“I know.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“Pending, until I get a call from the ME.”
“I assume you’ve got other work that needs attention?”
The question was a setup, but Larkin nonetheless answered truthfully, “Thirty-seven open cases.”
“And which of those thirty-seven were you working on, prior to putting Ulmer in an early grave?”
“I was doing research on death masks.”
Connor straightened. “Is it relevant to the case?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then save that artsy-fartsy crap for—what’d you say his name was? Doyle.”
“Doyle isn’t working this case in an official capacity. I’m not even certain who his supervisor is. I can’t pony off the necessary homework simply because he already has an elementary understanding of the subject matter.”
Connor picked up the receiver of his desk phone. “I know his supervisor.”
“If you’re going to have some kind of, I don’t know, fit….”
“I’d prefer you not do that, sir.”
“You’ve never had a problem asking for help in the past,” Connor answered, holding the hook with an index finger while he removed a directory printout from a desk drawer with his other hand.
“That’s because I don’t need help reading a book.”
“Your time is better used elsewhere. The artist can read up on any relevant information and provide the CliffsNotes edition.” Connor tapped a few numbers on the phone before leaning back to get comfortable for the conversation. “What’s the latest on that Garcia case?” he asked Larkin.
“The mother has refused all attempts I’ve made at communic—”
“Darryl? Hey, it’s Mikey Connor in Cold Cases,” Connor interrupted, speaking into the receiver. “How’s shit down at 1PP?” He glanced at Larkin and motioned to the door.
Larkin stood, walked to the door, and opened it.
“Yeah, hey, hang on one second…. Larkin!”
Larkin turned.
“June 2.”
He let out a small breath. “What year?”
“2005,” Connor said.
“That was a Thursday,” Larkin answered. Then he shut the door.
CHAPTER SIX
Marco Garcia had been eighteen years old when he was pushed onto the tracks in front of an incoming Q train. The case had been cold for nearly two decades, left unsolved once the assigned detective got tunnel vision, convinced that Marco had been rubbed out over a drug deal gone wrong. After the detective had retired—Florida, Larkin recalled—the case found its way to his desk, and Larkin had quickly deduced that drugs had never been part of the narrative.
Marco had no drugs on him.
Marco sold no drugs.
