“Ira Doyle.”
“I don’t regret what I said,” Miyamoto stated. “You’ve got a smashing ass.”
“Ah… thank you.”
Larkin glanced up. There was definitely a bit of color under Doyle’s stubble. Maybe Doyle had met his flirtatious match in Miyamoto. Or a future HR harassment case. It was difficult to tell. Larkin said to Miyamoto, “Could you put Roger Hunt in Interview One for me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At 7:31 a.m., the coffee was lukewarm and the egg and cheese cold, but the breakfast Doyle had grabbed for Larkin on his way in had done wonders to better his mood. It was like that anchor that’d been dragging him down into the crushing, cold blackness of the ocean had finally slipped free of his body and he was kicking upward, the very distant ball of sunlight sparkling overhead, promising warmth and light and oxygen as long as Larkin didn’t stop swimming.
He knew this wasn’t the end of his troubles with Noah. In fact, it was going to be the beginning of something new and likely awful. But as Larkin entered the interview room with the pressure and taste of Doyle’s mouth still on his own, he felt practically… jovial.
Until he saw the man sitting at the table.
“You’re not Roger Hunt,” Larkin said from where he stood in the doorway.
Not-Roger was practically a kid. Twenty, tops, with a mop of curly brown hair, big doe eyes, a few necklaces, rings on nearly each finger, and piercings. Lots of piercings. Like a pin cushion.
“No shit, Sherlock,” he said with an eye roll and attitude that so many of the filthy rich, entitled, just-moved-to-Brooklyn sort possessed.
“Who are you.”
“Brian.”
“Brian. Why did you say you were Roger Hunt.”
That eye roll again. “I told the cop downstairs Iworkedfor Roger Hunt. Great to know my taxes pay the salaries of people with listening problems.”
“You don’t pay taxes. Your parents still claim you as a dependent.”
Brian’s jaw dropped a little, and he made an offended snort that confirmed Larkin was correct. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
“It’s a statement of fact—”
“Okay,” Doyle interrupted. He slipped past Larkin and stepped inside the room. “Brian. Detectives Doyle and Larkin. Are you here about the police sketches?”
Brian was quiet, and his snobbish expression softened at Doyle’s friendly tone. He picked up his phone from the tabletop, flicked through some open apps, then held it up to display the home page of Local4Locals. “This is my boss, Roger. He called me this morning—so upset, mind you—because his face is on a wanted poster.”
“It’s a composite sketch of someone who is essentially a missing person,” Larkin corrected. “Nowhere does it saywanted.”
Brian actually raised his hand like he wasnotgoing to communicate further with Larkin. “Do you know how embarrassing this is for him? Roger told me to come sort this out. He’s super busy, and this is the last thing he needs before a show.”
“Unfortunately this isn’t something you can handle for him,” Doyle said, polite but insistent. “We need to speak with Mr. Hunt.”
“Aboutwhat?” Brian asked, indignant tone seeping back into his words. “I’m his personal assistant. His life is my life.”
Doyle smiled and simply reiterated. “We need to speak with Mr. Hunt.”
Brian groaned, loudly. “He’s going tofreakout.” But he placed a call and put his cell to his ear.
“Freak out,” Doyle repeated amusedly, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.
“I’m about to freak out,” Larkin said dryly, resting his shoulder on the doorjamb.
Brian gave them both a look and then said into the phone, “Hey. The cops won’t talk to me. They keep saying… … Yeah, I told them that. They don’t care.” He pointedly ignored Larkin, stared at Doyle, and added to the conversation, “Typical.”
“Your people skills are proving to not be infallible,” Larkin said.
