The paramedic wiped it clean, then did the same to the wedding band.
Doyle strode across the sidewalk, jumped a puddle, and joined Larkin. He sat on the bumper and snapped the hair tie around Larkin’s wrist.
The gesture translated so suddenly and so simply in Larkin’s brain that he almost started laughing in some sort of hysterical relief. Then he almost started crying, because, no, he wasn’t okay. Of course not. No one would be after what had just transpired. But that question—Are you okay?—rang so hollow for him because peopleneverwanted to know.
But I do. And Doyle had found a way to communicate that.
Larkin nodded and said quietly, “Thanks.”
Doyle smiled. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “2D took PomPom.”
“Good.”
“It all seems pretty straightforward,” Doyle explained. “No signs of forced entry, so Ricky must have knocked after we stepped out. In the kitchen, he shot Jessica in the stomach. She stumbled to the bedroom, for her phone, most likely. He shot her again in the shoulder. That was a through and through—broke the window.”
“She’d always been the one who got away,” Larkin stated. “That’s what Ricky said.”
“He’s a few Fruit Loops short of a cereal bowl.”
Larkin glanced sideways.
“Not professional, I know. In my defense, he shot a woman.”
“Yes. Also yes.” Larkin stood. “But he’s known Jessica for how long. Why was it vital he scrub—”
“Rub.”
“—her out now.” As Doyle followed suit getting to his feet, Larkin was struck with the realization of what it was that Doyle’s movements reminded him of. A big cat. The way they stretched, posed, hell,strutted. But Larkin set the thought aside and went to the cruiser that had Ricky cuffed in the backseat. He opened the door and asked, “Why was Ms. Lopez the one who got away.”
Ricky’s nose had been tended to by a paramedic, but despite no longer bleeding, it was bruised and swollen, and a bit of snot ran down his philtrum. “A long time ago, she got away,” he whispered, not looking at Larkin.
“You attacked her before,” Larkin tried to clarify.
But Ricky sneered, sniffed, and said, “She got away. But she was just like the others. Would have been just like the others.”
The shiver that whispered across the back of Larkin’s neck felt like a kiss left by a ghost. The sensation of someone having stepped over his grave, and Larkin was now painfully aware of what it must have felt like to be on the receiving end of his stare. He repeated, voice inflecting on the one word, “Others?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Detective Philip Bosman from Precinct 9 was not a particularly handsome man. He was at least in his midthirties, gangly, his cheeks pockmarked with acne scars, and had strawberry-blond hair, which, of all the foods used to describe hair color, was the one that irritated Larkin the most. Red hair wasn’t red. It was orange. And strawberries were not orange. But more irritating than lacking a proper descriptor for Bosman’s hair was Bosman trying to pick an argument with Larkin outside of Ricky’s apartment door on the first floor of the walk-up. It was out of sight from the main entrance, located on the back side of the staircase.
“Ricky Goulding isn’t part of your cold case—”
“Ricky Goulding attempted to brutally murder the one witness in the investigation surrounding the murder of Andrew Gorman less than five minutes after myself and Detective Doyle concluded the interview,” Larkin countered. “The subject matter of that interview being something Ricky correctly deduced upon my introducing myself.”
“How would he—”
“He reads the papers,” Larkin interrupted. “He was forthcoming with a clipping from this morning’s issue ofThe City, which specifically mentioned the Cold Case Squad. He’s lived and worked in this building for a considerable time, as he knew Ms. Lopez’s tenant history. Ricky might have actually known Andrew Gorman when he was alive. The suggestion that there might be other victims, however tenuous that connection currently is in relation to Andrew, absolutely makes Ricky part of my investigation. Do not make me ask you again to open this door.”
An uncomfortable few seconds settled over the three detectives, and then Doyle said, “Do you watch Animal Planet, Detective Bosman?”
“Sorry?”
“Big cats toy with their prey. Not as an act of sadistic pleasure, but out of self-preservation. And once the prey is too tired to keep fighting, the cat strikes.”
Bosman slowly shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Detective Larkin is playing a verbal back-and-forth with you, and I don’t think you realize he hasn’t struck yet.”
