They were proud of their work.
Perhaps they wanted somebody worthy to sit up and take notice.
Then along came Everett Larkin.
The perp saw their first real challenge in nearly thirty-five years.
And they wereexcited.
“There’s the possibility you’ve gained the attention of someone unstable,” Doyle said, his voice pulling Larkin free from the mess of webs anchored by half-formed truths.
Larkin scrubbed his face with one hand. “What do you mean.”
“You were in the news after we apprehended Harry Regmore,” Doyle answered. “All anyone had to do was google your name and they’d pull up a lot of successes and little failures.”
“Perhaps,” Larkin answered absently, because he knew that the perp had been aware of him and his powers of deductionbeforemainstream media had latched onto the Death Mask Murders. And he was now certain of two possibilities: that this suspect was either watching Regmore’s movements throughout the ’90s (perchance they were aware ofeach other, although there was no evidence the relationship went both ways), or that this death portrait photographer was most definitely someone on the inside.
But Larkin still hadn’t told Doyle about the letter, and now he wasn’t sure how.
Larkin continued, “I’d been investigating Marco’s murder a month before Andrew Gorman was discovered.”
Doyle asked thoughtfully, “So we should do a double-check on who you’ve already interviewed regarding Marco?”
“I’ve only spoken with Camila Garcia, Marco’s mother. Of her own volition, she admitted to a background and interest in photography, but there is absolutely no way she was involved in Marco’s death. Not only did she have an alibi for the time of death, confirmed by Kent, the original detective, but her grief is sincere. And she couldn’t have been involved with yesterday’s DB either. Camila is five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet. She doesn’t possess the necessary physical strength to stuff a full-grown man into an IKEA tote bag.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“What was the importance of the shoe,” Larkin asked, sliding a hand into his trouser pocket.
The uneasiness in Doyle’s stance had dissipated some, but there was still a jagged edge to the line of his shoulders. “The shoe was a popular symbol in postmortem, used to signify a childhood cut short.” He held up the photo of the unknown girl. “Yesterday, I just thought she had a flower or even some kind of debris tucked behind her ear, but the presence of the shoe motif is making me think someone put an acanthus leaf in her hair.”
“Why.”
“It’s more mourning imagery. Some of the oldest, in fact.” Doyle paused a beat before adding in a lighter tone, like he was trying to alleviate the remaining tension, “I like that look you have.”
Larkin met his eyes. “What look.”
“The one that says you’re thinking all those great big Holmesian thoughts.”
Larkin realized he’d been tapping his chin with his index finger in an offbeat rhythm. He stopped, asked, “Where’s your notepad.”
Doyle made a vague motion that suggested Larkin’s desk.
Larkin turned, opened the door, and left the Fuck It. As he entered the bullpen from the hall, Detective Byron Ulmer, tall and broad, with a dark complexion, shaved head, and goatee, was entering from the staircase at the opposite end.
“Well, well, well, look who’s finally—”
Larkin sidestepped Ulmer without a word, ignored the indignant protest, circled his desk, and grabbed Doyle’s suit coat from the back of his chair. He reached into a front pocket and found a handful of lemon candy.
Ulmer asked from behind Larkin but seemed to be addressing someone else, “The fuck you doing here?”
And it was Doyle, smooth and unperturbed, who replied. “Working a case with Larkin.”
“Again?”
“Inner pocket, Larkin,” Doyle called.
Larkin shoved the hard candies back and reached around the lapel. “Ulmer,” he stated, tugging the small, bent notepad free from the breast pocket before turning around. Ulmer stood parallel in the aisle between desks, not so subtly sizing Doyle up. He glanced toward Larkin as he continued, “I’d like to begin my first day back with a set of new and well-thought-out regulations for you to adhere to. One: Stay away from me. Two: Stay away from my partner. Three: Stay away from this case and every other case that lands on my desk—from now until whichever of us dies first. Because if I find out you’ve so much as read a notation in the margins of my paperwork, breathed a word of my investigative process, had so much as asingle thoughtabout being some talking head’s inside source, I will make it both my professional responsibility to see you shitcanned and my personal pleasure to ensure you can’t even get a part-time security gig at Target. Have I made myself clear.”
