“Will you please stop,” Larkin hissed.
“I’m being supportive.”
“You’re like a kindergarten teacher in the wings of the school auditorium, miming the absolutely ridiculous gestures and lyrics to a song about a baby whale, while her students watch stage right like deer in the headlights—no, ma’am, I’m not addressing you.” Larkin squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.
When the steam whistle finally stopped blustering, she put Larkin on hold and he let out a sigh of relief.
Doyle’s whiskey-smooth voice fractured the welcome silence when he said, “‘Baby Beluga’ really did a number on you as a child.”
Larkin muttered, “I regret agreeing to your assistance.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I regret even shaking your hand.”
“My earlier examples for you to follow must have been too subtle.”
“You think I should tell Dr. Baxter they have eyes like the moon.”
Doyle had the audacity to give the ceiling a contemplative expression. “Well, I don’t recommend saying they’ve got an ass like the moon, or you’re going to have HR on the line.”
Heat rose up Larkin’s throat, pooled in his cheeks, and by the way Doyle’s smile grew, he knew the blush was visible against his pale complexion. “I ha—llo. Hello, Dr. Baxter. Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.”
“Good save,” Doyle said with a nod.
Larkin briefly entertained the fantasy that his stare could melt Doyle’s face right down to the bone before he provided the medical examiner with the facts of his request: there was a skull, an artist on standby, and really, if the doctor didn’t have to strip skin and muscle, was a cast even an extra step in his examination? “Yes, when you explain the mold-making process, I suppose it is two additional steps,” Larkin said. He tapped his cell’s screen and checked the calendar reminder a second time. He was going to be late for his meeting with Mable McClennan. Hastily, Larkin blurted out over the ME, “Your eyes are like the moon. Actually, we haven’t yet met, so this flattery might be inaccurate to your appearance. Please replace moon with the celestial body of your choosing and then reconsider my request.”
Doyle slowly clasped a hand over his mouth.
A flush burned Larkin’s face again. His stomach churned like it were full of sour coffee as he said, “No, sir, I’m not making a pass. Thank you.” He set the receiver on the cradle.
Doyle dragged his hand down so his fingertips rested on his lower lip. “What’d the good doctor say?”
Larkin pocketed his cell, smoothed his suit coat, and straightened the already perfectly aligned accordion files. “He said his eyes are like quasars, and that he’d let me know as soon as the cast is ready for pickup.”
“Wow.”
“I need to go.” Larkin started for the stairs.
Doyle was right on his heels. “That was incredible.”
“No, it was extremely unprofessional. You’ve gotten me all turned around. The next time I need a favor from the OCME, they’ll laugh in my face.”
“Sounds more like you’re one favor short of a hot date.”
“Why are you following me,” Larkin asked as he reached the midpoint landing between the first and second floors.
“The meeting at Parks and Recreation.”
Larkin pushed his suit coat back past his shoulder holster and set his hands on his hips. “I didn’t invite you.”
Doyle came down the last step to stand beside Larkin. His body was so relaxed, so comfortable, like he’d just had one of those hour-long hot stone massages, and every stress the human body could carry, from head to shoulders to the arches of the feet, had been alleviated. Jutting a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of upstairs, Doyle asked, “Do you know what the mask is missing?”
“I’m not getting participation points every time you ask me a question,” Larkin answered. “Tell me, so I don’t need to guess.”
“It’s not guessing,” Doyle corrected. “It’s deduction, Mr. Holmes.”
A sound escaped Larkin—if he intended for it to be a chuckle, it came out as a snort. “Hair is missing.”
