Page 98 of The Mystery of the Moving Image
“1847,” I corrected in a polite tone.
“Fine, 1847. I need a qualified individual to confirm the value of such an item,” Neil continued.
“Over the phone? Without seeing it? That’s not how it works,” I answered.
“Sebastian, please—just—” He struggled to sound civil. “Guess.”
I walked to the curb, juggled my books, and managed to flag a taxi down without looking like a complete moron. I climbed into the back seat, gave the driver the street address for one of NYU’s East Side buildings, and sat back as he merged into traffic.
“Did you find the gun that shot up the Emporium?” I asked. “You wouldn’t be calling about an antique lead-ball-shooting, black-powder-using, single-action revolver otherwise.”
“I did some checking of my own,” Neil replied. “To see if any weapons old enough to shoot lead balls had been reported as missing or stolen this year.”
“James Robert?” I guessed.
“No. An antique dealer reported one as stolen late last week.”
“What? Really? Who?”
“That guy you don’t get along with,” Neil answered.
“Wow. You’re going to have to be more specific,” I replied. “Wait—are you talking about Marshall’s Oddities? Gregory Thompson?”
“You said it, not me.”
“Huh.”
“So again. Can you confirm the value of this item? He’s looking to have the theft registered with the FBI’s NSAF.”
I caught the driver taking a few too many glances at me in his rearview mirror. “Ah… well, it had a very limited production run. Just over a thousand revolvers were made, mostly to fulfill a military contract. There was one that sold at auction a while back… if I remember correctly, it went for nearly a million dollars. But, Neil, you have to take into consideration the history of the item,as well asits current state. That particular revolver, I believe, had seen action in the Mexican-American War.”
“Regardless, it’s still worth a shit-ton of money,” Neil replied.
“Shit-ton isn’t a unit of measurement I use in my professional life, but yes.”
Lee had been to Marshall’s Oddities.
“Neil,” I said with a sort of dazed realization. That last clue suddenly fell into place and it was as if Lee was Colonel Mustard in the library with the wrench. “It’s Lee Straus.”
“Who?”
“Calvin’s ex-military-boyfriend-person,” I said. I lifted my hips up to dig my wallet from my back pocket. I hurriedly took out a few bills as the driver parked outside of a tall building waving the NYU flag from the second story. I passed the cash through the window between us, grabbed my books, and climbed out of the taxi.
“What do you mean,it’s him?” Neil asked.
“I think he’s behind all this,” I whispered as a few students walked by me. “He’s a teacher at the academy Casey Robert attended. He was at the Emporium when the grandfather called me. He admitted to going to Marshall’s Oddities just last week—the same time Greg’s revolver goes missing—and then my place gets shot up with lead balls?”
“Seb….”
“And he’s retired Army,” I finished.
“Winteris retired Army,” Neil countered. “Does that mean he’s also mentally and emotionally capable of killing a teenager?”
“Do you not see how all these clues connect? Neil, come on! Calvin won’t look any further into it, not until he gets Casey’s school transcript.”
“He’s right to do that,” Neil said.
“For fuck’s sake!”
