“Let’s not do this while you’re driving. It’s rush hour and school’s out.”
“I meant, if that had been true, he would have had a reflective safety vest on. A hardhat at minimum.”
“Sure, I mean, I’m not a lumberjack—”
“But he didn’t. He had blackened jeans, but the grime abruptly cut off at the knees.”
“What’s that mean?” Doyle asked.
“An apron. Roger wore one. You wear one. Artists wear aprons. He had UV protective glasses. I suppose I didn’t think twice about eye protection. Of course you’d need that when taking a chainsaw to a tree. But you’d also need that if you’re working in front of a forge all day.”
Doyle made a sound of agreement.
“I was so caught up… making myself feel better, after the start of a shit morning, by poking holes in his timeline that I overlooked why those holes really existed. His nerves weren’t because he’d gotten stoned out of his mind and feared being reprimanded by his boss. He was nervous because he had Danielle Moreno’s body in his car and had never come so close to being caught in his entire career.”
Larkin sped past the Franz Sigel Park, a corner bodega with a bright yellow awning and a gaggle of preteen boys on bikes, all drinking sodas and laughing, and a barber shop with an older gentleman sitting outside the front door in a plastic lawn chair. He drove by blocks of hundred-year-old walk-ups in the classic shapes of H’s and E’s, early-evening sunlight gleaming off brick and green fire escapes like they were about to catch fire.
“You think he’s running scared?” Doyle asked into the lull between them.
“I do. He held on to Danielle’s body as long as he could, waiting for the police presence to die down, because compulsion wouldn’t let him dump her anywhere but where it mattered to him—the park. But she was beginning to bloat and smell and decompose, and he learned of Ricky’s arrest yesterday and panicked. His panic is good in the sense that it proves Ricky couldn’t have been involved with the dumping, but problematic in that I believe he might try to get rid of other evidence now.”
“The death masks.”
“Yes.”
Larkin made a left on East 165th Street and turned down Walton Avenue. He’d passed a high school and a ninety-nine-cent store when his GPS pinged their arrival. He pulled to the side of the road, parked, and turned off the engine. They both checked their holstered pistols without a word, then climbed out of the car. Larkin moved to the front door of another H-shaped building as Doyle trailed, on his phone again, calling for backup—no lights, no sirens. A posted notice beside the intercom indicated there was to be absolutely no loitering, littering, ball-playing, or sitting on the property. Perhaps ironically, an older black woman sat in a camping chair to the left of the sign, wearing big sunglasses, and reading what Larkin surmised to be a romance novel, based on the dated but nonetheless appealing cover featuring a bare-chested man.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“Sir,” she answered, without looking up from her page.
“Do you live in this building.”
“I do.”
Larkin removed his badge and displayed it, despite still not having gained her attention. “Detective Larkin with the NYPD.”
“I didn’t think you were with the LAPD, sir.”
“We’re obligated to identify ourselves regardless.”
She hummed absently in reply, turned the page.
“Will you buzz us inside.” He recalled his earlier conversation with Miyamoto and added, “Please.”
“You got a warrant?” She asked, but was still mostly focused on her book.
Larkin tucked his badge away and then removed his second warrant. “I have an arrest warrant for Harold Regmore.”
“He goes by Harry.”
“Fantastic. Buzz me in, ma’am.”
She finally looked away from her book, lowered the sunglasses, and studied Larkin over the rims. “I know I said his apartment stank, but arresting him for not taking out the trash seems excessive.” She leaned forward in her chair to study Doyle standing a foot or two behind Larkin before saying with obvious appreciation, “Mm… just like Duke Simon.” She bookmarked her page, stood from the chair, and tapped a code on the intercom panel.
The lock disengaged and Larkin grabbed the door handle. He and Doyle moved quickly through the lobby, thetip-tapof their oxfords bouncing off the tiled floor and vaulted ceiling. They went to the staircase on the left, drew their weapons, and cautiously began to ascend. The second floor echoed with televisions and voices behind closed doors, but otherwise the hall was empty. Larkin turned the corner and kept moving to the third floor. When he reached the landing, the smell hit him. Maybe to an untrained nose, that smell was sour milk and rotting leftovers kept to warm in the sun for a few days. But to a cop who’d experienced death in all its various stages?
“Decomp,” Doyle whispered from behind.
