The Mystery of Nevermore (24 page)

I laughed and shoved Calvin playfully. “Ass. Give me that,” I said, grabbing the cloth and soap. I started scrubbing his chest and arms.

When we finished washing each other down, which I’ve never ever done with a guy before but was pretty fun and intimate, we got out and toweled off. I popped my lenses in so Calvin wouldn’t have to shave in the dark.

He paused from lathering his face to hold mine and stare curiously at my eyes. “So they do make your eyes dark.”

“Yeah. Extra protection, like a second pair of sunglasses.”

“And if you don’t wear them?”

“Everything’s just too bright.”

He rubbed the side of my face with the pad of his thumb before letting go.

I fetched my bag and glasses from the other room and joined him again, not daring to manually shave like Calvin. “I cannot see well enough to trust a razor against my jugular,” I explained, making a half-assed effort on my face with an electric razor.

Calvin smiled and continued shaving in silence.

I sort of liked this. Neil and I had never shared the bathroom to get ready, but it was sort of sweet and domestic to be shaving together, even if it was too cramped and crowded. “Have you been with a lot of guys?” I asked while brushing my teeth.

Calvin had finished shaving and was washing the soap off. “Define ‘a lot,’” he answered.

“More than one by several.”

“Then yes,” he answered dryly.

“A lot of boyfriends?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“How many?”

He started brushing and didn’t answer until he finished. “One or two.”

“That’s it?”

Calvin nodded and grabbed deodorant and cologne. “Yeah.” He looked over at me. “Why, you know someone who’s interested?”

I snorted and washed my mouth out. “I know a guy,” I agreed.

“I think I’ve told him no a few times.”

“He’s a persistent shit.”

“I’ll say.”

I laughed and leaned over to read the label on Calvin’s cologne.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just like that smell.”

Calvin started coffee after finishing in the bathroom. “Can you stay, or do you have to drink coffee with your date?” he asked, and don’t think I didn’t notice the tone in which he said
date
.

“I can stay,” I replied, voice muffled as I tugged a T-shirt over my head.

Calvin stood in front of his closet in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs that hugged his upper thighs, his cock and balls heavy and snug in the soft cotton.

I moved up behind him and wrapped my arms around him, pressing up close.

“Hello,” he said, still sorting through hung up shirts.

“Hey.”

“I don’t have time to go a second round, baby, so don’t get me excited.”

“I’ll try not to.” I leaned my forehead against his warm back for a beat before kissing his freckled shoulder. “How long would it take for me to kiss each freckle you have?”

“You’d be dead before you finished.”

I laughed and let him go so he could dress. “Do you not like them?”

“I don’t mind. I hated them as a kid.”

“Why?”

“I got picked on a lot.”

It was extremely difficult to imagine anyone being dumb enough to pick on someone as hot and dangerous as Calvin Winter.

“Before I figured out I was into guys, I couldn’t get a girlfriend because none of them wanted to date a ginger.” He turned while pulling a shirt over his shoulders. “It’s easier for girls with red hair—everyone thinks they’re cute. Not so easy for guys.”

“I’ll keep you,” I offered.

He smiled slightly. “Yeah, I know you will.”

“What do you want in your coffee?” I asked, walking back the whole two feet to the kitchen.

“Cream,” he said, pulling on trousers and tucking his shirt in.

Good grief, the way Calvin’s muscles rippled and pulled the fabric….
Look away, look away.

I offered him a fresh cup once he came over to the counter. “Hold on,” I said, reaching for his tie. “It’s crooked.”

He held still as I adjusted the knot before taking a sip. “Thanks.”

“Do you have time to eat?”

“I’ll grab a bagel before I get to work,” he answered.

“When are you sending forensics to my apartment?”

Calvin sat on a stool. “First thing.”

I nodded. “All right.” I reached into my pocket and pulled a key off a ring. “In case you need it.”

