“But sometimes my brain will pluck out a memory, unprompted by me wanting to consciously remember it. It’s an association. Sounds, typically, are what do it for me, but dates too. And some of those memories… aren’t good. They’re just as vivid as they were five or ten or fifteen years ago. And so are the emotions of that moment.” Larkin shook his head. “It sounds unbelievable, I know.”
“You were born with HSAM?”
“No.” Then Larkin said something only his parents, Dr. Myers, and Noah knew. “On August 2, 2002, I was struck in the head with a baseball bat.”
CHAPTER NINE
It was 10:27 a.m. when Doyle segued from the walk to Larkin’s Audi to stand in line at a coffee cart on the corner of Sixty-Seventh and Lexington. A woman with purple hair and stilettos was currently cleaning the guy out of his everything-bagel inventory. Larkin slowed to a stop, his eyes on the paperwork of the Gorman file that Doyle had graciously gone upstairs to collect while Larkin made himself presentable before rejoining society.
“What do you want?” Doyle asked, tugging his wallet free.
“Already ate. Detective Whitmer cut every perceived corner available when he took the initial report regarding Andrew’s disappearance.”
“You ate one donut four hours ago,” Doyle corrected. “Unless you snacked in your car beforehand.”
“I don’t eat in the car.”
“Okay, well, one jam-filled donut—”
“It was cake batter.”
“God. Even healthier. What do you want?”
“Listen to this,” Larkin answered, still studying the file. “Andrew was reported missing by his roommate on March 30, 1998—that’s three days before the tree went in the ground. The roommate, Jessica Lopez, said when Andrew didn’t come home the next day before work, she wasn’t too concerned. Said Andrew had gone to a friend’s the night before and sometimes went directly to work from there. But on the thirtieth, she and Andrew were supposed to go to the movies together. He never showed. She called the friend in question, who said Andrew hadn’t been there on the twenty-eighth.”
“What movie?” Doyle asked.
Larkin smiled but didn’t look up. It was a smart and simple detail to confirm, one that could catch a liar in a snare. “Whitmer didn’t ask.”
Doyle muttered something under his breath before moving to the cart window as the purple-haired woman walked away with her prized bag of bagels. “Got any egg-and-cheese left? Great, two, on bagels, please.”
“I said I already ate.”
“Are you a vegetarian?” Doyle asked.
“No.”
“Allergic to anything?”
“Strawberries.”
Doyle said, “You need to feed that big, beautiful brain some protein.”
Larkin finally glanced up from the file. “He’s going to put American cheese on it.”
“Yup, probably.”
“The amount of sodium in a single slice of that plastic-y, cheese byproduct—”
“And you ate cake batter for breakfast.”
Larkin pursed his lips before saying, “Nothing with a shelf life of half a year is healthy.”
Doyle paid for the late breakfast, accepted the foil-wrapped sandwiches, and joined Larkin. He held one out with a placating smile. “Out-in-the-field, rule two: if being hangry can be avoided—avoid it.”
Larkin snapped the folder shut, tucked it under one arm, and took the offering. The foil was warm, and as he unwrapped the food, had to admit that it was difficult to be annoyed by Doyle’s insistence when the aroma of melted cheese, hot egg, and the unique majesty that was a New York bagel hit him hard and fast. Larkin’s stomach growled. He took a bite, and while standing on the street corner beside Doyle, who had left the conversation of HSAM behind in the bathroom, who hadn’t pushed for an inch more of information, who had allowed Larkin to collect himself and pretend he was okay even though he wasn’t, so he could focus on the job, well… Larkin didn’t really care all that much about the cheese’s shelf life anymore.
“What’s typically your first move on a case like this?” Doyle asked between bites.
