“You ain’t a cop,” Ricky said, his voice almost too loud after the silence.
Larkin removed his wallet and displayed his badge. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Cases. I told you that.”
“You’re too pretty.”
Larkin tucked his badge away.
“Like those store dummies,” Ricky clarified.
“Mannequins,” Larkin corrected.
“Perfect but plastic.”
Larkin leaned back, propped his ankle on his knee, and folded his hands in his lap. He waited. But Ricky never changed position. Never shifted subconsciously to mirror Larkin, to build a bridge between them.Interesting. Larkin raised the evidence bag from his lap, holding it just out of Ricky’s reach. “Tell me about these women.”
Ricky stared at the Polaroids. He shrugged and met Larkin’s eyes. Dark, dead eyes, like old fish on a bed of ice, met reaper gray in a standoff. A childish grin creased the wrinkles of Ricky’s face, and he whispered, “You can see their boobs.”
“Why were they chosen.”
Ricky finally straightened his posture, his hands still on the tabletop. There was dirt under his nails. “I like those store dummies with faces and big boobs. Zallie’s Pleasure Box has one in the window. It’s my favorite.”
Larkin put the evidence bag back in his lap so Ricky couldn’t gawk at the victims. “When were these women killed.”
“Oh, a long time ago.”
“When,” Larkin asked again.
“It was a long time ago,” Ricky insisted, but now agitated.
“How.”
Ricky furrowed his brow. He studied his hands, picked at a hangnail. “They were… shot…?” He said it without looking up, but more like he asked, as if looking for clarification.
Larkin narrowed his eyes. “Where were their bodies left.”
“Lots of places.” Ricky started picking at another finger.
Larkin slammed his fist on the tabletop and Ricky jumped in his seat. “Where, Ricky.”
“L-let me see those pictures.”
“No.”
Ricky flashed a look of panic. He licked his lips. “But I need to see the pictures to know!”
Larkin considered, met Doyle’s look briefly, then raised the bag.
Ricky sat up from his seat and leaned over the table. He pointed a thick, grimy finger at the photographs and muttered, “Simone, Baby, Nadia. Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Simone, Baby—”
Larkin lowered the bag a second time when Ricky’s preoccupation suggested sexual excitement. “Where were Simone, Baby, and Nadia’s bodies left.”
Ricky slowly returned to his seat. He smiled again. His face contorted into something devilish as he said in that weird, singsong voice, “Now I remember… Tompkins Square Park.”
Larkin shot Doyle a second look. His partner met his gaze and nodded once in understanding. A few years after the riots in 1988, Tompkins Square Park had closed and undergone restoration in an attempt to curb the same levels of crime, drug use, and mass gatherings of the homeless as seen at Madison.
“Have you ever worked for the Parks and Recreation Department,” Larkin asked.
Ricky shook his head in a wishy-washy way. “I’m the super.”