Calvin accepted the key without question. He took another sip of coffee before standing and reaching around me to pick up his keys from the counter. I thought he was going to put mine on the ring so he wouldn’t lose it, but instead he shifted one of his own off and passed it over.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” Calvin answered. “So if you need to go somewhere, just come home.
Here
—I mean.”

“Oh… thank you.”

He nodded and finished his cup before going to put his shoes on. Well-worn Oxfords with the wide, flat toe. Classy and handsome on Calvin.

I followed after, and soon both of us were bundled up against the cold and ready to go.

“Call me after your visit to the library,” he said as he locked the door.

“Sure.”

“Or if… anything happens.”

“Should something happen?” I asked warily.

He turned and looked down. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Will do, Officer.”

“And don’t go digging around where you shouldn’t.”

“Who,
me
?”

“Seb, I’m serious. No sleuthing around.”

I waved a hand at him before tucking it into my jacket pocket. “I won’t.”

“All right.”

“You be careful too,” I said.

He leaned down and kissed me in the privacy of his doorway. “Have a good day.”

I smiled as I followed him down the stairs to leave the building. It was all very sweet and domestic.

Except for the ongoing murder investigation.

But it’s always something.

THE NEW
York Public Library took their rare books collection seriously. I signed in with my library card and ID, and checked my coat. No bag, pens, or anything of the sort allowed into the room. For those there to study the books, notes could only be taken with pencils, and photographs were at the discretion of the curator.

“Sebastian Snow,” a woman spoke as I was allowed inside. “You’re here to examine
Tamerlane
by Edgar Allan Poe, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

She was a tall, broad-shouldered, pretty woman with her hair tied back elegantly and a suit that made her look extremely dashing. “My name’s Kate Bell. I’ll be showing you the book.”

“Wonderful.” I followed behind her as she motioned me along.

“Professor?” she asked.

“What? Oh, no. I’m an antique dealer, actually. I’ve sort of become interested in Poe lately.”
Sort of.

“I see.”

She didn’t offer further conversation, but I needed to keep asking questions. About anything. I’d strike at something important sooner or later. As much as I believed Calvin was working his ass off to get to the bottom of this case, I was afraid he wouldn’t get there in time. Pesky things like paperwork and legal proceedings held him up, and with already two dead and this creep zeroing in on me, I wasn’t willing to stand by idly anymore.

I technically hadn’t
promised
Calvin I wouldn’t snoop about. I’d help, whether he wanted the assistance or not.

“Do many people ask to see
Tamerlane
?”

“Now and then,” Kate answered, slowing her walk to look at me. “It’s not the work he’s known for.”

“Written by a Bostonian.”

She smiled. “That’s correct. Poe published the work anonymously. The printer was a young man named Calvin F. S. Thomas, whom Poe hired and paid to produce the copies of
Tamerlane
. The production amount is rather disputed, but in general it is believed that no more than fifty copies were made.”

“My father is a retired professor of American literature,” I said. “He told me there’s only twelve copies known to exist today. Is that so?”

“Very true.” Kate stopped walking. “It is known today as the Holy Grail of American literature. To find one, especially any copy not already accounted for, would be priceless.”

“How much is it worth? Of course, its condition taken into consideration.”

“The last copy that sold at Christie’s auction went for over half a million dollars,” Kate answered. “A few years ago.”

“To a private buyer?”

“Yes. One or two I believe are owned by individuals. The rest are in universities, libraries, and the Poe museum,” she said, ticking off the points on her fingers.

We started walking again. I was sort of amused by the fact that Poe’s printer had been a man named Calvin. Here I was, on a search for
Tamerlane
like Poe would have been looking for someone to bring his book to realization, and in swoops a man named Calvin. Not that I wanted to be Poe. I was more than happy with my own appearance, had no desire to marry my cousin—or a woman at all, for that matter—and I’d prefer not to die under tragic, mysterious circumstances in a few years.

Calvin F. S. Thomas. If it wasn’t for you, we may not be in this mess today.

