His brusqueness was part of an uncontrollable defense mechanism. And sometimes, after a difficult day, it was triggered by even the most well-meaning of people in Larkin’s life. Like Noah. Noah had always taken it personally. That Larkin must have forgotten to ask how his day was because he didn’t care to know, or was unpleasantly direct merely to get the niceties over with. And that hadn’t been true. Of course Larkin had cared to know about Noah’s day. They’d been married. They’d been in love.
Larkin might have had irreversible brain trauma, but it didn’t make him stupid.
And after spending the last fifty-one days in the company of Ira Doyle, he was beginning to find the words to describe how Noah had made him feel for the last year of their relationship.
One of them wassmall.
“I’m not clear on the specifics of what exactly was stolen,” Doyle began. “But I know the security footage at the diamond store was corrupted.”
“Inside job,” Larkin answered.
Doyle laughed but held a hand out. “Let me finish the story. Major Cases pulled footage from the subway entrance at Rockefeller Center and got a few guys who vaguely fit the description of the suspect—”
“But they called you,” Larkin interrupted. “Which means something about the witness’s story didn’t look right. So instead of blasting the faces of most likely innocent people who, let me guess, were described as dark-skinned and wearing a hoodie, someone opted to pull their head out of their ass and employ in-house support first.”
“That’d be Detective Weaver.”
Larkin spun his Rolodex and stopped on Weaver, Erik. His memory had bullet pointed: foul-mouthed Ryan Gosling look-alike who’d provided Larkin’s card to his own CI last October—an equally foul-mouthed redhead who’d been trying to light a fire under the cold case of his mother’s murder. “He’s decent,” Larkin admitted.
“And smart,” Doyle confirmed. “He brought in the vic to sit for a composite sketch. Even with recent trauma taken into account, the process is usually two or three hours.”
Larkin thought of the wastebasket full of discarded pages from Doyle’s sketch pad, frustration seeping out from the crumpled contours of expensive paper.
“But I sat with her for nearly five hours,” Doyle continued, “and couldn’t get her to settle on any one sketch.”
Larkin cocked his head slightly and asked, his voice inflecting, “What’d you do?”
Doyle smiled, responding to Larkin’s noted interest with “I added a mole.”
“What.”
“I excused myself to the bathroom and texted Weaver that I intended to add an unremarkable detail to the sketch,” Doyle explained. “It was a predetermined fabrication to see if she’d agree to its accuracy.”
Larkin felt something in his shoulders begin to loosen. “And if she did, you’d know you were dealing with a false witness.” When Doyle nodded, Larkin added, “You are a very competent detective.”
“Thank you.”
“It was an inside job.”
Doyle laughed again and said teasingly, “All right, Mr. Holmes.”
Larkin shrugged.
“What about you? Was Connor available to speak with?”
“Yes. He wants me on the case because—” And then Larkin realized what Doyle had done. Again and again, he had this way of engaging Larkin in simple discussion that would draw him away from the distress that was causing an internal spiral. Doyle could lower Larkin’s heart rate and soothe the itch that made him grab for Xanax with something as simple as a conversation about a goddamn mole. In fact, he lowered Larkin’s defenses so easily this time that Larkin nearly let slip the relation between the anonymous letter and the subway incidents.
But he caught himself with a literal bite of his tongue.
Because Doyle didn’t know about the April Fools’ letter.
Doyle raised a thick eyebrow and prompted, “Because?”
“Just—my name was on the photograph,” Larkin concluded.
“Oh.”
Larkin looked away, picking at the cold waffle fries. “I suspect this investigation might be related to another cold case of mine.”
