Larkin offered the pencil to Ulmer. “Unless this display of toxic masculinity is actually you trying to ask if you may borrow my Lisa Frank pencil. The answer is, yes, you may.”
Ulmer grabbed it, broke the pencil in two, then threw the pieces, hitting Larkin in the chest. “What do you think of that fucking display of masculinity?”
Larkin said, without any perturbation, “I think it’s very cute you needed both hands to snap a Number 2 pencil.”
Ulmer’s face darkened. He gritted his teeth and said, “Don’t fucking call me cute.”
Porter put his mug down noisily. “All right, Ulmer, chill out or you’re going to get smacked with a discrimination lawsuit.”
“I don’t care that he’s a fag,” Ulmer said, hackles rising.
“The use of that term implies the contrary,” Larkin answered easily, still floating on the haze of a relaxed high. “You’re very uncomfortable around me and typically resort to violent outbursts, like right now. This sort of behavior is often accompanied by comments akin to ‘you better not be looking at my ass, bro,’ as if you expect all gay men to not only be attracted to you, but be eager to bend you over a desk. The overcompensation of heterosexuality has been viewed in the past as a repression of latent homosexual desires. Those are big words, I know, so I’ll put it more simply: you want me to stare at your ass and that makes you angry.”
Porter’s eyebrows crept to his nonexistent hairline.
Ulmer might as well have had steam shooting from his ears as he moved around the desk to stand before Larkin.
Larkin casually pushed back from his desk and stared up at Ulmer from his chair.
Ulmer grabbed a fistful of Larkin’s button-down shirt and yanked him from the seat in one impressive display of strength. “If you ever try to make a pass at me—”
“Let go,” Larkin interrupted.
“—I’ll smash your face into a brick wall so many times, the only way you’ll be able to suck a dick again is if it’s through a straw.”
Larkin’s mouth twitched in a smile. “You’re not my type, Ulmer. Let go before I hurt you.”
“What the fuck is going on out here?” Lieutenant Connor’s voice boomed from the open doorway of his office.
“Ulmer is looking for the Hello Phone,” Larkin answered, staring at Ulmer, still clutched in the brute’s grip.
“It’s in the Fuck It,” Connor retorted. “Ulmer—get your hands off Grim.”
Ulmer released Larkin with a not-so-gentle shove before turning to Connor and saying, “He started it.”
“And I’m fucking finishing it,” Connor barked. “Go do some goddamn work.”
Ulmer shot Larkin a final, fierce stare—and if looks could kill—before he stalked off to the converted junk room.
Lieutenant Connor, a fair but short-tempered Irishman with a tendency to micromanage, had come from a family who served the NYPD dating back to 1892, a fact that he was very proud of and happy to talk about to anyone who asked. He’d likely been a formidable flatfoot in his prime, as Connor’s height and build rivaled doorframes, with features softened only by a smattering of freckles across his face. Nowadays, his job was to keep the understaffed and overworked Cold Case Squad in one piece, which meant he’d exchanged pepper spray for paperwork.
“Grim.” Connor jerked his head and returned to his office.
Larkin smoothed his shirt, adjusted his tie, then walked across the bullpen. He stepped inside, shut the door, and took a seat in front of Connor’s desk.
“Was that something I should be made aware of?”
“No, sir.”
Connor eased back in his chair. After a pregnant pause, he said, “Last chance.”
Larkin just stared at Connor. Because nothing good ever came from being a tattletale.
A smile slowly spread across Connor’s face. “Tell me what’s happening with that Madison case—the one O’Halloran phoned about this morning.”
So Larkin did. He told Connor about the rudimentary knowledge gleaned from the crime scene. About Ira Doyle’s analysis of the death mask and promise of a skull reconstruction. About the interview with Mable McClennan at Parks & Recreation. About the potential for information in the dated OSHA reports.
Connor grunted. “You need more for a judge.”
