CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
“No. In fact, I wish I were also capable of telling my mother her behavior is bad enough to require the intervention of Catholicism.”
“Sometimes there’s no bettering people,” Doyle said simply. “No matter how many saints you throw at them.”
Larkin broached the next question with caution. “When was the last time you saw your mother.”
Doyle’s thick brows rose a little, but after a moment of reflection, he said, “My grandmother was awarded custody when I was nine. That was the last time.”
It was 11:13 a.m. when Larkin and Doyle hiked the front steps of Precinct 19.
They would have arrived at eleven o’clock exactly, had Larkin not been so indecisive about what to wear.
He’d gone back and forth for quite some time between the gray glen plaid and navy windowpane before ultimately settling on the latter suit with a white button-down.
The pattern popped when paired with a solid purple taupe tie, a polka dotted pocket square of black and gold, and, of course, his gold wingtips.
“You look like a million bucks,” Doyle murmured.
“Is it obvious I dressed to match you.”
Doyle paused midstep and leaned back to take in Larkin’s full attire. “Nah. That’ll be our little secret.”
“It’s about time you showed up,” a third voice interjected.
Larkin and Doyle both turned to the front doors as Neil Millett exited the precinct, grimacing as he left the air-conditioned interior behind.
He looked fantastic, though, wearing an olive-green suit—linen, not a cotton blend—with a striped, baby blue button-down and a plaid tie of forest green, red, white, and a bit of navy.
Larkin stated, “I like this suit. Olive is a good color on you.”
Millett looked down at himself. “Thanks. I, uh, I like this power couple thing you’ve got going on.” He motioned between Larkin’s shoes and Doyle’s tie.
Larkin shot Doyle a look, which Doyle pointedly didn’t meet as he fought to control a self-satisfied grin. To the point, he asked, “Why’re you hanging around my precinct.”
“Remember how you asked me to check the bathroom at the Carroll Street house? It lit up like the Fourth of July under luminol. Tub, sink, walls—everywhere. Whoever it was, they tried to clean up the bloodbath with bleach, but they missed enough for me to get samples.”
“Have it tested against Wagner’s remains,” Larkin said, and at the incredulous expression Millett shot him, he continued, “Dismemberments are most often performed in tubs. Texas, 2005, Ohio, 2012, Montana, 2018—”
“Larkin,” Doyle murmured.
Larkin shook his head and redirected himself.
“While the missing knives can only be considered circumstantial evidence, the fridge Wagner was found in unquestionably originated from the home. Whether or not she was murdered and then dismembered in that tub will go a long way in establishing who all was involved.”
“All right,” Millett answered without further facial criticism. “I also wanted to talk to you about yesterday’s DB.”
“Which one,” Larkin asked.
“The gunshot vic—Sinclair, was it?”
“Joe Sinclair, yes. What about him.”
Millett slid his hands into his pockets. “I thought you should be made aware that he’s been harassing—well, maybe that’s too strong of a word— irritating a number of cops over the last few months. Specifically, out cops.”
“Yes, my first interaction with him was on April 1,” Larkin said. “Wherein he exhibited undue interest in my sexuality.”
“Then you heard about last month?” Millett asked. “What happened with the Homicide detective?”
“I do my very best to ignore those apes,” Larkin answered.
Millett laughed—actually laughed—at that. “You and me both. And yet, they still call me. What I mean is, that Joe guy got into some deep shit last month after sticking his nose into a murder investigation. I think he might’ve even been a suspect at one point?”
“Why would he do something so….”
“Stupid?” Doyle suggested.
“I was going to say contradictory to his personal well-being,” Larkin corrected.
“I think the guy was gaga for authority, if you know what I mean,” Millett said, reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his wallet.
He poked through the contents and continued, “My best friend’s married to the Homicide detective who was on that case.
That’s how I learned about Joe’s ‘undue interests.’” Millett found the business card he’d been looking for and offered it to Larkin.
“I don’t know if this bears any relevancy to your case, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it last night—about how the guy’s been schooling around gay cops.
That’s Detective Winter’s number, if you want to give him a ring.
Can’t hurt, right? Always trust your gut. ”
“That might very well be indigestion.”
Doyle accepted the card on Larkin’s behalf, saying, “We’ll give him a call.”
“Thank you, Millett,” Larkin added.
