CHAPTER FIVE #2
“All right. And Grim? If the media finds out our manhunt for Wagner ended in half a dozen pieces off the bank of the Hudson, they’re gonna be champing at the bit for all the gruesome gossip we’ve got.
I don’t need some plucky muckraker coming in and connecting the same dots you have.
If a story on the sender gets published before we’re able to grab him, we’re screwed seven ways to Sunday.
” He pointed a meaty finger at Larkin. “You say, no comment , and send ’em my way. ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Larkin got to his feet.
“You aren’t on any of those dating apps, are you?”
“Dating apps?”
Connor shrugged and leaned back in his chair.
“People don’t realize how much information they pack into those online profiles.
A good journalist with an inkling of which app you might be on—you being gay isn’t a secret—casts a net with enough generic ‘preferences’ to include you in the results and bam .
One of those reverse image searches of a profile picture might connect to your social media accounts or identify your neighborhood from a visual landmark in the background.
A little more digging might expose some not-so-safe-for-work kinks, and wouldn’t the subway rags just love—”
Larkin interrupted, “I’m in a relationship.”
Connor scratched the back of his head somewhat self-consciously. He then pointed at his office door, indicating Doyle without saying as much.
“That’s correct.”
“So it’s serious?”
Larkin answered, “I’ve never used dating apps, I’m not on social media, and what goes on in my bedroom is private.”
Connor held his hands up in surrender. “You’re a consummate professional, Grim. I know that. But the news has been salivating over you these last few months, and I don’t want some fucking mouth-breather desperate for a scoop to stoop to an invasive level, you know?”
“The concern is appreciated but unwarranted.” He started for the door but stopped and turned. “You’re very up-to-date with armchair sleuthing techniques.”
“My teenage daughter,” Connor answered. “That kid signs off from family chats with ‘yeed my last haw,’ but give the girl a Wi-Fi connection and fifteen minutes, and she can tell you a guy’s shoe size, blood type, and credit score.” Shaking his head, Connor muttered, “Keeps me awake at night.”
“Perhaps one day her generation will put us all out of work.”
“It’s enough to make a jaded man start praying.”
Larkin’s mouth twitched in a smile before he exited.
He left the door open because Connor was a bit of a micromanager and preferred having eyes and ears on the bullpen whenever possible.
He approached Doyle, who was resting his backside against the ever-absent Baker’s desk, his legs stretched across the aisle toward Larkin’s desk, with Baker’s desk phone to one ear.
Larkin touched his partner’s shoulder before stepping over his legs.
“Hey.” Doyle turned the mouthpiece away and asked, “What’d Connor not want to say in front of me?”
Larkin took a seat in his chair. Telling the full story, he decided, would only cultivate a situation where Doyle would feel as if he had something to prove, which was atypical to his character, yes, but Doyle had an ego as much as the next man, and it’d undoubtably be bruised if he knew both Larkin and Connor felt iffy on his continued involvement in the Worth cases.
Larkin said, “He was voicing concern over the media catching wind of this case.”
Doyle’s brows rose a little, a prompting, like he knew there was more to it.
“He asked if I was on any dating apps.”
Doyle grinned at that. “Are you?”
Larkin ignored the tease and added, “His daughter seems to have introduced him to that particular hellscape, and he doesn’t want some journalist finding out my preferred sexual positions.”
“Which is?”
“Which is what.”
“Your preferred position.”
“Who’re you on the phone with.”
“I’m on hold with the lab,” Doyle answered. He leaned forward. “I like missionary. It’s not vanilla , it’s romantic. Plus, I don’t have to be a contortionist.”
Larkin spun in his chair to collect the manila folder of photographs they’d gone over that morning.
“So?” Doyle pressed.
“Missionary is fine,” Larkin said, not looking up as he flipped to a few closeup snapshots of the fridge.
“You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that. I prefer having a partner on top, is all.”
“You mean, like cowgirl?”
Larkin turned in the chair. “Shouldn’t you be talking to someone.”
