“You’re late.”
Larkin quickly pulled back his sleeve to check his watch: 11:02.
“Hm-hm.” Mable addressed Doyle next. “Cookie, you’d best be a package deal, because unless you plan on asking me follow-up questions about recently deceased flora while I’m on the john, I’ve only got the time for one of you.”
Doyle jutted a thumb at Larkin. “We’re together.”
Mable looked dubious, muttered, “I’ll bet,” then made a come-hither gesture with the cigarette before stepping into the office again.
Larkin followed first. The room was more the size of a glorified closet. A corkboard hung on the wall to the left of a desk that was planted in the middle of the room. Every square inch of the board was covered in memos, flyers, newspaper clippings, printed-out emails—some appeared to date back years. Clearly, it was not kept current. The desk held a dinky seventeen-inch monitor, sticky notes surrounding the screen, and an In-N-Out tray was overflowing with more crumpled printouts, receipts, a spiralbound notebook, half-eaten granola bar, and two mugs—one empty, the other half-full with what smelled like days-old coffee. Behind the chair that Mable sat at were two black filing cabinets with a potted and dying spider plant on top. (Were you allowed to have a black thumb and work for the Parks Department?) The remaining wall space was covered in aerial maps of Madison Square Park at what looked like different time periods and pointing out different artifacts. The window on the right was partially open and an ashtray full of butts sat on the sill.
Larkin’s ability to cope day-to-day came from a strict sense of routine. Even with long hours and the curveballs thrown at career detectives, whether that was a line of questioning taking a sudden one-eighty or getting called into the precinct at two in the morning, Larkin had always been able to keep a sense of order among that chaos. And part was due to how he managed the stimulation around him—or lack thereof, if he were extremely lucky. Absolutely anything unessential was moved out of his space, and what was left was clean, organized, and arranged in such a way as to not be a distraction or association to a past event.
Mable’s office looked as if they were testing military-grade bombs on the premises. There was so much to look at, to catalogue, to memorize, that Larkin very briefly considered walking out and conducting his line of questioning over the phone. But phone calls were never preferable. He needed to see the other person’s posture, expression, mannerisms. Sometimes the nonverbal cues were enough to prompt Larkin to keep digging—deeper and deeper, until he uncovered evidence that would later stand in court.
Another win for Grim.
“Take a seat,” Mable said, motioning to the single chair in front of her desk.
Larkin found himself looking toward Doyle, who in turn made the same gesture to the chair. He took a breath, picked up a manila folder from the seat, and set it on the leaning pile of crap atop Mable’s desk before sitting.
“Aren’t you chivalrous,” Mable said to Doyle before glancing at her computer screen and jabbing her cigarette at it. “This shit never ends. I’ve got donators demanding answers like I’m the cops, subway rags begging for juicy details like I’m the killer, and this department is helping me about as well as to be expected from a bloated nonprofit.”
“Why did you say ‘killer,’” Larkin asked.
Reining in the start of her tirade, Mable said, “Whoever’s in that box didn’t bury themselves, right?”
“And how was it you came to be informed of the situation,” Larkin continued.
“You kidding me? I hadn’t been in the office five minutes before theNew York Beast, some bullshit blog specializing in city politics and drama, was on the phone saying they’d seen detectives and crime scene personnel on that app, Local4Locals? They wanted the scoop. Got my number from a simple internet search.” Mable pushed away from the desk, the wheels of her chair squeaking as she inched toward the window. “What’d you say you did? Cold Crimes?”
“Cold Cases.”
Mable picked up a BIC lighter from beside the ashtray, lit the cigarette, and leaned close to blow smoke out the window. “Uh-huh. And what’s that mean?”
“It means when the detective originally assigned to the homicide has retired, been transferred, or has otherwise concluded they are unable to solve the case, due to either an influx of new cases or lack of evidence and leads, it’s handed over to me.”
“And you figure it out.”
“Sometimes.”
Mable sucked on the Marlboro. “The cases are old?”
“They can be.”
“Like Robert-Stack-in-a-trench-coat old? You might be too young for that reference.”
Larkin wrinkled his nose. He kept his gaze pinned to Mable and did his best to block out the visual noise of the office around him. “My oldest case dates back to 1919.”
Mable started coughing on her cigarette.
“The cost of healthcare directly related to smoking in the state of New York is ten billion dollars annually,” Larkin stated. “And among the LGBT population, which the CDC estimates makes up approximately three percent of the U.S. population, smoking prevalence is twenty percent, as compared to fifteen percent among heterosexual people.”
“Larkin—” Doyle began.
“There’s some interesting reading on the influence of tobacco marketing,” Larkin continued, still staring at Mable. “Advertising at gay pride festivals, donations to community organizations, etcetera, but the CDC has also suggested factors related to being LGBT—stress, social stigma, daily prejudice—directly impact the decision to smoke.”
Mable coughed once more, for good measure, then said, “What does this have to do—?”
