“Authority is hot.”
Larkin raised his eyes.
Doyle adjusted the wig a moment more, then picked up a rag that looked vaguely like terry cloth and began to press it lightly against the bust’s face in various places.
“What’re you doing,” Larkin asked.
“Skin isn’t smooth,” Doyle explained. “We have pores, fine hairs—deerskin on clay leaves a more realistic surface. It cuts down on the artificial aspect and adds an element of life.” He set the skin down. “Facial hair was pretty low-key in the ’90s, short of Kurt Cobain or Bob Vila, so I’m leaving him clean. He was in his early twenties and still had a bit of a baby face.” Doyle glanced down at Larkin. “If he did have something, it probably wasn’t much. Certainly not enough to make a difference in being recognized.”
“You’re very good at this.” Larkin frowned, rewound, tried again. “That is, utilizing facts and statistics to construct something reasonable out of inherent chaos.” He motioned to the bust while adding, “And art. You’re a good artist. Very good.”
“God, I might be a little in love with you.”
“I’d rather you weren’t.”
“It’s too late,” Doyle said with the ease and casualness of a man long-practiced at this sort of interplay. He undid the tie of his apron and removed it. “You’re incredible at dirty talk—”
“Eye color probabilities isn’t bedroom—” Larkin tried to correct.
“And you offer such passionate accolades,” Doyle continued without missing a beat.
Larkin blinked. “I was merely stating an obvious—”
But Doyle was shaking his head. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and I think we’re ready to take the next step in our relationship.” He picked up a black band from the tabletop that might have belonged to one of the wigs, got down on a knee, and held the hair tie out like a ring. “Will you marry me?”
The door to Doyle’s office opened without warning, and Senior Artist Bailey poked his head inside. “Doyle, don’t forget you’re working with that Cold Case fellow—what’re you doing?”
Doyle didn’t seem fazed in the least as he said, “Proposing.”
Bailey looked at Larkin, rolled his eyes, and said as he saw himself out, “I keep telling Hannah I’m hanging on until the big six-oh—but this place is a zoo.” The door shut.
“Congratulations,” Larkin said. “You’ll likely be promoted due to the stroke your supervisor is going to suffer.”
“Is that a yes or no?”
“I’m already married and polygamy is illegal in the United States.”
“You would strictly be my work husband.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m really hanging out on a limb here.”
“Please get up.”
Doyle raised the band higher. “Don’t break a guy’s heart.”
Larkin snatched the hair tie, pondered what to do with it for half a second, then tugged it onto his left wrist. “There. Happy?”
“Thrilled,” Doyle answered, getting to his feet. He flashed that all-caps smile one more time before reaching across the table for his notepad and Larkin’s molested pen that he’d not returned. “Do you have digital copies of the mask?”
Larkin opened his emails again. Detective Millett with CSU had sent him plenty of crime scene photos yesterday afternoon. He scrolled for a time until he found what they needed, tapped, and enlarged the photo. To be polite, he studied the already memorized details of eternal sleep for a second, then directed his attention to the bust. “John Doe is the face of the death mask.”
“Yeah.” Only one word, but there was gravity and fire in Doyle’s voice.
—a directional shift of the wind, the heat and the smoke kissing his face, a lingering taste of burned marshmallows and Jameson on his lips, with nobody in the entire world to see them but the banished queen overhead—
It wasn’t an association.
