Roger looked like if he could breathe the fire used in his kilns and turn Larkin to ash where he stood, he’d have done it. “I asked him one night, after we’d been out partying in the Village. He said some guy had made a pass, or was going to—I don’t remember the specifics, but it was in regard to Jessie. Andy was very protective of her. I think she was his only real friend. His family disowned him after he came out—he told me that. And honestly, I think his brothers used to beat the crap out of him. Probably doubled down on it when he came out.”
“So Andrew had a history of being abused,” Doyle repeated, “but was willing to stand up to a stranger to defend Jessica?”
Roger shrugged his big shoulders. “It wasn’t a stranger. He said it was his super’s brother… or cousin… something like that. He’d said it was some creep in his building he got real bad vibes from. They ended up in a scrap, which you can imagine Andy lost, with what his nose looked like. But I guess it explained why he’d always want to make sure Jessie got home safe. Or he’d call from my place to check on her, like they were married.”
“Why didn’t they just move?” Doyle asked.
Roger looked bemused. “The poor kid couldn’t afford a hospital bill to fix his busted nose. The last thing they had money for was security and first month’s rent for a new place. Like I said, Andy didn’t have any family to fall back on, and if memory serves me, Jessie I think only had a grandparent? They were on their own.”
Doyle pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket, looked at Larkin, and said, “Bosman.” He moved deeper into the workshop before answering with a smoky, “Hey, Bosman, did CSU find anything?”
Larkin studied Roger. The antipathy pouring off him, without Doyle there to act as a buffer, was palpable. “Tell me more about the man who attacked Andrew.”
“There’s nothing else to tell.”
“A brother or a cousin or something like that,” Larkin quoted. “Which is it.”
“How the hell should I know?” Roger snapped. “It was twenty years ago, and a one-time story a not-so-sober twink told me in between grinding up on my thigh to Bikini Kill.”
“You don’t remember the specifics of Andrew’s story, but you recall the name of a now-obscure feminist punk band from the riot grrrl movement of the ’90s playing in the club.”
The color was back in Roger’s face as he spluttered, “I—I really liked that band, okay? So yes, I remember they’d been playing because Bikini Kill had recently split up and I was still smarting over it.” He looked over Larkin’s shoulder, likely studying Doyle, who was still on his call. “The guy, whoever it was trying to make a move on Jessie, he didn’t live there, I don’t think. Andy said something like, the guy had met him and Jessie when they were moving in—I assumed he was hired to move boxes, you know? But honestly, I don’t remember more than that. I really don’t think Andytoldme more than that.”
Moving in.
A photo from the days of dusty orange exposures, red eyes, and fingertips over lenses. A shared second captured for posterity, like a timestamp of youth and rebellion, and the past lived, and the dreams of the future. Simple in its framing, innocent in its subjects, evil in the clue it left imprinted on the backdrop.
“Do you know why we take photographs, Mr. Hunt.”
“What’s that?”
“We take photos because we don’t want to forget. Even before the advent of such technology, we’ve always looked for ways to capture our likeness. Not out of egotism—not really. But because we fear being forgotten. We fear forgetting those we loved. But if we have a tangible reminder, a memento mori, there’s a kind of relief. A physical connection that still exists. We all die—that is inevitable. What matters is whether or not someone will want to remember you.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Larkin lifted one shoulder in a light shrug. “Only two people remembered Andrew Gorman. Jessica Lopez, who’s currently in the hospital, and the man who brutally murdered him.”
In a quiet and somber tone, Roger said, “I didn’t kill Andy.”
“Do you ever construct masks.”
“Masks?” Roger frowned, glanced at Doyle as the other detective ended his call and was approaching them again. Then he said, “No. Rings, necklaces, bracelets—headpieces, even. I’ve never made a mask.”
“Can we take a few of your hammers in for testing.”
“What? No. Absolutely not. You’ll need a warrant and you’ll hear from my lawyer if that’s our next step.”
Doyle reached a hand out, took Larkin’s elbow, and steered him away from Roger. He closed the space between them and lowered his head so that he could whisper, “Bosman says CSU pulled a few long hairs from Ricky’s tub drain. Red.”
“Any with follicles.”
“Yeah. They’re being sent in to test against Danielle Moreno. What do you think?”
“I think you should make nice with Mr. Hunt on my behalf while I make a call, and then we leave.”
Doyle managed to suppress a chuckle, but only barely. He let go of Larkin’s arm and moved to Roger.
Larkin pulled out his own phone and dialed Precinct 19. He requested Miyamoto, was put on hold, and heard the tail end of Roger’s comment, putting an emphasis onpartner.
