And while the cops had long ago nicknamed himGrim, about a year into working at this precinct, the FDNY had settled onSpooky Larkin.
Either way, he couldn’t win.
“What.”
A firefighter stood in the driveway between their buildings, some heavy-looking gear in either hand. The rain didn’t seem to concern him. “Heard you knocked a Homicide boy on his ass.”
“Where’d you hear that.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You know how radio transmissions are.”
Larkin rolled his eyes, clasped the evidence bag between his chest and arm, pulled shut his umbrella, and stepped through the door flanked on either side by the green lanterns marking the occupancy of police. Larkin moved through reception, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. He took the stairs to the second floor, where the Cold Case detectives shared a bullpen fashioned with drab, mass-produced furniture that could have belonged in any office across America. The overheads were bank fluorescents that hadn’t been replaced since the ’90s, and someone had brewed engine oil for coffee in the breakroom, the smell mingling with the damp air and concocting a miasma that could only be described asMonday. On the far left were several offices, including Lieutenant Connor’s, two interview rooms, and a third that once might have been for interviews but was now full of media, both current and obsolete, the shitty desk with a wobbly leg that no amount of Post-it pads seemed to level, and computer chairs with no support left due to a decade of asses flattening the cushions. Detectives fondly referred to this room as theFuck It.
Sitting at Larkin’s desk—in his chair, no less—was a stranger. Larkin’s memory—like a Rolodex he could flip through to find any subject, any conversation, any name—began automatically searching for this man’s face. Not a cop who worked at Precinct 19, not a CI, nor was he any lawyer or administrator from a past case. Of this, Larkin was quite certain, because he wouldn’t—couldn’t—forget. The stranger had the lean build of someone who took care of himself, with height that was all arms and legs. He was slouched in the chair, arms crossed behind his head, long legs stretched out, and feet anchored to the floor as he idly spun side to side. Brown tweed trousers, shirt sleeves rolled back, tie loosened, with a matching rumpled suit coat and a large, flat bag on the floor beside the casters. His dark brown hair, like a Hershey bar (there’s that food again, Larkin noted), was messy in a way Larkin suspected was done on purpose, and it was apparent, judging by the man’s five o’clock shadow at—Larkin checked his watch—9:44, he wasn’t one for adhering to dress code.
Larkin placed his umbrella in a stand near the stairs, walked across the bullpen, then said, “Excuse me.”
The man swiveled, looked up, then straightened his posture in an easygoing manner. “Everett Larkin?”
“That’s correct. Who’re you.” Then Larkin snapped his mouth shut, spun the mental Rolodex again, and replayed that deep purr from the voicemail earlier. “Detective Doyle,” he answered himself.
Doyle got to his feet, his movements like a ballet in the way his casualness still managed to be graceful. He stood a head taller than Larkin and offered a big smile when Larkin took a step back in order to meet his gaze. “Ira Doyle. It’s a pleasure.” He offered a hand.
Larkin shook it, cataloguing the size of Doyle’s hand in his own, his grip, temperature, the callus on Doyle’s ring finger that confirmed he held a pencil quite often in a dynamic quadrupod stance. “Why the house call.”
Doyle had crow’s feet around his brown eyes. “I was in the area, actually.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Doyle raised one thick eyebrow and asked with a tone that suggested nothing but amusement, “Oh?”
“No. There’s no practical reason for you to be on the Upper East Side,” Larkin explained. “So how’d you get here… I see no umbrella. Your hair has product in it that appears undisturbed. You’re also wearing a white shirt that’s dry.”
“I have a coat.”
“Yes, it’s on the floor. If it had gotten wet, you’d have draped it over the back of the chair.” Larkin continued, “The Uptown 6 is a straight shot from 1PP, but during the morning rush, you’d be lucky to arrive in under thirty minutes, and I only phoned thirty-eight minutes ago. It is unlikely, given the attitude you display in your posture, that you raced out the door the moment you listened to my message. This means you didn’t take the subway because, one, you’re not wet from the walk, two, your hand wasn’t cold when we shook, and three, you simply wouldn’t have had the time.”
Doyle slid his hands into his trouser pockets. His entire face lit up—and Larkin wasn’t particularly fond of this idiom, but it would work for the moment—like a Christmas tree.
“So you drove,” Larkin concluded without missing a beat. “Taking the FDR could get you here in twenty minutes. And this option would avail you additional time to get your act together. I didn’t recognize the blue Honda Civic parked on the street, but I assume it’s yours because the seat was pushed back quite far, enough that I took notice of it, and youaretall.”
“Six four,” Doyle confirmed. “And you’ve called me lazy twice when we’ve only just met.”
“No. You’re projecting. Based on your need to shave, disheveled appearance, and overall posture, which combined suggests a disinterest in the job, I have logically deduced you would need additional time to gather your belongings before making your way uptown.”
Still smiling with his entire face—no, his entire body—Doyle asked, “Are you aware you don’t speak with an intonation when asking questions?”
“Yes.”
Doyle chuckled, and the sound settled around them like smoke on water. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Watercooler talk.”
“What else would it be? They call you the personification of death.” Doyle bent, collected his suit coat and big bag, and dropped them into a molded plastic chair situated beside the empty neighboring desk, then rested his backside on Larkin’s desk and crossed his arms.
Larkin took a seat. He aggressively avoided eye contact while placing the bronze mask opposite of Doyle and jostling the computer mouse. “The death rate in New York City is 6.4 per 1,000 population.”
“There it is.”
