CHAPTER EIGHT
Larkin was no stranger to calling all sorts of different establishments in his never-ending quest for information as a Cold Case detective.
He’d phoned golf clubs and strip clubs—which had an interesting amount of crossover he felt should be studied—repair shops and pawn shops, airlines, museums, every local and state government acronym to exist east of the Appalachian Mountains, and even a zoo, so Larkin considered an inquiry to a hospital to be rather mundane.
But the folks at the New York Infirmary seemed to think the opposite, and after being punted to what felt like every single extension, voicemail, and unfriendly recipient on staff, Larkin was finally informed that the three individuals in question had each suffered a heart attack while in the care of the New York Infirmary and tragedies happen, detective, there was never anything suspicious about these deaths at the time of their occurrence.
Larkin lowered the cell from his ear, tapped End, and opened his mouth while turning toward the worktable.
But as he took in Doyle—seated at one of the stools, hunched over an open laptop and digital tablet, stylus in hand and earbuds in—Larkin found that he’d completely blanked on what it was he’d wanted to say.
Competence in the workplace would always be an attractive trait, but Doyle in his element took sexy to a whole other level.
And while staring unabashedly, Larkin was struck with a sense of astonishment—that even fifty-one days into their romantic entanglement, the solace he found in Doyle wasn’t abating, wasn’t normalizing.
It was still a wonder, like a tiny star going supernova in his chest.
Larkin’s cell rang in his hand and he jumped a little in surprise.
Noah Rider.
He accepted the call. “Do you have the dates.”
Noah made a sound of annoyance under his breath, and Larkin knew that if the circumstances had been different, his ex-husband would have commented on the lack of small talk, the lack of a polite greeting. “I wrote down what I could remember.”
“Tell me.”
“I saw the car three times before today. There might’ve been other instances… I’m sure there was… but I only started noticing about two weeks ago. The first was Monday, June 29, at seven in the morning. I was leaving to go to school. Summer programs were starting.”
—“Speaking of unnecessary overhead,” Doyle was saying as he stood from the kitchen table. “Craig’s been into these weekly morning meetings and I’m about to be late.” He collected his suit coat, portfolio bag, and then leaned down to kiss Larkin goodbye—
“And the next,” Larkin prompted.
“I can’t remember the specific day. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday kinda blur together, you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
Noah made a sound under his breath that almost indicated amusement. “I think it might have been Thursday the second. I do know it was 3:30 because I was actually leaving work on time for once.”
—“Detective Doyle.”
“Hi. It’s me—Everett.”
A smoky chuckle. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at the office with something so trivial, but I thought you might be familiar with a music venue called OK Astor. I’d ask Miyamoto, but she’s not in the office.”
“Oh wow, the OK A on Astor Place?”
“Yes. Your tone of recollection suggests familiarity. When did they go out of business.”
“I want to say 1999, but I’ll be honest, I was a freshman in college and there was a lot of drinking back then. Why?”
“I’ve adopted a case involving a young man who was murdered during the after-hours at the OK Astor. However, the city’s documentation is a bit conflicting in regard to the actual year of their closure, and investigating a murder does, in fact, require a certain level of accuracy.”—
“You still there?” Noah asked for a second time that afternoon.
Larkin blinked and shook his head. “Sorry. Thursday, July 2, 3:30 p.m. And the third.”
“Last Sunday.”
“July 5.”
“Hm-hm. That one stuck out to me because it wasn’t like, hey, maybe there’re just a lot of blue Honda Civics around home or work. I went out for brunch with Lacy and Steph—from school, right?—and hand to God, Everett, that same car was parked outside the restaurant when we left.”
“What’s the name of the restaurant.”
“It’s a new place in Midtown—Sully’s Bistro.”
“What time.”
“I had a lot of mimosas… maybe around two o’clock?”
—Walking in the park, the air warm, vegetation in full bloom, their skin heavy with the perfume of summer sunshine, and Larkin had stopped to say, “Ira, hang on.”
“What?”
He’d raised his phone, turned the camera on, and said, “Smile.”—
“Anything else,” Larkin asked.
“I think that’s it.”
“There is a possibility that these incidents are related to a case I’m working,” Larkin began.
“ Great ,” Noah muttered.
“But if by some chance that’s not what’s happening, I need you to understand how difficult it is to prove stalking behavior in a legal context.
The Bureau of Justice Statistics reported 3.
