“Mrs. Garcia, my asking as to Marco’s access to camera equipment isn’t meant to implicate him in any nefarious activities. It helps me construct a complete picture in my mind of the time and setting and people he interacted with. Investigating a murder isn’t like walking a straight line. It splinters, the way that glass cracks. Focusing on only one direction is what led us to where we are today.”
The color was high in Camila’s cheeks as she answered roughly, “My son assisted with lots of different classes. He painted murals with the kids, helped them build portfolios for college… and one weekend a month they took field trips to city parks to practice photography.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was 10:55a.m. as Larkin took the stairs two at a time to the second-floor bullpen of Precinct 19, carryingHamletand the second, unidentified photo in a Ziploc bag Camila had provided on his way out. Larkin heard Doyle before he saw him—heard the heat and smoke that’d make someone a millionaire, if only they could figure out a way to bottle and sell that voice—and when he rounded the first landing and hiked the final steps, there was Doyle. He was leaning against the front of Larkin’s desk, assuming that habitual pose of long legs stretched out and big hands planted on the edge of the furniture. He’d inclined forward to speak with Porter, who’d spun around to face Doyle as they chatted.
At the sound of Larkin’s heels, Porter glanced toward the stairs and said, “Hey, Grim, look who dropped by to say hello.”
“Detective Doyle didn’t drive eighty-four blocks out of his way to simply say hello to me, Porter.”
“You? Who said anything about you? I was talking about me.”
Doyle twisted to catch Larkin’s eye. He wore a flirty smile as he asked, “Eighty-four blocks?”
“Approximately.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It can be difficult to account for all the blocks with the chaotic, nongrid pattern of the Lower East Side,” Larkin continued, taking in Doyle’s disheveled state of loosened tie and rolled-back sleeves. He noted one of the molded plastic chairs that was always being punted around the bullpen had been dragged up along the right side of his desk, and Doyle’s suit coat was tossed over the back, his portfolio bag wedged between its leg and the furniture.
“‘By miles’ would probably be easier,” Doyle suggested.
“That’s the least common measurement of distance in the city,” Larkin answered.
Doyle continued, unfazed, “It was four and a half miles.”
“If we’re not using blocks, time taken is the second most utilized method of gauging distance. Although not an actual measurement of physical space, it is more typical of walking than driving, and fairly useless when taking rush hour into—1PP is six miles via the FDR.”
“I didn’t take the FDR.”
“Why.”
Doyle glanced over his shoulder at the desktop, reached, and nudged a small takeout box stamped with Krispy Kreme’s logo. He looked at Larkin again.
Larkin moved to the desk and flipped the lid on the box. The corner of his mouth tugged into a shy smile. He handed Doyle the evidence bags, took a seat, and removed a cake-batter-filled donut coated in yellow frosting and sprinkles. He took a big bite, caught a blob of filling on his thumb as it oozed free, and sucked it clean.
“That’s it?” Porter asked, and when Larkin looked up, the older detective was motioning at him while addressing Doyle. “One donut and he shuts up?”
“It’s three donuts,” Doyle corrected, rising from the desktop in that lazy, catlike way he had of moving, while studying the contents of the Ziploc bag. “Even geniuses get cranky when their blood sugar’s low. This is out-in-the-field rule two, Porter: If being hangry can be avoided—avoid it.”
“So what do I have to do to get donut deliveries?” Porter continued. “How many other artists are in your unit?”
“Two.” Doyle plopped down into the seat beside Larkin. He added, almost like an afterthought, “But I don’t think you’re their type.”
“What about you, then?” Porter spun in his chair, grabbed a thick accordion file, then held it up, saying, “Want a big, juicy, double homicide? Twelve years cold, gang hit—”
Larkin pointed his half-eaten donut at Porter and interrupted, “I found him first.”
Doyle murmured, “That was hot.”
“Stop it.”
“No, no, I like that I honestly can’t tell if the territoriality is because of the art or the donuts.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re right. It’s the donuts.”
