She offered Doyle a dramatic wince and mouthed, “Sorry.”
The front door of the Arsenal fell shut at 11:44. Larkin and Doyle stood side by side on the top landing. Sunshine cut through swatches of heavy gray clouds like a puncture from a dull knife, and light seeped like blood from a bandaged wound. Wind blew like the shudders of a man trying to hold back tears and breathe at the same time. Blossoms whipped across the bottom steps in a furious little cyclone. Eventually the air would still, and the petals would sprinkle the ground like confetti, then be trampled. They’d become muddy, torn, and then, forgotten.
“It’s turning out to be a pretty day,” Doyle said quietly.
Larkin crouched and collected a white petal from the shoestrings of his derby. He straightened.
“You want to tell me what happened back there?”
“We need a warrant.”
Doyle sighed.
“Why did you ask,” Larkin questioned. “Specifically about OSHA.”
“Employers are required by law to keep documentation regarding any violations involving toxic substances for thirty years. I figured that’s bound to happen now and then—isopropylamine is a volatile compound found in most insecticides and thisisa parks department. And since HR wouldn’t have the personnel files of employees from the ’90s if they’ve moved on, an OSHA report is better than nothing. So-and-so might remember old coworkers, might still be in regular communication, that sort of thing. At least it would be a starting point.”
Larkin pivoted on his heel to stare at Doyle straight on, albeit he did have to tilt his head up.
Doyle must have sensed the stare, because he turned and mimicked Larkin’s stance. “What?”
“That’s very smart.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“I don’t see why you would be. It was a compliment.”
Doyle was smiling again—not that larger-than-life grin that encompassed his entire face, his entire body, the air around him, but one of subtle bemusement. “I am a detective, Larkin.”
“I know that.”
“Okay.”
Larkin studied Doyle a moment longer before saying, “A judge won’t sign a warrant for those records. I have nothing but a gut impression.”
Doyle slid his hands into his trouser pockets. A strangled breeze rustled his artfully mussed hair. “You suspect an employee from the ’90s because they had the means?”
“It’s more than that.”
“Lay it on me.”
Larkin narrowed his eyes slightly before asking in that same neutral tone, “Are you familiar with the case of Larissa Brown.”
“No.”
“Train conductor for the MTA. Mother of two young daughters—four and two years old. On May 4, 2015, after failing to drop her children off at her mother’s, who babysat during the day while Larissa and her husband, Donald, were both at work, and after being unable to reach Larissa by phone, her mother called the police. Donald worked in construction and had left for his jobsite two hours earlier. In their apartment, there were no signs of foul play. No indication she’d packed for an impromptu trip, although the baby’s diaper bag was missing. She and the little girls had, for all intents and purposes, simply vanished.”
“Are they still missing?” Doyle asked.
“No. They’re dead.”
“Back up.”
Larkin spun the white petal between his fingers and said quietly, “I caught Larissa’s case just before being transferred to Cold Cases. I had other work piling up—robberies, assaults, the typical bullshit—but it didn’t sit right with me, this woman walking away from her life. But that’s how it was being treated. She was an adult. They were her children. Maybe she’d had a disagreement with Donald, and he wouldn’t fess up to a fight, and she was cooling off somewhere. That’s what everyone said. I couldn’t sleep the first two nights. I was physically sick from dread.”
Looking down, Larkin realized he’d smooshed the petal. He let the remnants fall to the ground. “She wasn’t anyone important, you understand. She wasn’t rich and famous. But she lived an honest life. She was raising two babies. And I knew that—” He paused, shook his head, and said, “I knew that someone had acted as judge, jury, and executioner. I worked unapproved overtime. Got dragged out on the floor for it. I did it again. Noah threw a shit fit. ‘She doesn’t want to be found. You’re more upset than her husband. A stranger’s well-being shouldn’t be more important than our anniversary.’”
“Huh.”
