Larkin stared at the name. He nearly let it go to voicemail. But he knew Noah. His husband would call his desk next. Larkin tapped Accept, put the phone to his ear, and asked quietly, “What is it.”
“Wow, does everyone get that welcoming or just me?”
“I’m working. What do you need.”
“I’ve been texting you all day—”
“I’ve been working all day,” Larkin cut in. Never mind the morning meltdown or foot pursuit of an armed suspect or the rest of the fuckery that’d made up his Tuesday. Noah wouldn’t care about any of that.
“Well, you had time to read the messages.”
Larkin planted an elbow on the desktop, covered his eyes with his hand, and murmured, “I have to go.”
“When are you coming home? It’s already eight thirty.”
“I don’t know.”
“Everett.” And the way Noah saidEverett, it was like he’d learned how to weaponize Larkin’s name, use it against him.
It made Larkin cringe. Made him despise a name he’d once quite liked.
Evie.
Larkin shook his head a little and said, “I’m working a big case, Noah. I don’t know when I’m coming home.”
“That’s great. Our marriage is at a crossroads, but some dead guy is more impor—”
Larkin tapped End and set his phone down. He raised his head in time to see Doyle stand from his chair, eyeing Larkin in open and honest concern. But Doyle didn’t say anything, because it wasn’t his business and he knew that, respected that. He took his two sketches on a walk to the copy room, which could be found easily without directions—just follow the sound of mechanics and the smell of toner.
Aiko Miyamoto, phone to her ear, spun in her chair to watch Doyle pass her desk and vanish into the closet-sized room. She shuffled her feet, picked up her cell, and then a moment later, Larkin’s phone had a text notification.
He opened the app. Miyamoto had sent him a peach emoji. He looked across the bullpen with a frown.
Miyamoto waggled her eyebrows before whoever had her on hold finally answered and she began talking into the receiver.
Larkin’s cell buzzed with another incoming call, and this time, he really was going to send Noah to voicemail. He didn’t have the time for this—but there was no name on the ID, only a local number. He answered with a brisk, “Detective Larkin.”
“Detective, this is Camila Garcia… Marco’s mother.”
Larkin’s mental Rolodex immediately spun to a different case.
Marco Garcia. Pushed in front of an incoming Q train. Tunnel vision. No drugs. Newly reopened twenty-three-year-old cold case. Camila Garcia had refused all attempts at communication thus far.
“Mrs. Garcia. Thank you for calling.”
“You were extremely persistent. I thought, if I didn’t call you, eventually you’d show up at the salon while I was getting my hair done.”
Bit of an exaggeration, Larkin thought with a frown. “I would like to take some time to speak in person.”
“Well….” Camila clearly wasn’t so keen on that. “Everything I know I told the cops twenty-three years ago. There’s nothing new to add.”
“I understand. But with all due respect to Detective Kent before me, I’m not him.”
“Marco wasn’t into drugs.” She was firm.
“I agree,” Larkin answered. “And so I have different questions to ask, different avenues I’d like to explore. I understand that it’s difficult to dredge these memories back up—”
“No, detective.No.” Camila laughed a little bitterly, brokenly. “When I wake up, I’m already thinking of Marco. I go shopping and see those Debbie cakes he ate as a boy. I walk my neighborhood and can point out where he scraped his knee riding his bike, the rosebush I made him and his prom date pose in front of for pictures, the exact spot he found a kitten in a cardboard box and took it home because his heart was so big. There is nothing to dredge up, you see. Marco is always with me. My heart is always broken.”
