Larkin kept his expression a practiced neutral, but it was difficult. Pride skimmed very close to the surface, like little nips of electricity along his skin. And while he’d have preferred a comparison likeLarkin would send Rosencrantz and Guildenstern packing in a game of questions, big cats were king, so it’d do.
“Fine, fine,” Bosman snapped. “Stay here. I’ll grab the keys and some gloves.” He pushed past them and headed out the front door.
Larkin leaned one shoulder against the wall. He was staring straight ahead at the unit labeled 1A as he said, “It’s interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“Outside, I was thinking about big cats.”
Doyle said, “Synchronicity bodes well for the longevity of our relationship.”
“We’re not in a relationship.”
“I beg to differ, work husband.”
Larkin pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and slid his other into his trouser pocket.
Doyle chuckled and asked, “Big cats?”
“Never mind.”
“You brought it up.”
“I’munbringing it up.”
“I’ll tell everyone about how you seduced me.”
Larkin dropped his hand and looked up. “I did no such thing.”
“Really? You fed me, complimented me—”
Larkin blurted, if only to get Doyle to stop, “I thought that sometimes, you—you sort of move like a cat.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow.
“It’s because you’re very tall,” Larkin continued, struggling for an air of professionalism. “And lean. Like….”
“A cat.”
“Yes.”
“Is this a roundabout way of saying I’m hot?”
“Jesus Christ.” Larkin’s cell buzzed in his pocket, and he dug it out while Doyle laughed to himself.
Text from Noah Rider.
Stop ignoring me.
Larkin closed the app and tucked his phone away as the main entrance opened from behind, the hubbub of the scene outside following Bosman inside before the door fell shut. Bosman’s tread on tile echoed, growing more pronounced as he rounded the corner. He wore a pair of latex gloves and held extras in one hand, which he offered them both, and a set of keys in the other—taken from Ricky, most likely. Bosman unlocked the apartment, felt along the wall, then flipped a switch. “So what’re you looking for?” he asked, stepping aside and allowing Larkin and Doyle to enter.
“I’ll know when I see it,” Larkin said, then abruptly stopped walking.
The studio, large and spacious for an old Manhattan walk-up, was a pigsty. The floor didn’t look as if it’d been swept in…months. Dirt, dust, hairballs, and crumbs littered every conceivable inch. An old couch pushed against one wall was sagging in the middle, and most of the fabric covering the armrests had been torn away to reveal the padding underneath. It looked as if Ricky had methodically plucked at the yellowed foam and then threw it every which way like confetti. Partially eaten frozen dinners, dozens of them, were stacked on the coffee table and floor. The bed was unmade, a tangle of blankets kicked to the foot and a sheet stained from lots of sweat and no washing. The kitchen counter was absolutely covered in dirty plates, cups, bowls, pans, and a small mountain of silver Coors Light cans. The studio had a heavy funk of body odor, microwaved lasagna and meatloaf, stale beer, and cheap pot. Piled all around this…shitwere newspapers and magazines. Stacks of them. Towers, even. Newsprint going back years. Maybe decades.
Bosman swore from where he stood in the doorway. “It’s amazing this building isn’t completely infested with roaches.”
Doyle turned to Larkin and asked quietly, “Is Ricky a hoarder?”