“I’m still on hold,” Doyle protested with a laugh.
Larkin checked the nearby desks before leaning closer and saying, quiet but firm, “I enjoy the privilege of watching my significant other take control of their own pleasure.”
“That’s a very eloquent way to say you like a power bottom, Evie.”
“You woke up and chose violence today, didn’t you.”
Doyle was grinning ear-to-ear as he said into the phone with a voice so smooth, a bartender would charge premium prices, “Good morning, this is Detective Ira Doyle with the Forensic Artists Unit.”
The morning ended up being a flurry of phone calls, as was the very un sexy reality of working cold cases.
A completely smitten lab tech informed Doyle that they’d have the brooch couriered to 1PP no later than noon, while a far less besotted receptionist at the Tombs told Larkin that yes, they had an officer Rodriguez—Devon or Juan?
—and after describing the CO to her, he was told that Devon had already clocked out for the day and Larkin would have to call again at 7:00 p.m. if he wanted to follow-up on any conversation they’d had earlier.
While Doyle, now comfortably seated in Baker’s chair, spoke with someone on the Crime Scene Unit about picking up all the VHS tapes from the Wagners’ apartment, Larkin stood at his own desk, absently stretching his back while listening to the same thirty second sound bite of hold music that was so profoundly awful, he’d have preferred chewing on aluminum foil instead.
He moved the phone from one ear to the other, keeping it wedged in place with his shoulder, when his cell, resting beside the computer keyboard, lit up with an incoming call.
Noah Rider.
“Marcom Refrigeration Systems, Parts and Services, this is Ben. How may I help you?” Ben spoke with an easygoing and decidedly rural North Carolina accent.
Larkin promptly sent Noah to voicemail a second time and said to Ben, “Good morning. My name is Everett Larkin and I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Cold Case Squad. I have a model and serial number for a refrigerator that I’d like to obtain some manufacturing information on.”
“NYPD?” Ben repeated.
“That’s correct.”
“Well, how’s that for a Friday morning? Not a call about a replacement water filter or a broken hinge pin. No, sir, I get a call about a bonafide homicide . I know that’s what cold cases are—I’ve watched those true crime shows.”
“Yes, sir,” Larkin said, like he hadn’t just sat through thirteen excruciating minutes of overly compressed electronic free-form jazz and now needed a Tylenol.
“And a New York City detective to boot! No one’s gonna believe this phone call…. You read those numbers to me,” Ben directed excitedly.
Leaning over the desk, Larkin picked up a photograph and read aloud the model and serial from the back of the unit.
“Wooboy—that puppy sounds old,” Ben murmured.
“423 means the year ends with a four and the twenty-third week would make that… June. So that’s when this particular unit was built.
But the year… might be 2014, 2004, might be 1994 .
It’s not the best system, I admit. I’m gonna put you on hold while I look up that model number, okay? ”
“No, please don’t—”
The jazz-like music started playing again.
Larkin turned away, held the receiver down at his thigh, and briefly let his chin dip to his chest. He considered whether another coffee from the breakroom would help, but that’d be cup number five since last night, and Larkin had no desire for a self-induced heart attack or for shitting himself, so he opted to count silently and hoped it would alleviate his edginess.
He’d reached thirty-seven when he heard the whine of distorted music come to an end.
Ben was already saying, as he brought the receiver back to his ear, “—top freezer style that we offered in ‘apartment size’ was eleven cubic feet in total. Did you know the average family of four requires a fridge with twelve to sixteen cubic feet? And that don’t include the freezer, which is usually another six to—”
“Mister….” Larkin faltered. “Ben.”
“Brooks, sir.”
“Mr. Brooks. I’m not actually in the market for a new kitchen appliance.”
Ben laughed readily. “No, sir, sorry about that. I’m not even sales, just live and breathe refrigerators!
Like I was saying, this unit was offered in either white or cream, weighed a hundred and seventy pounds, and was manufactured between 1992 and 1999.
We still got that model, but it’s more energy efficient now.
Also available in brushed steel—hides fingerprints real well.