“Sure thing.” Millett turned to start down the opposite set of stairs but stopped, looked back, and said, “Oh, by the way, ballistics came back on Wagner’s third eye. Bullet was a .38 special.”
“A lot of handguns use .38 caliber bullets, do they not,” Larkin asked.
“A lot of revolvers,” Millett corrected. “But when you consider how unlikely it’d be to see revolvers on US streets originating from Spain or France or the Philippines, it was most likely shot by a Colt, Ruger, or Smith & Wesson.”
—summer sun glinting off the blued barrel as it leveled on him and the black abyss of the muzzle swallowed him whole—
“It’s strange to see a revolver on the street at all,” Doyle said thoughtfully.
“Bad guys aren’t singly loading cartridges into their cowboy six-shooters these days,” Millett agreed dryly.
Larkin interrupted. “Can you have the bullet from Joe’s autopsy compared to Wagner’s.”
Millett looked puzzled.
“Yesterday’s shooter used a revolver.”
“I’ll give the doc a call.”
“Thank you.” Larkin watched as Millett started for the street, already putting his phone to his ear. To Doyle, he asked, “What do you know about revolvers.”
“Not that much.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“What about you?”
Larkin shook his head with dissatisfaction. “I know my way around semiautomatics.” He walked up the remaining stairs, pulled open the door, and gestured for Doyle to follow.
In the quiet of last night, Larkin had been able to disregard the overload of stimulation his workspace had presented, but in the bright light of a new day, the stark reminders of the brutality of man couldn’t be brushed aside so easily.
It was all right there for him to think about, obsess about, until it’d been properly catalogued, stored, and responded to.
Larkin preferred a desk be kept like military barracks—succulent and Lisa Frank aside—and this was more akin to a tweens’ sugar-fueled slumber party.
The light for the phone’s voice mailbox was still blinking.
The stack of delivered manila folders hadn’t been moved from where it leaned precariously to one side, threatening to spill across the keyboard and onto the floor in a dramatic interpretation of a publishing house’s slush pile.
Loose call receipts looked to have been scattered by the circulating air and the comings and goings of detectives all morning. One lay beside the wheel of his chair.
Doyle had already shed his suit coat and was rolling back the sleeves of his shirt when he asked, “What is it?”
“We have to begin the arduous process of manually digging through Jane Does to find Esther’s homicide report, but I won’t be able to focus on that knowing this”—Larkin indicated by making a circle with his index finger in the direction of the mess—“is sitting here, getting worse by the hour.”
“How about I tidy up for you?” Doyle suggested.
Larkin was good at keeping his dislike to himself when it meant protecting the emotional well-being of a romantic partner—a necessary white lie, they were sometimes called—but Doyle still knew, somehow , that Larkin utterly despised even the thought of him touching the desk.
Larkin quickly said, “It’s not that I think you can’t put things away. It’s just—I’m very particular.”
“I know,” Doyle answered, his tone indulgent and not the least bit hurt. “How about I check on the status of the composite sketch?” He raised the business card. “And then I’ll touch base with Homicide. You can work on organizing while I do that.”
“I suppose that’s acceptable.”
Doyle walked around to the left side of Larkin’s desk, leaned over Baker’s, pulled the phone forward, and punched in a few numbers.
“What is my tell,” Larkin asked.
Doyle turned, receiver to his ear, looking expectant.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly.” Doyle winked before his call was answered and he said, “Debra, it’s Ira. Have they got you working Saturdays now?”
While Doyle did his usual flirting with Debra Baan of Public Relations, Larkin sifted through the stack of newly acquired cold case files—some decades old—scanning cracked typeset and regulating details to his infallible long-term memory before putting them away.
And while each name and date and cause of death activated the recall of Larkin’s initial request for the paperwork, they also triggered associations with other cases already in his rotation.
New case, Antonio Williams, found stabbed to death on Bleecker Street, January 3, 1974, had the same date of death as Destiny Marshall.
New case, Gracie Feinberg, a transgender sex worker whose nude body had been discovered in the early hours of September 29, 1988, in the Meatpacking District, had the same circumstances of death as Kristal Black, one year prior.
New case, Billy Donovan, pushed from a sixth-story window on September 13, 2003, had the same name but different spelling as Billie Donovan, a Hell’s Kitchen local who’d been shot execution-style on April 6, 1984, and whose body had been found dismembered and distributed between two black trash bags in the East River.
Larkin snapped shut the folder in his hands.