CHAPTER THREE #3
Standing straight and turning to Doyle, he said, “Wagner had no intentions of returning home after silencing Earl—before he had a chance to spill everything to O’Halloran.
But she also had the sender to contend with.
She had no opportunity to plan, to be methodical.
In a rush, she took with her what mattered, what was important.
Adrenaline pumping, hands shaking, she came over here, grabbed the crucifix, and removed the contents, accidentally dropping one piece in her haste.
” Larkin set the earring into Doyle’s open hand.
“Wagner didn’t worship Jesus. She worshipped Death. ”
Doyle pulled out the chrome and red cushioned chair across from Larkin at the retro diner table for two. He took a seat while saying, “Sorry. When’s the last time you saw a cash-only restaurant?”
“I could have paid,” Larkin murmured, not looking up from studying the earring inside a plastic evidence bag.
“Nah, I got it.”
“Did you find an ATM.”
“Yeah. There was one across the street.”
Good Enough was a diner on the corner of East Third and First Avenue that catered exclusively to breakfast eaters—whether that was the tried and true 6:00 a.m. crowd, or just the sort who had a particular craving for pancakes and sausage at three in the afternoon.
The restaurant was small, with half a dozen two-tops and a bar with five stools upholstered in the same bright red as the seats, a décor that screamed secondhand—Larkin was certain the framed crying clowns, weathered Alphonse Mucha prints, and movie poster of Taxi Driver were, in fact, from the thrift shop next door—and a handwritten menu on bright poster board behind the register, which, at the very bottom, in all caps, read: CA$H ONLY.
Two guys working the griddle were visible through the pass window, and a third was pouring coffee for a middle-aged woman seated at the counter with her back turned.
Larkin and Doyle were the only other customers in the diner, and while the radio was playing, it was localized to the kitchen and sounded like a mundane morning talk show.
Good Enough was a little too sloppy for Larkin’s liking, but they had an A grade in the window, so he figured the lived-in feel probably meant they’d been a neighborhood staple for decades.
Doyle reached across the table. “Can I see?”
Larkin handed the evidence over. He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. Grubby or not, no caffeine hit quite like that slung at a New York diner.
Doyle studied the earring. “This is a day-to-night earring.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but what does that mean.”
“It was popular during the nineteenth century. Proper etiquette was to wear studs in daytime and dangly earrings at night when attending social affairs like banquets or parties. This style earring was devised—see this loop at the top?—so you can remove or add the lower portion without having to change out earrings entirely.”
“Does the braided hair identify this as mourning jewelry.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“And you’re certain it’s not a reproduction piece,” Larkin asked.
“I’m certain,” Doyle agreed. “The hook is accurate for being of the same time period that mourning jewelry was most extensively worn. Women gradually stopped piercing their ears by the turn of the century, and that’s when screw-back earrings became popular.”
“I see.”
“There’s also the engraving on the back,” Doyle continued, flipping the bag over. “It’s done by hand, not machine.”
“Would that be the name of the deceased.”
“Very likely. But because there’s less surface space on an earring, the jeweler chose to only engrave the initials: C.L.F. If they’re the same as the name on the brooch, though, we’ve got a partial set.”
“Possibly,” Larkin corrected. “Once is chance, twice is coincidence. Only three times demonstrates a pattern.”
The guy from the counter appeared at their side just then, holding two big white plates absolutely stacked with food. He put them down and motioned to their mugs, but Larkin indicated they were fine and he left without a word.
Doyle had been the one to suggest they stop for some breakfast before heading back to Precinct 19, which Larkin instinctively wanted to protest—he didn’t like slowing down, didn’t like having to shift gears to something so mundane as eggs over easy when he had an unhinged killer freely roaming the streets of the city he called home, but Doyle had been uncompromising on the matter since day one, and Larkin wasn’t about to change his partner’s mind on day one hundred and two.
“Look at this bacon,” Doyle said. He took a bite, his groan bordering on obscene.
Larkin arched an eyebrow, his fork poised over his eggs. “I think we need a new out-in-the-field rule.”
“About what?” Doyle took another bite.
“You can’t make the same sound for when I’ve got you by the hips and kiss you a little too hard as you do for eating bacon.”
Doyle snorted. He glanced toward the counter before murmuring, “It’s got a really good crunch, though.”
Larkin made a disbelieving “hm-hm” in the back of his throat.
Doyle made a sign of the cross over his heart with what was left of the bacon strip. “Promise.” Then he popped it in his mouth and pointedly didn’t make a sound.
Larkin rolled his eyes before cutting his eggs with the side of his fork. He shoveled it onto his toast and took a bite.
“Oh. I almost forgot. I watered your peperomia before I left.”
Larkin asked midchew, with uncharacteristic concern, “The watermelon or abricos?”
“Abricos.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“I know better than to touch your baby,” Doyle said, peeling back the foil top on a container of corn syrup masquerading as maple syrup before drizzling it over his french toast.
