“That’s right. Dr. Baxter emailed to say I could come pick it up before five o’clock.” He briefly considered, now that his comfortable Xanax high was a few hours old and on the decline, that Dr. Baxter might have been screening him. Larkin would have to apologize again for the improper comment he’d made that morning. Explain that he’d been given some poor life advice from Ira Doyle and that he’d never in the future attempt to imitate someone whose flirting skills were on a bar Larkin couldn’t even jump to reach.
You owe Doyle an apology too.
The thought had been lurking just under the surface the entire drive to OCME.
Because Lieutenant Connor had felt it necessary to pull favors and get Doyle officially involved, and working together with a storm cloud overhead wouldn’t help anyone. Because Doyle had seen something was very wrong with Larkin but kept a cool and professional attitude that allowed Larkin privacy, without tipping Mable off. Because it hadn’t been Doyle’s fault that March 30 mirrored August 2, 2002, in all the ways that required Xanax in order to cope.
People don’t want to know.
But Doyle did. Well, he’d asked, at least. He’d regret ever showing an ounce of concern if Larkin told him—really told him—but for that singular second, Doylehadasked and he’d been… seemingly sincere about it.
Larkin blinked and returned his attention to the technician, who’d clearly been talking the entire time.
“—And so he had to attend the scene for the body transport,” she was explaining.
Larkin glanced over his shoulder at Baxter’s office before saying, “Then can you provide me with the cast.”
Steam Whistle flashed a microexpression of contempt at the request.
Larkin said nothing more, just met her stare dead-on.
And like most who challenged him, she broke almost immediately under Larkin’s unrelenting gaze. With a huff, Steam Whistle got to her feet and went to the shelf lined with packages. She returned with a sealed box and extended it at arm’s length, as if Larkin were the bogeyman and he’d snatch her up if she got too close.
“Thank you,” he said brusquely.
Larkin left the way he’d come, stepping through the front doors of OCME and into a mostly concrete courtyard. Theclink,clink,clinkof a flag snapping against the pole in the brisk breeze sounded overhead. Two administrator-looking sorts stood a dozen feet away with cigarettes. They held an animated conversation, smoke curling and stirring into abstract shapes around their moving hands. A playground sat west of the building, and even Larkin, a man known in professional circles asGrimorSpooky, thought its vicinity to the morgue pushed the envelope of morbid humor a touch too far.
Larkin stepped around concrete barriers, which jutted up from the ground like monstrous teeth, and onto the sidewalk while pulling his phone from his pocket. He opened the list of recent outgoing calls, hesitated on the number he’d dialed at 9:07, then edited the details with Doyle’s name, title, and the inclusion of “office” so it was added in his address book. He placed the call and put the phone to his ear as he walked toward First Avenue on Twenty-Sixth, passing half a dozen white-and-blue medical examiner vehicles parked along the southside of the street. The call rang and rang and rang.
“Detective Ira Doyle, Forensic Artists. Please leave a message.”
Larkin made atsksound under his breath before the beep. “This is Everett Larkin.” Larkin held the phone between his ear and shoulder in order to check his watch. “It’s 4:46. I just collected the cast of John Doe’s skull from OCME and I’m on my way to 1PP to drop it off. Traffic is backed up on Second, so I’m taking the FDR.”
He should have ended the call then.
But he didn’t.
A child in the park, pumping their legs hard and fast on a swing set, screamed in delight as they reached maximum air.
—“We’re too old for swings.”
“Says who, Everett?”—
Larkin shivered and said into the recorded silence, “I hope you’ll be available for an additional moment once I get there so that I might… apologize for my tone with you earlier. It was unprofessional of me. That’s it. Okay. Goodbye.”
Thenhe hung up.
One Police Plaza, an ugly-as-fuck love song to Brutalism architecture, had replaced the former headquarters of the NYPD—a gorgeous Renaissance Revival structure from the turn of the century—in the ’70s, a decade where everything once beautiful was left to die. The monochromatic, minimalist structure of thirteen stories sat wedged between Park Row and Pearl Street on the lower end of the island—a turd that the entire neighborhood complained about as if it were an Olympic sport.
The reception area, which Larkin estimated his entire bullpen could have fit into, breakroom included, was bustling with the administrative sort whose careers resembled something closer to the mundane nine-to-five. And seeing that it was—he checked his watch—5:20, they were itching to complete their final task before clocking out for the day. Uniformed cops moved at the pace of those in the midst of the swing shift with several hours to go, and detectives acted like they never got home before midnight anyway, so what was the point in rushing? The ground floor echoed with ringing phones, dinging elevators, doors slamming, toilets flushing, a dozen competing conversations.
Larkin hated it.
Standing near the elevators and doing his best to ignore the shuffle of people coming and going at a consistent rate, Larkin studied the directory bulletin on the wall. He narrowed his eyes, read it a second time, then went to the front desk.
“Your directory doesn’t state which floor the Forensic Artists Unit is located on.”
A uniformed man set a desk phone down and flashed Larkin an irritated look. “What’s that?”
