The Mystorium specialized in first-edition and out-of-print crime novels, and there was a certain allure about the place. A rarely explored, dusty-volumed, hidden-troved mystique.

I recognized the young woman behind the counter. Rebekah had hit it off with Tessa when they first met, and from what I understood, she was majoring in English lit at Brooklyn College. They shared a penchant for Edgar Allan Poe’s writings, and today, almost serendipitously, she was serving Raven’s Brew coffee, which I was glad to see. The roaster from Washington had become more popular in the last few years, although I’d been drinking them for the last decade. They were famous for their strong brews, and I tended to gravitate toward Dead Man’s Reach.

A fitting brew for a crime bookstore.

And for a man in my profession.

Also, the company name reminded me of Tessa, whom I’d started calling Raven at times, in part because of her love of Poe, in part because of her untamable spirit.

I ordered a large coffee for here—java always tastes better in an actual mug than in a to-go cup—then added a hint of honey and cream and found a seat at one of the tables near the true crime section and began to think about what questions to ask Calvin.

Mannie’s escape from the Field Office bothered me.

On Saturday evening, Greer had offhandedly remarked that bad guys don’t take days off. It made me think of who did take time off on Sunday during Mannie’s escape, and who was on duty at the Field Office. While it was possible that Mannie was able, on his own, to discern how to get out, the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed to me that he might have had some inside help.

Two things to analyze—the work rosters for who was on duty when he escaped, and the CCTV footage of him moving through the hallways. I wanted to see if he lingered anywhere, spoke to anyone.

I put the request through.

I wondered if phone records would allow us to identify if the previous suicide victims had all visited the same location, even if it wasn’t at the same time.

As I was reflecting on that, movement at the door caught my attention, and Calvin swooshed in, his iconic London Fog trench coat curling around him almost like the cape of a superhero in a comic book. It only took him a moment to find me. He smiled and called, “Patrick, my boy!” his distinctive English accent already evident in just those three words.

I rose to greet him. “Calvin, it’s good to see you.”

His handshake was brisk and pronounced, just like everything he did.

“Can I buy you lunch?” I asked.

“That you can. How did the briefing go?”

“Better than most. No chairs thrown this time.”

He blinked. “And in the past?”

“Once or twice.”