CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #4
Larkin realized the connotation his choice of words held for someone who wasn’t sure of his parentage and said, “I’m sorry.
I only meant Bridget was familiar with Noonan from when she still lived in Hell’s Kitchen—familiar with his Westie connection.
And because she knew Vargas to be a dangerous man, when Noonan confronted her on the night of October 2, 1982, she made the reasonable assumption that Barbara had been murdered by her violent ex.
She never said anything because both of those men are still alive, and the system has always been rigged in favor of the predator.
And as she pointed out rather emphatically, Vargas might be in prison, but Noonan is enjoying his retirement. ”
Doyle considered the information for a long moment before he shook his head and studied the ground.
He scuffed the sidewalk a few times with the toe of his shoe, almost like he was trying to pull up the black splotches of petrified gum that pockmarked the city.
“We’ve set a precedent for honesty, so I want to tell you what I’m feeling. ”
“Okay.”
“Today has made me want to drink.” Doyle raised his head, and the tension in his neck was tight as he swallowed. “But I didn’t work on my sobriety for six years, only to start on day one tomorrow.”
Larkin reached forward and wrapped his hand around Doyle’s nape.
He squeezed a little, trying to relax the muscles, but he didn’t have a chance to find the right words of encouragement before a nearby door slammed shut.
He looked over his shoulder to see Bridget walking in their direction, toward the corner—the bus stop, no doubt.
Larkin dropped his hand and said in a voice that left no room for argument, “Ira, stay here.” And then he sprinted back the way he’d come. “Ms. Cohen—”
“I got called into work an hour ago to pick up half of the second shift and now you’ve made me late.” She took a step sideways, but Larkin mirrored the motion. She did it again, and he followed. “Fucking move ,” she barked.
“Please allow me to show you a composite sketch,” Larkin said, reaching into his pocket.
“A what?”
“A sketch—a drawing. I want to know if you recognize the individual.”
Bridget took a big and audible breath, like she was resisting the urge to sucker punch a cop, and then dug into her purse. She retrieved a pack of red Newports and warned, while searching through the bag a second time, “I’m walking away the second I light this.”
Larkin brought up the images stored on his Cloud, retrieved the sketch of the Brooklyn shooter, enlarged it, and turned the screen toward Bridget just as she struck the spark wheel of her Bic lighter over and over, to no avail. “Have you seen this man before.”
Bridget made an irritated sound in the back of her throat before looking at the phone. She narrowed her eyes and asked, “Is this some kinda game to you?”
“What do you mean.”
She motioned to the cell with her unlit cigarette. “You know who that is. That’s Ralphie.”
Larkin’s working theory was that Adam Worth became a contact in the criminal underworld sometime around 1988, just after Alfred Niederman got his first taste for the abuse of children and wanted to capitalize on his own sadistic pleasures.
Worth had helped make it happen because they had known each other.
Niederman had paid in information. And the sort of information an ex-con-turned-janitor could’ve had that’d appeal to a man like Worth?
“I got a prison buddy,” Niederman might’ve said. “Helps his old lady kill broads on the Deuce.”
“My brother-in-law works at a strip club with connections to the Gambino family,” Earl Wagner might’ve said. “He knows about a guy who useta dump bodies in the East River.”
“I had a canary bird,” Vargas might’ve said. “Kept me outta prison. I could do whatever I wanted.”
“I’m not the only one who took bribes,” Noonan might’ve said. “I know a guy from Vice who looked the other way for years.”
Worth didn’t have to know his clients personally.
He didn’t even need to have been around when their crimes were first committed.
He only needed the knowledge of their corruption in order to sufficiently blackmail them.
He’d hold that evidence overhead, like a get-out-of-jail-free card, and promise to make it all disappear , if only they’d first do him a little favor.
A favor like snuffing out Stolle before he could spill the beans.
A favor like murdering her own husband so she could safely escape.
A favor like hacking up Wagner to reflect the very murders he once covered up.
And all the while, Worth had been there, sowing chaos, little upheavals that, over time, fractured Larkin’s very foundation without his realizing, until it was almost too late.
Incidents that had been personal, intimate, invasive: the fax that nearly sullied his professional reputation, the church he’d been married in, letters and packages sent to his former home, his current home—once sanctuaries now robbed of their security—the overreaching attempt on Doyle’s life, the Honda Civic meant to induce doubt.
Even though it had all managed to deprive Larkin of sleep for weeks, had stimulated a sort of death-obsessed psychosis in him that was making decisions and justifying reasons on his behalf, Larkin hadn’t broken.
Because he had been through so much more than the sender understood.
But while Larkin was busy being a glutton for psychological punishment, he’d missed realizing that each and every clue had been seemingly marching them toward Ira Doyle’s source of guilt and endless torment, that he had unknowingly opened Bridget back up to a near forty-year-old threat upon her life, and that everything was all his fault .
Acrid smoke was blown in Larkin’s face, and he wrinkled his nose. He looked at the emblem on Bridget’s shirt—the modern “sonic” eagle head design.
—standing eagle postal badge and the scent of burning clove—
Abruptly, he asked, “Have you noticed a blue Honda Civic following you at home or work.”
Bridget made a face and sucked on the end of her cigarette.
“Anyone new at work—a woman, specifically—fifties, black hair, dyed, she might be wearing a USPS uniform with an outdated patch.”
“You touched in the head or something?”
Frustrated, Larkin tried, “Did any of Vargas’s mistresses—”
She snorted at the terminology.
“—did any of them run with the Westies.”
