“Noted.”
Doyle raised his hand and made like he was—was going to reach for Larkin’s arm. As if to confirm understanding through physical touch. But he stopped midway, caught himself when Larkin raised an eyebrow, and dropped his hand to his thigh. Doyle returned to the screen and said, “Missing age was twenty-two years old. That lines up. Five foot ten, Caucasian—good, good. God, look at his nose. I’d bet he never saw a medical professional for that. Poor kid.”
“Scroll down to last known location.”
Doyle did, and read, “New York, New York. No exact address… oh, the circumstances of his disappearance: Andrew was last seen by his roommate leaving their apartment at 8:00 p.m. to take the subway—”
“Where.”
“Doesn’t specify… Andrew took his wallet and has not been seen or heard from since. That’s all it says.”
Larkin made a sound. “Someone is concerned for Andrew and then supplies as little information as possible to NamUs. Was the case filed by an individual or law enforcement?”
“Boys in blue,” Doyle said after another click. “Point of contact is Detective Byron Ulmer.”
“Sonofabitch,” Larkin said under his breath.
“Not a chance in hell!” Ulmer bellowed as he jumped out of his seat in front of Lieutenant Connor’s desk.
“Sit down, Ulmer.”
“When Whitmer retired,” Ulmer protested, gesticulating with both hands, “the Gorman case became mine.Mine, not Grim’s.”
Larkin sat in the second chair, a forced study in Calm, Cool, and Collected. His legs were crossed and hands folded in his lap as he presented a request for Andrew Gorman’s file to become his own. This conversation wasn’t new to Larkin. He’d made the appeal plenty of times since being transferred to Cold Cases, and his astounding track record usually got him what he wanted. The problem this time—he wasn’t asking for Homicide to give up a case they no longer had the time or energy for. He was asking a detective in his own squad to give up the reins. Not only did the request suggest intellectual superiority, but to say that cops were territorial was the understatement of the century.
Larkin’s gaze cut to Ulmer as he said, “You transferred from Missing Personswiththe Gorman case. You’ve had it in your stacks for eight—”
“Seven—”
“Eight years,” Larkin said, tone clipped. “Your submission to NamUs was two sentences.”
Ulmer blustered. “I adopted that fucking case from Whitmer. Two sentences is all he goddamn wrote down.”
Larkin said to Connor, “Detective Doyle and myself were the ones to identify Gorman.”
“And that information should be added tomycase file,” Ulmer interjected.
Larkin felt the rubber band of his patience snap. He got to his feet, turned on Ulmer, and without any concern to the other man’s bigger build and height, he retorted, “In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve constructed a plausible timeline based only on skeletal remains, got the cast for Doyle to give this forgotten man his identity back, and then found your joke of a report on NamUs by digging through hundreds of missing people. What have you done, besides scratch your balls on the city’s dime.”
“You little—”
“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Connor said. “Ulmer, when’s the last time you filed a DD5 on Gorman?”
Ulmer’s jaw clenched before he ground out, “I’d have to check my records, sir.”
After a moment’s consideration, Connor said, “Give it to Grim. I don’t want to hear one fucking word.” And to Larkin, he added, “We’ve gotten a few calls from the press since yesterday. A body in the park is scandalous shit for these artisanal waters and twelve-dollar gourmet-coffee-drinking motherfucking Midtown office drones looking for some excitement in their lives, and the subway rags want to cash in. Talk to them and I’ll have you writing parking tickets for the rest of your career.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Both of you get out,” Connor concluded with a wave of his hand.
Ulmer came short of yanking the door from its hinges on his way out. He stormed off to the left, deeper into the bullpen to where his desk was, presumably to get the Gorman file.
Larkin stepped out of the office and looked toward his desk by the stairs. Doyle leaned his backside against the furniture, his long legs stretched out, big hands resting along the siding, looking comfortable—like he belonged. Larkin didn’t like unnecessary ornamentation, which left his workspace as sparce as a military barrack, but this current embellishment was….
Keep that locked up.
Doyle offered a thumbs-up that somehow translated into a question.
