Doyle had answered, “I should be so lucky, Mr. Hunt.”
“Detective Miyamoto.”
“Good, you’re there. I need you to go to my desk and pull a piece of evidence.”
“Gosh,” she drawled. “I can’t imagine who this is.”
“It’s Larkin.”
“I know that, dummy. I’m teasing because if you remembered to say please and thank you even half of the time, you’d have wildly different results with most people.”
“Please go to my desk.”
“You might even salvage a relationship with Ulmer.”
“You must have me confused with someone who gives a fuck. He leaked my case to the press. Please go to my desk.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You give conflicting messages. Do you want me to say please or not.”
“I meant about Ulmer. Did he really go to the press?”
“I’m quite certain.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I wish I could suggest a more nefarious reason beyond he is an unconscionable prick. Please go to my desk.”
“Christ. You’re calling a landline. Hold on.” She picked up again a minute later at Larkin’s desk. “Okay, what did you need?”
“Top folder.” Larkin listened to the distant sound of the accordion file being unbound and opened. “There’s a photograph of two kids holding up a key on moving day.”
“Yeah, found it.”
“Take a picture and text it to me.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you call my cell, then?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were in the office.”
“All right. Give me a second.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Grumpy Gus.”
Larkin ended the call. He’d moved toward the wall with the double entendre signs and baseball memories while speaking with Miyamoto. Now, he studied a sepia-colored team photo, complete with collared shirts, ties, and handlebar mustaches. The typeface on the bottom right indicated a copyright of 1882 and an address for the photographer’s studio in Union Square. The Metropolitans—a defunct team. Larkin’s gaze cut to another team photo, black-and-white, the first season of the newly formed Mets, circa 1962. He was only into baseball in a casual sense, but clearly the Mets found their roots in the Metropolitans? Color began to seep into the photos—that aesthetic unique to the ’70s, and then the mustaches of the ’80s made themselves known, all the way through just the past few years.
“Ready to go, Larkin?” That was Doyle.
Without looking away from the shrine to America’s pastime, Larkin said, “I see you understand the concept I spoke of earlier, Mr. Hunt. You’re quite the fan.”
“There’s something satisfying in rooting for the underdog team,” Roger remarked. “They take a beating but keep coming back.”
Like Andrew did.
Larkin’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, opened the image from Miyamoto, and downloaded it. He touched the screen to expand the picture and study the background—the men who’d been moving the mattress inside the apartment building, unknowingly included in the shared memory of Jessica and Andrew.
