Larkin shook his head. “It’s all one and the same man. I believewhoAndrew was is the clue to identifying the perpetrator. He beat to death at least four people, perhaps more, as you’ve said. We don’t yet know if there’re more photographs hidden in Ricky’s apartment. But the perpetrator is still out there. And if you let Ricky hang for this, you’ll be feeding right into his desires while the real monster gets away with it.” He leaned forward in his chair to say, “The psychology of place is key in this case. That apartment building, those parks. I just need a moment to… to figure it out.”
Connor opened his mouth, but Doyle, opening the portfolio bag leaning against his own chair, said, “We have an additional avenue that still needs to be considered.” He tugged the sketch pad free, flipped the pages, and showed Connor the composite sketch of Andrew Gorman’s unknown love interest. “Ms. Lopez assisted me. This man was sexually, if not romantically, involved with Andrew at the time of his death, yet never came forward in the initial missing person report.”
Connor’s brows rose in renewed interest.
“And according to Ms. Lopez, this man’s schooling would have made him familiar with welding.”
“Andrew’s death mask was cast-iron,” Larkin added.
“I didn’t forget,” Connor said.
Doyle said, “This sketch is what he looked like in 1998, but I can age him. We can get both versions submitted to the Local4Locals app, see if he’s still in the greater New York area and is willing to talk.”
Connor eyed the sketch a long moment before he said, “Do that. Submit it to public relations tonight. I want his mug on that app before sunup tomorrow. Grim, I want you to excavate whatever bug’s crawled up your ass.”
“Yes, sir,” Larkin said stiffly.
“You really couldn’t get Ricky to roll?”
“No. But then again, threats of jailtime wouldn’t work, would they. It’ll be a matter of dismantling his claim by proving he’s lacking knowledge only the real perpetrator would have.”
“Then you better fucking do that,” Connor concluded. “Put names—real names—to those women.”
“Of course.”
“Loop Ulmer back in on this. Have him work his connection with Missing Persons.”
Larkin’s gut plummeted like the first drop on a roller-coaster. “Sir—”
“Check Homicide’s stacks for any cold cases. Find those women. Names, remains, forensics—everything we’ve got floating around. The DA’s going to want everyidotted andtcrossed on this one.”
Larkin stood. Doyle gathered his bag and moved to the office door.
“Grim.”
“Yes.”
Connor raised his pen and pointed at Larkin with it. “Not a whisper. One news article is already one too many. I don’t want this guy spooked. And if word gets out before we’ve got our ducks lined up that Homicide brushed off victims of a serial killer, there’s going to be an interdepartmental war. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Connor pointed the pen at Doyle next. “You too, van Gogh. One word and there’s gonna be a Help Wanted sign where your nameplate used to be.”
“Understood,” Doyle answered. He opened the door, allowed Larkin to pass through first, then shut it behind himself. He said to Larkin, “I better get going.”
Larkin looked over his shoulder toward his desk and the one just to the left, currently unoccupied. He turned back to Doyle. “Detective Baker is on sick leave until the end of next week. Her desk is beside mine.”
“Yeah?”
“I may need to consult you.”
Doyle’s eyes twinkled like sunshine glittering atop raw pyrite. “Probably not.” He smiled, moved for Larkin’s arm, then stopped short—for a man whose love language was physical touch, the necessity to second-guess his nature was seeming to prove exceedingly difficult. Doyle dropped his hand to his side. “But thank you.” He walked across the bullpen and sat down at Baker’s desk.
Larkin closed his eyes, rewound the day in his mind, returned to that morning—the men’s restroom downstairs. The flood of emotion was immediate, a sucker punch that stole his breath.
—Boom. Squish. Crack.—
He wanted to cry. And it wasn’t because of how Ulmer had spoken to him, how Ulmer had scared him. Ulmer was irrelevant, had only been the association, the catalyst, the reminder. The panic and fear and heartache was from August 2, 2002, and the near-twenty years that’d since transpired had done nothing to soften those reactions in Larkin. It was as fresh as if it had been yesterday. Today. Five minutes ago.
