CHAPTER NINE
Larkin didn’t mind. Because as they drove under the water of the East River, with nothing but that peculiar, bubble-like quality to sound, the glow of the dashboard, and the repetitive nature of the tungsten lights and road barriers to lead the way, it felt a bit like he was being recharged and reset before slamming headfirst into all new stimuli.
Doyle murmured something under his breath.
“What was that.”
“I was trying to check property records,” Doyle answered. “But I lost signal.”
“I’ve already done that. 239 Carroll Street was purchased by Stephanie Sato in 1992.
She is, presumably, Phyllis Clark’s wife, but I wasn’t able to confirm when Phyllis moved into the house, as further attempts to converse with her last month were met with a dial tone.
” Larkin abruptly smacked the wheel with his open palm.
“I fucking knew something wasn’t right with Phyllis. ”
“That’s your gut speaking.”
Larkin spared Doyle a brief, incredulous glance.
“After our interview,” Doyle began, “you said you didn’t trust her.”
“I didn’t. I don’t.”
Doyle was undeterred. “That’s what us non-geniuses call a hunch.”
“It’s not a matter of intellect. It’s a matter of having limited emotional intelligence. It’s easier for me to deduce and detect if I look at only the facts.”
Doyle tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Why’d you trust me? When we first met?”
Larkin was frowning. “What.”
“What made you trust that I was a decent person?” Doyle reiterated.
“Your behavior told me,” Larkin said simply. “In the same way Phyllis’s told me she wasn’t decent.”
“But isn’t that an emotional response?”
“Trust,” Larkin explained, “is an ongoing exploration within human-to-human interdependent relationships.
An interdependent relationship is critical when two or more parties work together to reach a mutually beneficial goal—such as justice for Esther Haycox.
And the ability, benevolence, and integrity within that relationship are considered to be the most important factors in the development of trust.
“When we met, you showed professional competence in your readily available knowledge on nineteenth-century death masks and the culture surrounding them. You showed compassion in your declaration that cold case victims should be alive too. And you showed honesty in our every conversation, even when I pushed too far, even when I let my compulsive tendencies reveal what I wasn’t given permission to inspect.
Phyllis—on the other hand—while she might have delivered promptly on reporting Esther as a missing person, has been so dismissive of aid that, when combined with her hypocritical mindset and emotionally abusive tendencies, it completely negates all credibility, thereby destroying a healthy interdependent relationship with me. Trust is factual, not emotional.”
They sped out of the mouth of the tunnel and into Brooklyn proper.
Doyle leaned to one side and tucked his phone into his pocket. “I think I read somewhere that Nietzsche once said, ‘There are no facts, only interpretations.’”
“I see what you’re trying to do, but Nietzsche must be read in context.
You need to understand his position on Kant’s argument of the noumenon and phenomenon, that morality is a misinterpretation of phenomena, and that knowing is based on perspective, meaning , to reduce philosophy to little more than good versus evil is tangential to philosophy itself. ”
“I think I’ve lost this argument.”
“Philosophical debates aren’t about winners or losers, Ira.”
“I guess the point I was trying to make is, you aren’t limited in your emotional intelligence and I don’t like when you say that about yourself.”
“But I am.”
“It’s easy for a majority to label someone they don’t understand as lesser or lower or limited.”
Larkin briefly took his eyes off I-478 and glanced sideways, his expression of curiosity reflected back in the dark lenses of Doyle’s sunglasses.
“What you do, sunshine, is contextualize trust. Most of us can’t do that.”
—“You’re part of the human condition too.”—
Doyle’s presence had been steadily filling the in-between moments in Larkin’s life—where day and night shared the sky, where sleep and wake occupied the same mind—until it felt as if there’d never been a beginning to their relationship.
That there’d be no end. That Doyle simply had been, and always would be, here .
It was a dangerous thought, but one Larkin couldn’t suppress.
“Thank you,” was all he said.
When Carroll came up on the right, Larkin turned.
Towering ginkgoes and oaks lined the street, their overhead branches swaying lazily in the breeze.
Debris had collected in the stagnant water that filled gutters, suggesting this area of Brooklyn had been caught in the same noonday downpour.
The approaching redbrick home with the tiny driveway, nestled among multimillion dollar brownstones, looked the same as it had on Friday, June 12.