“The watermelon isn’t my baby,” Larkin answered. “You’re not supposed to pick favorites. It was watered Wednesday morning, is all.”
Doyle gave him an indulgent smile.
After a minute, Larkin leaned forward and hissed, “ Yes , it’s my baby.”
Doyle laughed.
The woman at the counter stood from her seat, knocked back the rest of her coffee, then walked to the door, passing behind Doyle.
She wore the familiar blue uniform and standing eagle patch of a postal carrier, although Larkin thought she was a bit old to still be schlepping mail—late fifties, at least—but maybe she was looking to hit a certain service benchmark for retirement incentives.
The bell jangled overhead as she stepped out, and a waft of what smelled an awful lot like an original Djarum Black, despite flavored cigarettes having been banned since 2009, lingered in her wake.
That distinct scent of spicy burning clove made Larkin think of the boy who’d sat in front of him in AP English.
He’d gotten reprimanded for writing poetry about other boys and had had a voice like a shovel dragging over loose gravel.
Larkin hadn’t thought of him in nineteen years.
Olfactory memory was funny like that.
Doyle must have noticed the smell too, because his nose wrinkled and he said, mostly to himself, “Smells like every music venue I snuck into as a kid.”
Larkin redirected his attention. “You snuck into music venues?”
Doyle glanced up. “Oh, yeah, all the time. Well—it wasn’t really sneaking, I guess. They let me in.” He took a bite of breakfast. “Punk venues in the ’90s weren’t big into carding. That, and I was already six feet by fourteen.”
“Had your voice dropped.”
Doyle thought for a minute. “Around sixteen, I think. But by then, I was six four.” He gave his chin a quick rub and added, “Couldn’t grow a beard until grad school, though.”
Larkin’s mouth tugged to one side. “If you sounded like this at sixteen, I doubt anyone noticed your patchy whiskers.” He sopped up runny yolk with more toast. “I’m sorry I can’t share in your musical interests.”
“That’s all right.”
“It’s not even because of associations,” Larkin continued. “Not really. Music overstimulates me. And your tastes are… very fast.”
“System of a Down.”
“And loud.”
“Bikini Kill.”
“Although I am intrigued by the concept of queercore.”
“Pansy Division,” Doyle laughed. “It’s not for everyone. Did you listen to music when you were younger?”
Larkin shrugged. “Showtunes.”
“That’s just a different kind of queercore.”
Larkin smiled at that. “I do listen to Marilyn Monroe when I’m alone.”
“I didn’t realize you liked her so much.”
Larkin set his fork aside. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs a few times. His heart did an uncomfortable lurch before feeling as if it’d missed a beat, like a roller coaster stalled on the tracks just before the big drop. “Did you know she had a stutter.”
“I had no idea.”
“When Patrick—” Larkin stopped. He looked down at his lap, then toward the empty counter, then back to Doyle.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “My TBI resulted in, among other things, a very bad stutter. Not only did I have to relearn how to walk and write prior to entering college, but all throughout I required continuous neurological rehabilitation. It’s why I talk like this: flat, no inflection, no emotional prosody.
That innate articulation of emotion—I’ve never been able to fully regain it, not while having to be consciously aware of my breathing, projection, enunciation.
It’s a sort of defense mechanism, I suppose.
I’ve read that’s why Marilyn had such a distinct, breathy delivery.
It was a tool to work around her stutter.
I’m no biographer, I can’t say how true it might be, but…
I’ve felt a sort of… kinship with her since learning of that. ”
Larkin could never predict Doyle’s response in these moments of honest intimacy, and yet, he’d been coming full-circle to appreciating the same unknown that used to devastate and isolate him from the rest of the world.
Because Doyle was so different from them—from a population who’d proven time and again they didn’t want to know, didn’t want to listen, because grass was always greener if you chose to believe the atrocities of man could never sink to such levels of depravity as beating a teenage boy to near death with a baseball bat because he’d sat on the dock that summer afternoon with his toes skimming the water’s surface and his lips touching Patrick’s own.
Larkin could never predict what Doyle would say.
But he at least knew it would always be kind.
“What’s your favorite song of hers?”
Larkin’s brows rose. “Oh… um….” He smiled a little self-consciously and, leaning forward, whisper-sang in his usual monotone the title and subsequent opening line, “I wanna be loved by you.”
“This is even better than when you sang that one line from Sesame Street. I’m serious. You should belt them out more often.”
“I can’t sing,” Larkin answered.
“Says who?”
“I just explained—”
“Marilyn still sang,” Doyle pointed out.
Larkin hesitated, and his split-second of doubt allowed Doyle to smile triumphantly.
Larkin’s phone rang.
He leaned to one side and retrieved it from his pocket. The ID flashed Det. Ray O’Halloran. Larkin accepted the call and brought the cell to his ear. “Good morning, O’Halloran. Are you waiting for Costa to finish combing his chest hair before sitting down to your interview.”
But O’Halloran didn’t answer with his usual bluster, and instead said, “Grim, we’ve got a problem.”
“What.”
“Sal Costa is dead.”