Or perhaps Poe never would have published his work at all.

Imagine a world without Edgar Allan Poe.

A more surprising, selfish thought occurred to me: I’d have never met
my
Calvin.

Kate brought me to a desk that had been prepared, and
Tamerlane
was brought out. After I put my regular glasses on and explained my vision issues, I was allowed to look at the book with my magnifying glass.

The book was surprisingly simple. It wasn’t even a book. It was a pamphlet. Forty pages entitled
Tamerlane and Other Poems
. The paper was fragile and discolored from all the years it could have been stored in an attic before finding the light of the literary world. It was small too. A lot smaller than I thought it would have been.

“It didn’t receive any real critical acclaim,” Kate explained. “Much of it was inspired by Lord Byron. Are you familiar with him?”

“I studied his work in college for a time.”

I was allowed to sit and read the poem of “Tamerlane,” which was an incredible experience. And my curator, Kate Bell, was something else. She had endless facts to share about both Poe and the book, which I was sucking up like a sponge.

“DETECTIVE WINTER,”
Calvin said when answering his cell.

“It’s me.”

“I know.”

Was that some kind of code? I’m in public so I have to pretend this is a work-related call?

I frowned but didn’t say anything about it. “I’m just calling to say I finished at the library.”

“Where are you going now?” Calvin asked quietly. I could hear other voices in the background.

“Patty’s Diner. Some place a few blocks from the library, actually.”

“For the… brunch.”

“The brunch date,” I corrected. “Yes. Hey, for the record, the last copy of
Tamerlane
that went to auction sold for over half a million dollars. That’s some serious motive right there.”

“When was this?”

“Few years ago. Twelve copies are known to exist. The curator was saying the sky’s the limit if there was a thirteenth copy found.”

“And you saw the book?”

“It’s actually a pamphlet, but yeah. Pretty amazing.”

“I need the curator’s name,” Calvin said.

“Why don’t you just ask me for what information you need?”

“You’re not a cop, Sebastian.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said sternly. “But I’m also not an idiot.”

“I never said—”

“It hasn’t been requested in a while. No one recently, for sure, so no leads there. In fact, she asked if
I
was there because of the news.”

“Fucking reporters,” Calvin muttered. “Sebastian, I appreciate the… help, but that’s not enough. I can request far more information than you. I need her name.”

“Why didn’t you just fucking come with me, then?” I don’t know why I was getting so defensive. I knew I wasn’t a cop and I was only trying to help, but it had reached beyond that now. The attacks against me were personal. The people in my immediate circle were being affected because of this psycho.

“Why are you getting so pissed?” Calvin asked in a harsh whisper.

“I’m not helpless,” I said firmly. I had been standing at the south exit of the library beside one of the two great lion sculptures. Ironic that I was giving Calvin so much unnecessary shit while standing beside the lion known as Patience.

“I don’t know why you keep insisting I think these things,” Calvin said.

I raised my head to look up at Patience. The lions were over a century old and had a few names throughout the years, but in the thirties, the mayor of New York City had renamed them Patience and Fortitude, qualities he said that all citizens needed to survive the Great Depression. Patience had weathered far more in life than I had or ever would. Over a hundred years of joy and celebration, sorrow and loss, destruction and construction, the lions had endured with unwavering dignity. Perhaps I was giving a slab of marble too much credit, but I put my hand against the cold pedestal Patience sat upon and took a breath.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Calvin.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

He was quiet for a beat. “It’s okay. I know this is stressing you out.”

And the fight was over.

Had this been with Neil, we’d still be going at it.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Kate Bell was the woman I spoke to,” I said.

“Thank you.” Calvin said good-bye and hung up.

ADMITTEDLY, BY
the time I got to the diner Duncan had texted me to meet him at, I was feeling a little guilty about having a date with him. It’s not like I had expected to end up at Calvin’s the night before. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d be getting more phenomenal sex or skirting around a potential relationship.