CHAPTER THREE #2
“The brooch was obviously planted by the person who killed Wagner,” Doyle explained, “so what if it belonged to them too, and we’re just spinning our wheels by digging through a serial killer’s sock drawer before the sun’s up?”
“The memento in past cases has always connected the initial investigation with another cold case. Whether the brooch was Wagner’s or not, we need to learn how it fits into her murder, and this is our best starting point until the OCME has caught up.”
Doyle said, “You could have come home, Evie. You could have slept.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep.”
“Why?”
“Can we please focus on the task at hand.”
Doyle’s critical look was a promise that Larkin hadn’t heard the end of this, that the divulging of his truth—love came at the cost of rest, of sleep —was nigh. He silently motioned toward the bedroom on his left, just past the television.
“Thank you.” Larkin took a few steps in that direction before stopping. He backtracked and stared down at the VHS cassettes on top of the VCR.
“What is it?” Doyle asked.
“There’s no doubt that Matilde was the manipulator and abuser in their Machiavellian relationship,” Larkin said as he crouched before the entertainment stand. “But Earl had something of his own to hide.”
“Bad taste in movies?” Doyle asked as Larkin picked through the VHS tapes still in their worn and tattered cardboard sleeves: Free Willy , Rocky V , Batman and often, even in a mediocre artist, one finds a very remarkable man,” Larkin quoted before adding, “Not that I am, in any way, implying your art is mediocre. Only that artists—you—are remarkable.”
Doyle scratched the tip of his nose bashfully, leaving behind a smudge of fingerprint dust. “Nietzsche?”
“I am rather predictable,” Larkin agreed, stepping close enough to wipe Doyle’s nose clean. “But Nietzsche did propose that the pursuit of aesthetic beauty justified the depressions and joys of living, and Maslow puts creativity in the top tier of his pyramid.”
“Speaking of art,” Doyle began.
Larkin raised both brows.
“Have you noticed these walls?”
“Are you being rhetorical.”
“I mean, there’s nothing on them,” Doyle explained. “ Nothing . Not a single family photo, no artwork, movie poster, magazine clipping… just the last rites crucifix in the other room, which is actually a weird place to put it.”
“What do you mean.”
“In Catholicism, it’s hung over the bed,” Doyle explained. “Grandma had one. It’s got a hidden compartment for—” He stopped abruptly.
Larkin immediately walked out of the bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “Matilde Wagner was pharisaic.” He came to a stop in front of the love seat and studied the crucifix. As Doyle joined him, he asked, “What’s the purpose of the compartment.”
“Nothing nefarious. You store candles and holy water inside—tools of the trade when performing last rites for the dying.”
Larkin reached forward, gently lifted the crucifix from its nail, and then turned it around a few times.
“Here, let me show you.” Doyle took the crucifix in both hands and easily popped the front free, revealing an empty slot inside. “Well, that’s anticlimactic,” he murmured.
But Larkin immediately grabbed the back cushions on the love seat and tossed them to the floor.
“What’re you doing?”
“Have you ever lost a nail in the cushions while trying to hang a picture frame over the couch.”
“Actually, yes.”
Larkin felt along the bottom cushions on either side before something dull poked him.
Pinched between thumb and index finger, Larkin carefully retrieved a dangly earring.
It was made of black stone—the top portion unadorned but for a single seed pearl and the bottom featuring glass housing to protect delicately braided strands of human hair.