Kelly pursed her lips. “Okay, but we’re closed for the night.”
Larkin looked at his watch. “It’s 4:56.”
“Yeah.”
“And you close at 5:00.” He extended the warrant.
Kelly blew out a breath, took the form, and motioned them to follow. She unlocked the HR office, flicked the overheads, and said, “Let me check the filing cabinets.” With that, she deposited her coat and purse onto her computer chair and disappeared around the corner.
Larkin and Doyle stood at the same front desk with its high countertop. The room was quiet but for the hum of the fluorescents overhead.
Larkin’s even tone broke the stillness. “You inappropriately manhandled me, and now we’re in HR.”
Doyle chuckled, deep and rich and thoroughly amused. “Worth it.” He gave the hair tie on Larkin’s wrist a gentle snap.
Larkin didn’t answer, but he caught Doyle’s hand, gave it a brief squeeze, then let go.
Kelly returned, by Larkin’s count, two minutes and seventeen seconds later. She was carrying a hanging folder that’d clearly been hanging the better part of a decade, now bent and warped in on its four inches worth of paperwork. “Sorry that took so long.” She plopped the file on the countertop with a touch of over-the-top dramatics. “Mr. Regmore has worked here alongtime, apparently.”
“When did he start,” Larkin asked, already grabbing the file and opening to the most recent document.
“1991.”
Larkin glanced up, stared.
“May,” Kelly quickly clarified.
He grunted and returned to digging through the mass.
“So are you two, like, crime-fighting boyfriends?” Kelly asked.
“No,” Doyle answered quickly.
Larkin lifted several years’ worth of performance reviews and set them to the side.
“When a guy kisses me like that,” Kelly continued, “I better get either lobster for dinner or new sweatshirts to borrow.”
Larkin heard the smile in Doyle’s voice when he asked, “What’s the outcome been so far?”
“Two lobster dinners and one cheapskate who ordered the chicken.”
“Tough break.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What department within Parks and Recreation does Mr. Regmore work for,” Larkin asked, looking up. “I see training certificates for half a dozen unrelated skills.”
Kelly reached out, spun the folder around so she could study the contents, and then said after a minute of searching herself, “He was hired originally as part of the restoration crew at Tompkins Square Park. Oh my God.” She slapped the folder with both hands and looked up with an eager smile. “You guys are so smart. Remember that OSHA stuff you were talking about on Monday? It looks like that’s why he transferred in 1998—some accident with insecticide when he was working the restoration at Madison….”
“Good call,” Larkin murmured to Doyle.
“Wasn’t helpful until after the fact, but thank you.”
Kelly bobbed her head absently while digging toward the bottom of the folder. “Here it is.” She handed Larkin a printout that was older than her. “He’s been the Parks Department’s official blacksmith since June of 1998. Isn’t that crazy? We have a blacksmith like ye olden times or something.”
“I appreciate you looking into that.” Doyle ended his call before saying, “Harry’s supervisor—if you can call it that, he’s left to his own devices pretty much at all times—confirmed he called out sick this morning. She said there was nothing strange in the request, other than he’s not taken sick leave or a vacation in years. By her account, Harry’s a stellar employee. Hardworking, on-time, personable, talented.”
Larkin pressed down on the gas, and the Audi accelerated north on Grand Concourse in the Bronx. “He had said he was there to remove the crabapple.”