Folks like that modern look. This model you got here is more like what my granddaddy had in his garage.
He kept drinks in there for us kids during the summer. Y’all got Cheerwine in New York City?”
“Mr. Brooks, can you tell me where this refrigerator might have been sold.”
“Like, what retailer we might’a shipped to?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t have a database to track what serial goes where, I’m afraid. Maybe individual shops keep a record like that for themselves, but I can’t imagine anyone’d be holding on to sales receipts from the ’90s.”
Larkin tapped the desktop irritably before asking, “Do you have record of this unit having gone in for repair.”
Ben drew out his words in a thoughtful manner, saying, “You know what… it’s old, but that don’t mean it’s down and out. Hang on just a second.”
“Don’t—” The hold music returned, and Larkin held the receiver at arm’s length, shouting, “—make me listen to one more goddamn second of this shit!”
“Anyone ever tell you, Grim, that you sound like one of those rubber chickens when it’s stepped on?” Ulmer asked from across the bullpen. He peered around his computer monitor and made an exaggerated O face.
“Anyone ever tell you that that face makes you look like a truck stop gloryhole,” Larkin snapped back.
Ulmer’s complexion darkened. “You would know, faggot.”
“Just remember, deep-throating isn’t for beginners and lockjaw is very real.” The jazz music cut and he promptly raised the receiver to his ear again.
Ben was saying, “—one entry for you, detective. That fridge had its condenser fan replaced under warranty way the heck back in 1997.”
“Was a technician sent to do a home repair.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what usually happens.”
“Do you still have an address on file.”
“I do… but it’s over twenty years old.”
“That doesn’t matter, Mr. Brooks,” Larkin answered, picking up a pen and leaning over the open case file, poised to transcribe.
“Marcom company policy prohibits me from sharing customer details,” Ben said apologetically.
Larkin set his pen down with exaggerated calmness. “I’ll obtain a search warrant.”
“It’s not that I want to be a pain in your backside, but the bigwigs will be madder than a wet hen if I break protocol, even in good faith.”
“I understand,” Larkin replied, curbing his irritation, because it wasn’t Ben’s fault that Marcom’s hold music had drilled a hole in his brain, or that Ulmer was a dickhead, or that a perfectly reasonable company policy would mean just one more phone call in Larkin’s immediate future. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“No problem!” Ben answered brightly. “And when you get your paperwork in order, you just tell them I was the one you spoke with and I’ll help you get your man, detective.”
Larkin muttered a goodbye before hanging up. He turned to see that Doyle was staring at him. “What does the expression ‘madder than a wet hen’ actually mean.”
Doyle pushed up from Baker’s chair as he said, “I think it’s a reference to an old southern farming trick—dunk a hen in cold water to break them out of their brooding.”
“I can’t see how that would work.”
“It’s probably why the hen gets mad,” Doyle concluded. He stretched his arms overhead before saying, “Let’s take a walk.”
“I don’t need a walk.”
“I do.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
Larkin carefully scrutinized his partner.
Doyle had gotten pretty good at hiding any of his tells when it came to this sort of…
reverse psychology tactic. He’d make a perfectly reasonable request for himself—candy break, a walk—and ask Larkin join him, when in reality, Doyle was availing Larkin a few minutes to decompress without embarrassment, under the guise of a believable excuse.
Because Doyle knew how to handle Larkin.
Larkin narrowed his eyes, but when Doyle only smiled, he grabbed his cell and started for the stairs. He’d barely reached the bustling ground floor when it rang in his hand. “Jesus Christ,” he swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“Noah has called me twice so far today.”
“Would you like me to answer it?” Doyle didn’t sound particularly thrilled with the idea, and Larkin couldn’t blame him, but ever the gentleman, he’d still offered to lessen some of Larkin’s burden.
“No, I—” Larkin trailed off, staring at the screen as the phone continued to ring.
“Larkin?”
Larkin’s thumb shook a little as he swiped to accept the call. He put the cell to his ear and said, “Mom?”