O’Halloran nodded. “That’s exactly right. Danielle’s stage name was Bettie.”
“Bettie,” Larkin repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Like Bettie Page, only with red hair,” O’Halloran answered. “That was her schtick. At least, according to her records with Vice.” He motioned them to follow as he led the way to the scene.
The fountain, a replica of its 1843 original, wasn’t typically turned on until the warmer months, and thank God, Larkin thought, park officials were still holding off, despite that exceptionally warm week they’d had earlier in the month, which had sent sections of the park into early bloom. Rain was bad enough for evidence collection, but a body submerged in water all but promised no results. The fountain was surrounded by massive flower urns and an ornamental fence about waist-high. CSU was already down on the bare brick of the fountain, about two feet lower than the pathway. Larkin was fairly certain it was the same detective from Monday—Millett.
They stopped at the fence and peered down. Danielle Moreno’s body was like a broken doll, having likely been tossed over the handrail without a second thought. She’d landed on her side, one arm flung out and partially obscuring her face, one leg twisted back in a pose seen only by professional ballerinas. Her long red hair was wet and plastered to bloated and discolored skin. She was nude from the waist up.
Doyle quickly closed his umbrella, passed it to Larkin, and called down to CSU about joining the scene.
“Not looking for an assistant, thank you.” Yeah, that was Millett. Larkin recognized the dry tone, even if he couldn’t discern anything about his person, once again due to the full-body PPE.
“Let me check one thing,” Doyle said. “Before it gets washed away. If it’s even still there.”
Squatted beside the body and underneath another makeshift tent, Millett lowered his camera, sighed with enough exasperation that a cloud of white air puffed around his face, then motioned for Doyle with one hand. Doyle hoisted himself over the railing and jumped into the fountain. He accepted a pair of latex gloves from Millett, snapped them on, then crouched beside Danielle.
O’Halloran said, without looking away from the scene below, “I want you to be real with me, Grim.This… that request last night… Monday morning.” Larkin could feel O’Halloran turn to study his profile now. “They’re all connected, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know,” Larkin said automatically, Connor’s threat to keep this on the down-low until they were ready ringing loud in his memory.
“You’re full of shit.”
Larkin cast O’Halloran a sideways glance but said nothing.
“I don’t know who picked up those other cases—Simone and Baby. But I know none of them were ever linked to each other. It’d be common knowledge.” O’Halloran worked his jaw again, another audible crack that suggested he held a considerable amount of stress there. “But tell me this: if Charlie hadn’t sat on Natasha’s case, would Danielle still be alive?”
Larkin considered O’Halloran for a long moment. He didn’t like Ray. Didn’t pretend to. And O’Halloran felt the exact same about him. But Larkin had to give the Homicide detective credit—he’d put together the scope of their situation very quickly. “Barring an act of God, yes, I believe she would be.”
O’Halloran swore. He ran a freckled hand through his strawberry-blond hair. “That lazy fucker. This is turning into what I think it is, isn’t it?”
Larkin said nothing.
“He’s been roaming free for nearly thirty years?”
Again, Larkin said nothing, which really said everything.
O’Halloran studied the scene again. “Charlie’s going to retire and leave the rest of us to clean up the mess he could have prevented if he’d done his fucking job. Goddamn cock-fucker.”
“You Irish really do enjoy a good bit of blasphemy in the morning.”
“I want you to find this sick bastard, Grim.” O’Halloran turned to Larkin again. “And make Charlie eat dirt. Don’t let him ride off into the sunset and let the rest of Homicide take the heat for a—” He didn’t sayserial killer, but the words existed between them like a blight.
“I need Natasha’s case.”
“It’s still Charlie’s. I don’t have that authority.”
“Then give me the case number. I need physical evidence to link these murders,” Larkin explained. “I’ve got a man sitting in jail who didn’t do it, but he helped. Problem is, he won’t admit to whowasthe perpetrator. He wants the credit all to himself. If I can find something in the Property Clerk’s warehouse… anything that proves Ricky Goulding wasn’t acting alone…. Maybe something that was never tested for DNA.”
Releasing a held breath, O’Halloran dug his phone free from his suit coat. “Give me your number.” After he inputted Larkin’s cell into his address book, O’Halloran said, “I’ll text you.”
“When you called in Danielle Moreno, you didn’t happen to inquire after her current place of employment, did you.”
“Why?”
“I need to know if she was working anywhere near Alphabet City.”
“Larkin,” Doyle called from below.