Larkin pulled up onto the curb, turned off the engine, and stared at the home out of the passenger window.
The engine tick , tick , tick ed.
“I don’t trust Phyllis either,” Doyle stated into the quiet. He pulled his sunglasses off and met Larkin’s steady stare. “For the record.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement on that.” Larkin popped the driver’s door and climbed out. He moved around the front bumper and onto the sidewalk. The driveway was empty and a curtain had been drawn taut across the living room windows.
“Want me to take point?” Doyle was asking as he joined Larkin’s side. “Since you and Phyllis—what’s wrong?”
“The living room has north-facing windows.”
“So?”
“The north side of a home receives the least amount of light,” Larkin answered.
“On our first visit, I noted that Phyllis’s wife had a number of succulents, a Boston fern, and a watermelon peperomia—all plants that thrive in bright, indirect sunlight.
The living room windows were the only light source for the plants.
It doesn’t make sense to keep the curtains drawn. ”
“Maybe no one’s home,” Doyle noted. “And they close the drapes when they go out.”
“But they’ve got sheer curtains too,” Larkin replied. “Pull those shut and you’ve got both privacy and sunlight.”
Doyle shrugged. “Maybe Phyllis is in the habit of walking around topless.”
“Assuming she isn’t exposing her breasts with the lewd intention of being seen from the street, under the amendment to Penal Law 245.01, women can go topless in New York wherever it’s legal for a man.”
“Let’s just serve the warrant, Larkin.”
They headed up the driveway. Larkin retrieved the paperwork—his second request for Esther Haycox’s belongings having been approved upon the discovery of the refrigerator’s origin—from the inside pocket of his suit coat before knocking on the door. “NYPD,” he called loudly.
No movement sounded from within the home.
Doyle stood at an angle beside Larkin, able to watch both the street and front door with ease. “That’s weird,” he murmured.
“What is.”
Doyle pointed over Larkin’s shoulder.
Larkin turned to his left. A wall-mounted mailbox stood open and stuffed to absolute capacity.
He distractedly passed Doyle the warrant and then tugged free a handful of mail.
The envelopes and catalogues had the texture of paper that’d been left in the elements—soaked from rain, dried by sunshine, rinse and repeat.
Larkin quickly sorted through the contents.
The mail was a usual collection of preapproved credit cards, flyers from representatives running for local office, monthly account statements, even a few catalogues advertising upcoming exhibits at city museums and galleries.
The oldest were postmarked from June 13 and, Larkin noted, every single one was in Stephanie Sato’s name.
“Nothing here is addressed to Phyllis Clark,” Larkin said.
Doyle said, “I still get mail addressed to previous tenants, and it’s been six years.”
Larkin returned the mail to the box. “I saw the Metropolitan Opera brochure on the kitchen table the other day.”
“Dorothy Wallace,” Doyle said by way of agreement. “I also get her quarterly catalogues from Ethan Allen.”
“Ethan Allen isn’t your style.”
“Nor my tax bracket.”
Larkin gave the front door another, louder knock. He put his hand on the knob and gave it a try.
The door opened, and stale, stagnant air carrying the unmistakable stink of death wafted out.
“ Jesus Christ ,” Larkin swore. He unholstered his SIG P226, checked Doyle, who already had his Glock 17 out, then pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe. “NYPD,” he called again from the vestibule. “Ms. Clark, Ms. Sato, if you can, please make yourself known.”
The silence was ear-piercingly loud.
Larkin warily stepped through the threshold.
A set of stairs directly ahead went down to what he suspected was a basement studio, if Stephanie was indeed the artist Phyllis claimed her to be.
But Larkin turned right and entered the bubblegum pink and mint-green living room, weapon raised in both hands.
The house was a sauna, hot and humid, like there’d been no circulating air for weeks.
Several houseplants were yellowed and limp.
Larkin felt pricks of perspiration forming under his arms, at his hairline, beads of sweat already rolling down his lower back as he cleared the open layout and moved through the dimly lit home toward the bathroom.
He glanced inside, but there was nothing more incriminating than a discarded bath towel on the floor.
Larkin reentered the hallway just as Doyle exited the bedroom.
“Bedroom’s clear,” Doyle said.