Larkin spun the silver wedding band on his finger. “It was our dating anniversary, not that it makes a difference…. Noah’s tirade led me to reconsider Donald as a person of interest. He acted the part well, but what he said with his face he failed to follow through in action. Donald wasn’t pounding down my door, wasn’t calling day and night, wasn’t scared out of his mind. He was hiding the person he knew—Larissa. We all do it, to an extent. Hide someone. Whether out of shame or safety, we hide who we know in certain situations.”
“He was hiding Larissa and the children.”
“Yes. They had vanished without any signs of a struggle and seemingly hadn’t gone with someone, so it must have been her choice. And if she chose to disappear, then it’s not a homicide. It’s not even a crime.”
Doyle nodded. “I get it. No struggle because she left with her husband. She trusted him, of course. He took her somewhere… out of the city? State?”
“Pine Barrens out in Jersey. Her and her daughters’ remains were found inside an oil drum July 2 of the same year. I had to tell the mother that Larissa had never walked away from her life. Her life was taken. Donald wanted to get a divorce and didn’t want to get saddled with child support payments.”
“God Almighty.”
“When the connection is deeply personal—those are the victims most cleverly hidden. And until today, I don’t think anyone knew John Doe was deceased.” Larkin looked away.
A car heading downtown on Fifth Avenue drove past the Arsenal, windows down, “Stereo Hearts” by Gym Class Heroes pounding. Travis McCoy was asking to be kept inside your head like a favorite tune. Maybe, Larkin thought, that’s why he was so…different. His memory. His inability to let go, to forget, to move on. It wasn’t HSAM. It was an earworm.
He cracked a smile at his own joke.If only.
Doyle retrieved a pair of round tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses and slid them on. He started down the steps, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s get going.”
“I appreciate your professional expertise regarding the mask,” Larkin said after him. “And I look forward to the reconstruction of the skull, but there is no practical reason for you to keep shadowing me at this time.”
Doyle stopped, turned. Another gasp of spring air rustled his hair. “Do you know what I do most days?”
“You draw victims.”
“No. I draw perpetrators. Rapists, mostly. Assailants and burglars too.”
“At least your victims are still alive.”
“Most are, thank God. But yours should be too.”
And maybe Larkin understood what Doyle was trying to say right then. That his job as a forensic sketch artist was something akin to a middleman. He assisted in the pursuit of justice, but he wasn’t responsible for it. That was glory, vindication, respite for the lead detective. And that this sort of unseen role he played came with the promise of eventual burnout.
Larkin imagined it was like communicating—Noah called it that—communicating their problems all evening long, but still, Larkin went to bed with his heart as heavy as lead and had troubled dreams all night long when not dosing himself on sleeping aids. Because for all of the talking, talking,talkingthey did about every perceived issue in the life they’d built together, it was really all about Larkin’s shortcomings, right? He’d explained it all to Noah a hundred times, a thousand times, a million even, but his husband wasn’t listening anymore.
So what did it matter?
All that work fell on deaf ears. There was never a chance to bask in hard-fought acclaim.
Larkin knew what that burnout felt like.
Doyle wasn’t so terrible a detective to work with either. Minus his flirtatious habits, he was a natural conversationalist and quite smart. In fact, smarter than he seemed willing to let on, if the juxtaposition between what he said and how he presented himself was anything to judge by, which Larkin had. And Larkin was taking notice of his inaccurate deductions regarding the latter. Not that the lazy, rumpled appearance was a ploy or game to something bigger, something devious, but that it wasn’t who Doyle was. Not entirely.
Anyway. If Doyle’s schedule permitted further hands-on investigation, Larkin supposed he wouldn’t… mind the assistance.
CHAPTER FIVE
At 12:07 p.m., as Larkin drove back to Precinct 19, Doyle’s phone rang. He answered with that same liquidness in his voice—easy, accessible, reassuring. Yes, that was the word Larkin had been struggling to pin down. Doyle had a reassuring voice. Like he might have read aloud the lunch specials at a hole-in-the-wall joint with a C-grade notice in the window and the weighted blanket sensation of his words would have convinced Larkin they were about to have the best meal of his entire life, no need to worry about those health code violations. So it was rather surprising, when at a red light, Larkin glanced at Doyle and saw an intense frown at odds with that comforting tone.
Doyle’s free hand rubbed up and down his thigh in a self-soothing gesture, the tweed fabric rustling under the touch. “How old?” He hadn’t liked the murmured answer, Doyle’s expression growing more pronounced. “Both of them? If I can have the particulars of the case beforehand… thanks. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” He said goodbye, tapped End, and pocketed the phone.
The light turned green and Larkin took his foot off the brake. He was silent—no reason to state the obvious, after all. When he turned onto Sixty-Seventh Street, all Larkin said was, “I’ll be in touch when the OCME has the cast ready.” He double-parked a few cars down from the blue Honda.
“That’ll be great.” Doyle paused before adding, “Sorry this changes our plans.”
Larkin shrugged.
Doyle put his hand on the door handle, then said, “You know, whatever happened earlier, you should tell me.”
