Larkin pushed the chair back and got to his feet. He walked across the length of the bullpen and entered the breakroom off to the right. The stink of burned coffee hit him like a wall, but then Larkin picked up a second, sweeter scent underneath. He zeroed in on the box on the countertop.
Krispy Kreme.
Detective Miyamoto had been here. She, in her own words, had PMS-induced cravings for sweets that were so intense, she alone could keep her dentist gainfully employed until menopause. And when that sugar crash came, she’d buy a dozen full-size donuts—“Icing and cream-filled, do you think I’m fucking playing?”—and after polishing off about half the box, Miyamoto would leave the rest in the break room for whoever else was on the clock.
Larkin approached the counter, lifted one side of the lid, and peeked inside. He smiled, pulled the cardboard top open the rest of the way, and removed a napkin that Miyamoto had scribbledLarkinon with a ballpoint. Underneath was half a donut: yellow frosting, confetti sprinkles, and cake batter filling oozing from one side. Larkin took it, then swiped a magnet off the front of the fridge that wasn’t holding a flyer about departmental sports teams or the warning from Lieutenant Connor:Ulmer—I swear to God, if you touch my lox, I’m sticking my boot up your ass. He then returned to the bullpen.
Doyle looked up. “That doesn’t look like a magnet.”
Larkin instinctively angled his body, as if he were ready to defend his donut against a tackle and scuffle maneuver. In his other hand, he raised the magnet, realized he’d grabbed one in the shape of a cat’s backside, butthole and all, (some beat cop thought they were funny as hell), and tossed it.
Doyle caught it one-handed—show-off, Larkin thought—and then laughed as he studied it. “Cute.”
“Detective Doyle finds cat anuses cute,” Larkin commented. He carefully tore his donut in two, shoved one wedge in his mouth, then sucked the cream filling off his thumb. Doyle was staring at him when he glanced up from the task at hand.
“Patron saint of June 5, are you?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Doyle’s smile was back, although it seemed to never be gone for long. “It’s only the holiest of holidays for cops—National Donut Day.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“There sure as fuck is,” Doyle replied. “Krispy Kreme?”
Larkin glanced at the remaining chunk of processed sugar in his hand, then nodded.
“June 5,” Doyle reiterated. “You thank me then. Do you know the difference between a life mask and death mask?”
“If this is intended to be a trick question, the names give away the answer,” Larkin said before eating the rest of his donut.
“You’re cute,” Doyle stated. “In a stick-up-the-ass, sees the world in black-and-white with a severely disadvantaged sense of humor sort of way.”
“That’s inappropriate.”
“Life masks were made with wax or plaster laid over the individual’s face, allowed to harden, then removed in sections. From that negative, artists could recreate a positive face with all the detailed characteristics unique to the sitter: wrinkles, scars, nose and ear sizes—you get my point. From there, the mask could be utilized after the fact to sculpt busts or paint portraits. Washington and Lincoln sat for life masks.”
The donut had left Larkin’s fingertips sticky, and he rubbed his thumb absently against the pads of his index and pointer while stating, “That’s not a life mask, though.”
Doyle’s eyes crinkled a little, and those flecks of gold seemed to spark, like….
—white sunshine skittering across the shattered surface of a lake—
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not an artist,” Larkin answered.
“Are you familiar with the phrase memento mori?”
“It’s Latin—remember that you must die.”
Doyle nodded. He fiddled with the magnet still in his hand. “A tangible reminder of our own mortality. It’s a study in death.”
Larkin considered this for a moment, then said, “That’s an interesting word choice.”
“Which?”
“Study. As a noun, it has half a dozen different meanings, including: a piece of artwork.”
