Not exactly. A similarity. A comparison. Something more.
Somethingbetter.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Well?”
It’d been the first thing Doyle had said since setting Larkin up at his work laptop and leaving him to go nuts with NamUs.
Doyle had, in the meantime, done a few more touchups on John Doe’s bust—the sort of modifications that a man like Larkin wouldn’t notice, but that clearly dug under the skin of an artist. Then Doyle had snapped several photographs of his work to use in the event they found jack in the missing persons reports and had to submit a new case to the unidentified portion of the NamUs dashboard and hope someone else foundthem. He had been cleaning his worktable when he finally spoke.
And Larkin couldn’t help but note that the silence until then had had two admirable qualities: it had been natural and welcomed. Doyle didn’t force small talk and didn’t chatter to fill the space the way so many people often did. He hummed sometimes, but Larkin was certain that wasn’t due to nerves, and was nothing but a personal habit. Briefly—very briefly—Larkin wondered if Doyle woke early, woke happy, but valued the quiet that accompanied those moments before the sun rose.
Larkin didn’t look up from the screen. He’d been methodically combing through the listing of missing persons in the state of New York, but beyond that, was hesitant to filter his search based on assumed details. Because he couldn’t be certain, beyond a reasonable doubt, that John Doe had disappeared in the mid-1990s, nor could he be certain the young man had resided in one of the five boroughs. He might have been from Ossining, Poughkeepsie—hell, Albany.
Or he might have even been from out of state. Nearly one million daily commuters came into the city from Jersey and Connecticut, and although Larkin felt this probability was far less likely, he couldn’t rule it out. If his search of New York state came up empty-handed, he’d have to get on the phone with NamUs and build a unique profile for John Doe’s search across the entirety of their missing persons before he could safely conclude the young man had never been listed.
Larkin hoped that wasn’t the case.
Not only because it limited his avenue of detecting, but also because it was too heartbreaking to consider.
“There are just over 1,000 open cases in New York,” Larkin said. “Some go back as far as the ’60s.”
Doyle opened the closet door, probably putting away the banker’s box of wigs, then shut it. “That’s terrible.”
Larkin grunted in acknowledgment.
A moment later, Doyle was dragging his drafting chair up beside Larkin, who was seated on the stool. He sat, got comfortable in a way that seemed like there was too much of him and not enough air between them, and stuck the tip of his thumb between his teeth as he studied the computer screen. It wasn’t a self-mutilating gesture. Not even a nervous tick. It appeared to simply be ingrained, repetitive behavior born out of a need to control fidgeting.
Doyle glanced at Larkin, caught him staring, and took his thumb from his mouth. “What?”
“You were the class troublemaker,” Larkin stated. “As a child. Before you directed that energy into drawing.”
Doyle’s eyebrows—thick and expressive and probably as gorgeous as an eyebrow was capable of being—rose. “Did you run a background check on me after chewing my ass out yesterday? Ms. Steinfeld would be about eighty now, but I’m sure she remembers me from third grade when I flicked a cap eraser so hard, it launched across the classroom and got stuck in her wig.”
Larkin fought to control the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You display restless energy that’s coped with by harmless fidgeting, is all. You chew on things.”
“I chew on things?” Doyle repeated.
“My pen. Your thumb. I suspect you snack a lot too. But not mints or gum.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t smelled spearmint or peppermint on your breath.”
Doyle’s quizzical expression shifted to something like playful amusement. He’d given a go at shaving that morning, although it wasn’t as close as it really should have been, but the stubble on the bold and powerful cut of Doyle’s jaw looked… nice. “Maybe I’ve run out.”
“There’s a Duane Reade on every corner in this city.” Larkin returned his attention to the computer. He was on page sixteen of forty-seven. From the corner of his eye, he saw Doyle raise his thumb, stop, and lower his hand. “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious,” he said in his usual modulated tone. “I don’t always filter my deduction process.”
“Not since I met you.”
“It’s bothersome.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Larkin looked at Doyle a second time.
“Lemon drops,” Doyle said. “I like hard candies because—”
