“I saydaddyand you immediately ask how old I am?”
“What?No. I didn’t mean—”
Doyle crossed his arms. He was grinning so hard, his face looked about ready to split in two. “Thirty-nine.”
Larkin nodded. His cheeks were burning. He looked at the sketch a second time.
Doyle shifted, got closer, and whispered, “Is that a good age?”
“Jesus Christ.” Larkin returned to his own desk as Doyle laughed again.
It was 10:41 p.m. when the bullpen emptied for the night. Ulmer had dropped a printout on Larkin’s desk as he passed by it on the way to the stairs. A request had been submitted to Missing Persons to search their archives for any women that fit the dates or known aliases Larkin had, which they’d acknowledged but provided no timeline on the turnaround. A similar request had been sent to Homicide, with the added notation of these women being dumped in Tompkins Square Park. Homicide had not yet acknowledged the inquiry.
Thugs, Larkin thought as he finished scanning the document.
“Hey.”
Larkin looked to his left.
Doyle was pulling his suit coat on, obscuring his shoulder holster. He picked up his portfolio bag while asking, “Want to grab something to eat?”
Larkin glanced at his watch. Yes. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and still had a headache thumping behind his left eye.
“There’s some great Chinese about a block from my place,” Doyle continued. “Best egg rolls you’ve ever had.”
Larkin considered the invitation. He didn’t want to go home. Wasn’t ready to handle whatever inevitable fallout was waiting for him there. But a look around the bullpen told him, if not home with Noah, he’d be sitting in the precinct alone. And for the first time in… he honestly couldn’t remember how long, the prospect ofaloneheld little appeal. It was disconcerting how quickly Doyle’s presence had become routine to Larkin’s professional life. He seemed to complement Larkin’s job, despite how drastically different their careers were, and he was smart and quick and… just sort of a pleasure to be in the general vicinity of.
“I don’t want to impose,” Larkin answered.
“It’s not imposing if I offered, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
Doyle tilted his head in the direction of the stairs.
Larkin quickly collected his casework, returned it all to its accordion folder, put on his suit coat, and followed Doyle to the first floor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Doyle lived on the edge of the Village—West Thirteenth between Seventh and Eighth—in a walk-up painted fire-engine red. Warm tungsten orange glowed in the windows of residents still awake at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, and the lamps outlined the shape of the fire escape zigzagging all the way up to the fifth floor.
Larkin had asked if he should follow, but Doyle suggested they take his Audi and he’d hop the subway uptown the next morning. While Larkin drove down Lexington, Doyle had called in a takeout order to the restaurant, from a menu he knew by heart, apparently. Sweet-and-sour chicken, lo mein, dumplings, and both egg rolls and vegetable spring rolls. And when they’d reached Doyle’s neighborhood, he instructed Larkin on where to park, got out of the car, and said he’d run to the end of the block to pick up dinner and would be right back.
Larkin sat behind the wheel, watching Doyle disappear and reappear in the pools of light cast off by the overhead streetlamps. He checked his phone. No more texts or calls from Noah since he’d hung up on his husband midsentence. Larkin considered phoning, telling Noah he was done with work for the night but was grabbing a quick bite with a colleague before heading home.
A bite at Doyle’s apartment, not a restaurant.
But why should it matter where they ate? Larkin had admitted to Doyle just that morning that he sometimes struggled with sensory overload, that it kicked compulsive tendencies into overdrive. And it’d been a long day ofexactlythat. The fact that Doyle suggested somewhere private, quiet, and low-key was really the selling point to eating dinner at all. No competing conversations, bright overheads, or clangs and bangs from a working kitchen.
Not that Noah would see it that way.
“To hell with him.” Larkin pulled his key from the ignition and climbed out of the black Audi. He tapped the alarm button, the chirp bouncing off the brick facades, and turned as Doyle came back from the corner. He held a paper bag in one arm and dug his keys out from his trouser pocket with his other hand. “Let me hold that.” Larkin took the takeout.
“Thanks. Hope you don’t mind hoofing it,” Doyle said as he unlocked the front door and held it open. “I’m on the fourth floor.”
“I live in a walk-up too,” Larkin answered, following Doyle through the vestibule and to the stairs. After rounding the corner on the third floor and starting up the final flight, Larkin asked, “Have you lived here long.”
“Hmm… about six years.” Doyle stopped at 4A, unlocked it, and stepped inside. He flipped a switch on the wall, held the door with his foot, and took the bag back. “Come in.”
