Super slowly reached into the pocket of his ratty jeans. He retrieved a newspaper clipping folded over about half a dozen times, spent several excruciatingly long seconds opening the article, then held it up for the two detectives. He read the memorized title aloud: “Cold Case Squad investigates found body in Midtown. Fear City is back!”
Larkin said nothing as Super methodically folded the clipping back up. He was well aware that both sides of the law had a tendency for attracting a cast of characters that touched on the entire gamut of humanity, but crime groupies made his skin crawl. There was no other way to put it. He felt gross.
Doyle came to the rescue. “Is Ms. Lopez home?”
“She’s always home.” Super tottered toward the walk-up, ushering them to follow. He unlocked the front door, then the vestibule door, and led the way up the first set of stairs. Super stopped outside of 2C and knocked like he meant “Shave and a Haircut” but missed a beat. “Ms. Lopez?” he drew out. “It’s Ricky.”
A dog—a small dog—started yipping and yapping as movement drew closer to the door. A chain lock was undone with ashiiick, a deadbolt twisted, the knob lock clicked. Jessica Lopez was middle-aged, dyed-blonde hair pulled up into one of those “I woke up like this” style buns, showing where her roots needed touch-ups. And maybe shehadjust woken up, because she wore pink zebra-striped pajama pants, a tank top, and an oversized, unbuttoned flannel shirt.
She looked at Ricky. She looked at Larkin and Doyle standing behind the super. Her eyes were sharp—someone born and raised in New York, someone who’d seen enough shit for a few lifetimes. “Ricky, why’ve you brought cops to my door?”
Larkin raised his identification and spoke before Ricky had the chance to creep him out a second time. “Ms. Lopez, I’m Everett Larkin. I’m a detective with the Cold Case Squad. This is my partner, Ira Doyle.”
That sharp edge in her eyes softened suddenly, like a knife dulled from years of use and abandoned to the back of a kitchen drawer. She said to Ricky, “Thanks. You can go—it’s fine.”
Ricky turned without a word, squeezed between the two detectives, his belly rubbing Larkin’s front in a way that felt entirely indecent, and started down the stairs. He stopped once, looked back at the second-floor landing, then disappeared from view.
“Sorry,” Jessica said over the barking of her dog trying to sneak out of the apartment. “Ricky’s kind of off, but he’s harmless. What’s this about?” Something in her tone suggested to Larkin that she already knew.
He said, “I understand it’s been a long time, and this might not be a subject you wish to revisit, but we’d like to speak with you about Andrew Gorman.”
Jessica licked her lips. Whether or not she actually smoked—Larkin didn’t believe she did—she looked like she needed a cigarette right then. “Yes. God. Finally. Come in.” She opened the door wide, scooped up a black-and-white papillon, and ushered them inside.
Around a sharp corner, the single-file hall opened onto a surprisingly spacious kitchen, big enough for a table to fit three—four if it was pulled away from the wall. The counter, which looked like Jessica’s dump-and-forget spot for junk mail, grocery store receipts, empty Starbucks cups, and a myriad of other typical household items that made Larkin’s skin crawl was also a full six inches wider than his own kitchen counter, and underneath his sensory tick was a touch of jealousy. An open door to the right had sunlight spilling in through two big windows. Inside was an unmade bed, a television mounted to the wall, a diminutive couch, and messy stacks of books and tchotchkes on an unappealing shelf that listed to one side. The bedroom doubled as the living room, it seemed. The open door beside the kitchen table looked into an equally messy, albeit impressive, home office setup.
Jessica shut the front door, twisted the knob lock, turned the deadbolt, slid the chain lock.
The patter of tiny doggy feet echoed on the tile floor, and then the papillon came skidding around the corner, barking and spinning in circles.
“PomPom doesn’t bite,” Jessica called before her slippered feet shuffled after the dog and she entered the now-crowded kitchen. “You can pet him.”
Doyle crouched and did just that, becoming PomPom’s best friend in about three and a half seconds.
Jessica fussed with her hair, but it was still a mess when she finished. “Sorry, I’m not really dressed for company.”
“That’s all right, Ms. Lopez,” Larkin answered.
“Jessica is fine,” she corrected. “I work from home. I only wear a bra when I need to go to the store.” She pointed to the table. “Larkin, was it? Sit down. Either of you hungry?”
“No, ma’am,” Larkin said, taking a seat.
“Thirsty?”
“No,” he repeated.
“I’mthirsty,” she stated. “What time is it?”
Larkin pulled back his right sleeve to check his watch. “11:12.”
“Close enough.” She opened a cupboard and removed a bottle of whiskey. She poured two fingers into a water glass printed with flowers, paused, then added a third. Jessica screwed the cap back on and took the seat across from Larkin. “I haven’t heard Andy’s name in a long time.” She took a sip and said, her voice a bit huskier with the burn of alcohol, “But I’ve never stopped thinking about him. For the first year or two, I figured he just…left, you know? People who aren’t city natives do that. Up and leave because they can’t hack it here anymore. You two from around here?”
Doyle stood from his crouch and leaned comfortably against the counter. PomPom was still dancing in circles around his feet. “Born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“One of those Irish families still clinging to life, huh?”
“By our fingernails,” he confirmed.
Jessica tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was born a few blocks from here. Myabuelaraised me.”
