“That’s right.”
“Why.”
“We were gonna seeGrease,” she said simply. Jessica glanced at Doyle. “You can google that.Greasewas being re-released in theatres, and Andy loved musicals. Is that a stereotype?”
“Not if it’s factual to his person,” Larkin replied brusquely.
“Oh. Well, Andy had been waiting all month. He was so excited. He wouldn’t have missed that night if he were on fire.”
“You said that on March 28, he had left in the evening to visit a friend.”
“That’s right.”
“I need the friend’s name.”
“He wasn’t a friend,” Jessica corrected. “If you get my meaning.”
“Andrew had a boyfriend?” Doyle asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if they werethatserious yet. That’s why I said friend. But, God—that was over twenty years ago. I honestly don’t remember his name.”
“Did you meet him?” The level of curiosity in Doyle’s tone was notable.
Jessica nodded. “Once or twice, for, like, a hot minute.”
Doyle flipped the little pad shut, met Larkin’s studious gaze, then asked, “If I were to sit down with you and do a composite sketch, would you be able to describe him? I know it’s been a long time, and if you say no, that’s okay. But close your eyes for a moment, think about him, and tell me if you could describe Andrew’s friend.”
The doubt on her face was overt, but Jessica dutifully closed her eyes and was quiet for five seconds… ten…. Larkin counted thirty-seven long seconds before she blinked and said, “I think so.”
Larkin had switched places with Doyle, standing at the counter while Doyle took a seat. He removed his suit coat, apologized to Jessica when she cringed at the sight of his shoulder holster, made a wholly believable comment that he liked it about as much as her, and then flipped open the portfolio bag he’d dragged along. Doyle set a sketch pad on the table and sharpened a few pencils by hand as he began conducting one of the most casual, friendly, and impressive interviews Larkin had seen by another officer since making detective.
“So where’d Andrew meet this other man? Did he ever talk to you about that?”
“We both went to FIT.” Jessica laughed at that and plucked her pajama pants with one hand. “Obviously not the career path I stuck with. I do coding for websites now. Andy was the better designer anyway. After graduating, he’d gone to… geez… some show or gala or whatever, I don’t even remember, and they met there. I recall Andy saying this guy had gone to FIT the same time we did, and I’d found it funny that we’d never crossed paths.”
“Oh yeah? Did they have the same degree and everything?”
“No, I don’t think so. Andy and I were in fashion design. This other guy designed accessories… pretty sure.”
“What makes you so sure?” Doyle asked, flipping back the cover on the pad.
“It must have been a conversation we had.” Jessica reached for the glass of whiskey and tipped it back and forth thoughtfully. “Jewelry, maybe.”
Larkin’s gaze shifted to Jessica. He interjected from across the room, “Designing or constructing jewelry?”
“You’d have to learn both,” she explained.
Doyle looked at Larkin, seemingly waiting for more. When Larkin gave a headshake, Doyle assumed the lead once again. “I want you to think of the time you were around Andrew’s friend the longest.”
She began to nod, then said, “But he’s not going to look the same today—”
“That’s okay,” Doyle insisted.
Jessica leaned back in her chair, reached a hand down, and absently patted PomPom, who was curled up with his small mountain of gifted toys. Larkin could see when the memory returned to her: it was like the pop of an incandescent lightbulb on Jessica’s face. “Oh, wow. Okay. Andy and I were walking home from a bar in the Village. It was cold as hell, so I guess they’d met in winter, yeah? Andy called the guy from a pay phone to meet us. We must have waited for him around the Q? Maybe the 6. One of those trains. I know he had to come downtown. He walked a few blocks with us, then, I don’t know, either Andy wanted to get more drinks in the East Village or his friend did—I can’t remember—but I do know I told them to have fun and I’d walk home. Andy asked if I wanted company. It was dark. I was twenty-one. I was a little tipsy. I said no. Of course, about two or three blocks from home, some guy started following me. I totally freaked and made a beeline for myabuela’s. She was on that block. I stayed the night with her.”
That’s when Doyle went to work. A composite sketch has three stages, he’d told Jessica. The first focused on general proportions. Jessica said the man had been a fit white guy in his early twenties.But who looked older. She was very insistent on that point. The three were of the same graduating class, but this man Andy was smitten with could have been in his mid- or late twenties if she hadn’t known better. Doyle fetched a few six-packs from within the portfolio bag, sifted through the pages, then placed several of the reference photos in front of Jessica. Faces of strangers, but all of white men. The point was not to find someone who looked like their unknown love interest of the past, but to pick and choose elements that were similar to him. Eyes, nose, ears, etc.
After Jessica had chosen a few references, Doyle had her drag her chair around to him and he put pencil to paper. He sketched the outline of a very generic and entirely forgettable face. Then he started asking questions. Nothing leading, but very general, so as to force Jessica to focus on her own memory. How were the eyes? Should they be closer, farther, or stay as is? Should the hairline be higher or lower? What do you think of the length of the nose?