4 million victims of stalking in 2019, and of the sixteen percent that sought help, seventy-four percent received it, but of that, only twenty-four percent was in the form of restraining or no-contact orders, or protection services.
That’s 96,000 people out of 3.4 million.
In the meantime, I want you to document everything.
And if you feel unsafe, don’t waste time calling me—call 911. ”
“All right. Everett?”
“What.”
“Thank you for taking this seriously.”
Larkin said, “Change your routine. Leave earlier, walk a different route to the subway, don’t go anywhere after dark. Understand.”
Noah’s voice was small as he said simply, “Yeah.”
“I’ve got to go.”
They had a late lunch delivered from a restaurant on nearby Mulberry Street: steamed rice rolls with shrimp, soup dumplings, and a complimentary salted egg yolk bun that Larkin was certain was due to Doyle’s uncanny ability to befriend just about anyone, including whoever had taken his lunch order over the phone.
“Try a bite,” Doyle said, holding the white bun out.
Larkin hesitated.
“It’s good, I promise. When have I ever steered you wrong with food?”
Promptly, Larkin answered, “The quinoa meatloaf you made last week.”
“I apologized for that, like, three times.”
“I’m merely answering your question.”
Doyle let out a long-suffering sort of sigh but was smiling as he waved the bun in a come-hither motion.
Larkin leaned over the corner of the worktable and took a cautious bite.
The still-warm, creamy, and slightly grainy filling exploded in his mouth, mixing with the fluffy texture of the bun in a sweet and salty harmonization.
He wiped yellow custard from his bottom lip and licked his thumb. “You win.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s very good.”
Doyle was a little too smug as he took a bite.
Larkin returned his attention to his phone—the most recent email notification was his warrant for Marcom Refrigeration Systems, and so he forwarded it to the address that Good Ol’ Ben had supplied during their morning chat.
“I’ve been thinking about Noah.”
Larkin glanced up.
Doyle busied himself packing the empty take-out containers back into the paper bag they’d arrived in. “About him seeing the car last Sunday.”
“You and I were in Washington Square Park at the time of—”
“No, I know,” Doyle interrupted. He wiped his hands absently on a napkin before saying, “What I mean is, Noah doesn’t drive, does he?”
“He takes the subway.”
“So how did this person know what restaurant to show up at, to park outside of, if Noah commuted to Midtown underground?”
Larkin’s brows rose a little. “I admit to overlooking that detail.”
“It just seems like maybe there’s more than one person involved.”
“If this situation is the result of stalking behavior, then two individuals is highly unlikely. Stalking is an intimate, often one-on-one affair,” Larkin said.
“And multiple stalkers borders on the persecutory delusion of gang-stalking. It’s more reasonable that this individual overheard him discussing weekend plans with his coworkers. ”
Doyle’s lips were compressed. It was a subtle mannerism Larkin had seen time and again throughout his years as a detective—a subconscious attempt to physically restrain one’s self from saying something, not because of deception, but because of distress or discomfort centered around a topic of conversation.
Larkin set his phone aside, threaded his fingers together atop the table, and stared expectantly. “You don’t believe any of that.”
Doyle shook his head.
“Why.”
“Because you saw that car too.”
Larkin slowly pulled his hands apart, pressing them palm down on the tabletop. He could feel sweat accumulating underneath them.
“And there’s no way this isn’t related to our case—or to Adam Worth.
” With that, Doyle turned his laptop at an angle so Larkin could see the screen.
He’d opened two image files of the brooch and placed them side by side.
The left had had its settings and colors wildly altered, bringing out subtle texture in the engraving that was all but invisible to the naked eye.
The right was the same photo, but Doyle had traced the newly discovered details so that whole letters were visible.
“I know you said you were going to enhance the photographs,” Larkin began as he scooted to the edge of his stool, “but this wasn’t what I was expecting. I’m very impressed.”
“I can do a whole lot more.”
Larkin gave Doyle a sideways glance. “I have no doubt.”
A hint of a smile flirted across Doyle’s face, but then he said with all seriousness, “I’m confident that the first name is Charlotte. I thought maybe Charlotte Laura Fulton—it’s definitely ‘u’ then ‘l’—but I don’t think I have the end of the last name right.”
“Fuller,” Larkin suggested.
“ Fuller . That’s a better fit. Was there a Fuller in any of the associated cases?”