipping pages.

  “I stole them,” I stated. “They’re Frank Newell’s.”

  “Where the fuck did you steal them from?” Neil objected.

  “Angela London’s purse.”

  “I didn’t hear any of that,” Quinn said to herself.

  “He was meticulous—Frank,” I said, watching Quinn rip a page from her notepad. “I mean, he labeled his keys, so I can only imagine what his toiletries are like.” I jingled the ring. “These two are his apartment building, and another for his mailbox. But this?” I held up the last key. “No label. Why wouldn’t he mark this one? I think it’s a copy Daniel gave him. There’s no label, because why advertise you’re cheating?”

  Neil frowned.

  Quinn gave me the paper. “Calvin and I went by Daniel’s place last Sunday,” she said, indicating the address she’d written. “No one was home. We didn’t have a warrant to enter, nor was there any probable cause. Neighbors said he was a quiet kid. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen him.”

  I shoved
the paper and keys back into my bag. “Thanks.” I started for the door.

  “How’s finding Daniel going to help?” Neil called.

  “At the end of the day, this is about that stupid skull. With Frank gone, Daniel might be the only person left who knows of its whereabouts.”

  “He might be dead,” Neil said solemnly.

  I twisted the dead bolt and looked over my shoulder. “Yeah. He probably is.”

  I SWAYED with the motion of the Uptown C coming to a stop at 135th Street. The doors opened, and more folks shuffled off than entered. I leaned over in my seat, spinning my cane impatiently between the palms of my hands. I’d started the trek to Daniel’s apartment at Chambers Street—way the fuck downtown, only a few blocks from the Police Plaza. My options for travel had been either subway or taxi. And at about five in the evening, traveling over 155 blocks in a car, during rush hour? I’d have reached Daniel’s by… oh… next week.

  So I sucked up my dislike of the subway, hopped on the A, and made a straight shot on the express all the way to 125th Street. I transferred to a local train and was now willing the conductor to close the doors and pull out of the station. As if reading my mind, the doors slid shut and the train lurched ahead. A kid stared at me from across the aisle—the cane and sunglasses tended to have that effect—and a few seats away, a teenager was trying to push candy bar sales on disinterested riders. Other than the addition of a dank atmosphere due to melted snow and blasting floor heaters, the remaining ride was uneventful.

  The muffled, static voice of the conductor announced 155th Street, and I jumped out of my seat. The doors had barely opened before I shouldered my way out, went through the turnstiles, and hiked the stairs up to the street. I collapsed my cane, shoved it into my bag, and took a moment to gather my bearings. Mid-December meant the sun was already gone…. Which, despite a drop in the temperature, wasn’t really a matter of contention with me.

  As I started uptown on St. Nicholas Avenue, I decided it’d be a good idea to do some multitasking. Detective Wainwright’s favorite suspect was me, for no other reason than being the person closest to Calvin. I’d tried to impress upon him to at least do his due diligence on Marc and Ellen, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Myself, on the other hand—I had too many suspects to consider. If I could confirm alibis and knock some names off the list, I would be better prepared to defend myself against Wainwright’s inevitable return. So I took out my phone, did a brief Google search to procure the phone number of A & F Designs out of Philadelphia, and called their office.