“Exactly like Stabler and Benson,” Doyle agreed. He nudged Larkin. “You’re pretty like Benson.”
Larkin couldn’t help it. He flushed.
Kelly’s stare bounced between them like a cartoon character.
Doyle, the bastard, was grinning. He said to Kelly, “We need employment confirmation.”
At Doyle’s request, she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips like she was seriously contemplating his words, but mostly, she just looked like she had gas. “Don’t you need a warrant?” She added in a loud whisper, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Larkin pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to spend an hour—no, two hours—in a sensory deprivation tank, and it wasn’t even noon. Not that he pulled in the sort of income that warranted being a member of a Manhattan spa that offered hour-long floats in Epsom salts. Not when he was married to a public-school teacher who was saddled with student loan debt for at least another decade.
A bottle of ZzzQuil was cheaper.
Doyle was saying, “We’re looking to confirm dates. You don’t need a warrant for that.”
“Okay!” Kelly said brightly, eagerly, with stars in her eyes.
Larkin spoke on the exhale of a quiet sigh. “I want to know about the renovation crew at Madison Square Park in 1998. Although, if we can have 1997 to 1999, that would be more ideal.”
Kelly snorted, then covered her mouth. “Sorry. No, I mean—” She struggled not to laugh. “My God. 1998? I wasn’t even born.”
“Yes, the neo-grunge on top and suburban mom acid wash on bottom was my first clue,” Larkin answered.
Kelly furrowed her brows and glanced down at herself.
“Don’t mind my partner,” Doyle said, putting his hand on the back of Larkin’s neck and giving a firm squeeze.
“Don’t touch—”
“He’s only had half a donut today,” he continued, squeezing again. “Blood sugar is a little low. I promise I’ll feed him after we’re done here.”
Kelly giggled as Doyle smoothed the conversation over, sounding very much the age waitstaffs likely mistook her for. She babbled something about how this was just like TV, clicked the computer mouse, and studied the screen in front of her.
With the reception-like desk tall enough to block the movement, Larkin jabbed his elbow hard into Doyle’s side. Doyle grunted and released his hold. “Don’t touch me,” Larkin whispered.
“Noted.”
Shaking her head and looking up at them, Kelly said, “Yeah, sorry, but we don’t keep records organized like that. I really can’t find anyone without knowing their name. And if they’ve quit or were terminated… I mean, we only need to keep personnel files for, like, a year or so or whatever.”
“What about OSHA records?” Doyle tried.
Larkin gave him curious side-eye.
“What about them?” Kelly asked.
“Legally, those have to be kept a lot longer,” Doyle said. “Five to thirty years, in some cases.”
“Oh… sure, yeah, we have some really old ones.”
“From the ’90s?”
Kelly concurred.
Doyle looked down at Larkin.
“Do you… need a warrant for that?” Kelly asked into the brief quiet.
“Yes,” Larkin answered.
