“Why don’t you just tell me?”
Larkin lowered the phone from his ear and pointed with the receiver. “You’re an artist. Look at the shadow.”
“I’m going to pretend you saidplease,” Doyle murmured without looking up. But then Larkin watched realization dawn in the way Doyle raised his eyebrows. “It’s a tub. A clawfoot, maybe, based on the shape.”
Larkin smiled when Doyle met his eyes. He raised the phone and asked, “Did CSU get pictures of Ricky’s bathroom.”
“Uh, yeah, I got them here somewhere. I was going to send you everything—”
“Does Ricky have a clawfoot tub.”
“Hang on, Christ… there’s, like, three hundred photos to sift through.”
“Sift faster.”
Bosman swore again, and the clicking of his computer mouse was a constant undercurrent. “I thought you Cold Case guys didn’t have to worry about the first forty-eight?”
“We don’t. But I’m close to something.”
“Yeah? Based on what?”
“Instinct.”
Bosman clicked a few more times and then said, “Here we are. What a dumpster fire. Okay, yes, he’s got a once-blue now mostly rusted old-fashioned tub.”
“The head—top right,” Larkin continued. “Is there any kind of nick or gouge in the porcelain.”
“Yeah. Hard to say how big; CSU didn’t include a scale.”
“No. They’d have no reason to.”
“Want to tell me what’s going on? I thought you said Ricky didn’t kill anyone.”
“He didn’t,” Larkin answered. “But he might very well have been complicit in the murders. I believe his apartment was the safe house that allowed the perpetrator the time needed to construct his masks.”
“But there’s no—”
Line two on Larkin’s phone began blinking. “I’ll call you later,” Larkin said before pushing the phone hook and then tapping line two. “Detective Larkin.”
“Detective Larkin, my name is Joe Sinclair. I’m a reporter fromOut in NYC. We’d like to do a piece on you and the cold case investigation about the body found in Madison Square Park. We understand that he was a young gay man, and you yourself identify as a gay man—”
Larkin ground his molars, his left hand clenching unconsciously into a fist that he had to shake out when his fingernails bit into his palm. “Mr. Sinclair, my homosexuality is not what makes me a good detective.”
Porter spun in his chair to stare at Larkin.
“Er—no, I mean, of course not. But we’re always looking for members of the community to elevate.”
“Which is perfectly reasonable, given that minority groups, by our very nature, are forced to be our own champions. However, are you looking to interview me because I’m a fucking fantastic detective with a track record to prove it, who is also gay, or do you want to interview me because I’m gay. Because being gay does not qualify me to be particularly good at any one thing. Nor does it make me a pleasant person, as you have likely gathered from this conversation.”
Doyle rubbed at his stubble and shook his head absently.
“Perhaps I’ve caught you at a bad time,” Joe suggested.
“You haven’t, I assure you. And regarding the investigation, no comment.” Larkin hung up the phone, turned, and shouted over the banister, “Stop patching the press through to my goddamn phone!”
The phone rang again.
Doyle held a hand up and said, “I’ll get this one.” He grabbed the receiver before Larkin could. “Detective Larkin’s desk.” He listened, looked at Larkin, and repeated the message, “There’s been a body dump at Madison Square Park.”