“Probably, but I wasn’t on a name-to-name basis with his harem.” Bridget blew smoke at Larkin a second time. “I wanted to stay alive.”
“I’m not speaking to hear myself talk, ma’am.”
“You sure?”
“I’m asking because there is a chance you’re once again in danger.”
Bridget faltered as she brought the cigarette to her lips, but then she laughed that same unkind cackle, took a final drag, and crushed the stick underfoot.
“If I ever see you again, I’m reporting you and suing this whole goddamn city.
” She shoved his shoulder with her own before once again walking in the direction of the bus stop.
Larkin remained where he was, his back to Bridget as he stared west at the tree-lined street. A super had dragged the building’s trash to the curb before the designated set-out times, and two rats were gnawing a hole into the heavy-duty black plastic bag.
“Bridget!”
Larkin turned the same time Bridget had. She’d walked past Doyle, was perhaps a dozen feet away, when he’d called out to her.
“Bridget Doyle?” he asked.
That same caustic reaction of fear and anger returned to Bridget’s face. She reached for the strap of her purse, clutching it tight in her fist as if she was ready to swing it around like a weapon. “Who the hell are you?”
Larkin cautiously approached, putting a hand out to stop Doyle from moving toward her. Out of reflex, Larkin very nearly said his name, but he managed to bite his tongue and keep quiet.
When Doyle didn’t say anything, Bridget took a few steps backward, demanded, “Stay away from me—both of you,” and then she took off, disappearing around the corner.
Doyle doubled over, his hands on his knees. “She didn’t even recognize me.”
Larkin moved to stand in front of him. “Ira.”
Doyle turned his head to one side and spit. “I feel like I’m gonna be sick again.”
Larkin put a hand in the middle of Doyle’s back.
He was shaking pretty badly. “Breathe,” Larkin directed.
“In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He stroked up and down, more firmly than how he might’ve touched Doyle otherwise, but he wanted to ground him the way Doyle always did when Larkin needed it.
He said, “Did you know that when sound is introduced to the sense of touch, response time in the somatosensory cortex is enhanced, suggesting the brain doesn’t process sensory information in parallel, but instead all together, in a sort of symphony.
The significance of this find is beneficial in the ongoing research of conditions like autism or anxiety, both of which experience impaired sensory processing, but it also reaffirms early childhood development studies, which suggest rocking and singing to a baby simultaneously not only gives an infant a sense of security and familiarity, but it creates a bond with their caregiver and even promotes early language development. ”
Larkin felt incredibly self-conscious about doing this, especially on the open street for any passersby to overhear, but he began singing Marilyn Monroe’s version of “I Wanna Be Loved By You,” and he didn’t even skip the scat “boop-boop-a-doop.” It was somewhere around not aspiring for anything higher that Doyle straightened his posture, took Larkin’s face into his hands, and kissed him with a desperation that Larkin didn’t know how to quell other than to kiss back even harder.
Larkin’s phone rang.
Doyle broke first. He gently let go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Larkin collected his phone and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Noah.”
“Answer it.” Doyle’s voice was rough.
“What.”
“After everything that’s been happening….” Doyle replied, rubbing his stubble with a near-steady hand. “Just answer it.”
Larkin reluctantly swiped to accept the call and put the phone to his ear. “Noah—”
“ Everett !” Noah screamed.
The phone jostled, the sound briefly distorted, and then an unfamiliar male voice said, “Everett Larkin, listen very carefully.”
“Who the fuck is this,” Larkin demanded.
“What’s going on?” Doyle asked.
“Greetings from Adam Worth,” the man said, almost like he was reading from a script. “They say you’re the best detective the NYPD has ever seen. Now you must prove it. Decode the following in thirty seconds, or I shoot Mr. Rider in the head.”
And as if on cue, Larkin heard the hammer get cocked on a revolver and Noah’s muffled scream, raw and primal and real, echo from farther away.
“Zero, five, three, two, across the grid.”
Larkin looked at Doyle. “Zero, five, three, two across the grid. What’s it mean.”
“I—I’ve no idea,” Doyle stammered.
“Twenty-five seconds,” the man said.
“A grid like—like Manhattan?”
Larkin said into the phone, “Manhattan’s grid system.”
“Are the numbers supposed to be streets?” Doyle continued.
“Are they cross streets,” Larkin asked into the phone.
“Twenty seconds.”
“No, that doesn’t work,” Doyle said. “There’s no Thirty-Second Avenue in Manhattan.”
“It’s a permutation,” Larkin said suddenly. “ Fuck . Four times… twelve… twenty—twenty-four. There’re twenty-four different combinations.”
“Most of those aren’t going to be in Manhattan,” Doyle countered, and despite being unclear as to what was being said on the other end of the call, he was reacting to Larkin’s frantic energy accordingly. “Assuming we’re talking street first, avenue second.”
“Ralph Noonan is a native New Yorker,” Larkin said, speaking into the phone. “He knows how to correctly give cross streets, don’t you.”
There was a split second of hesitation, before the voice said, “Ten seconds.”
Got you, you sonofabitch .
Larkin closed his eyes and laid out the urban map of Manhattan in his mind. His Rolodex brain spun through each cross-street combination at lightning speed, putting mental markers on each location relevant to the island—two each on Fifth, Third, and Second Avenues.
“Five seconds.”
“There are six possible addresses in Manhattan,” he answered, and the silence that followed was so profound that Larkin could hear a distant and distinct pop , pop , crack underfoot as Noonan paced.
“You have thirty minutes to find Mr. Rider. If you use lights, he dies. If you use sirens, he dies. If you call for backup, he dies. Choose wisely.”