“Daddy’s mellowed out in his old age.”
“Inevercalled you ‘Daddy.’”
Doyle’s laugh was low, rumbling in his chest like a cat’s purr. “So you’re saying that Marco was killed after work?”
“Yes,” Larkin said with a curt nod. “Part of his duties included walking students to the subway and paying their fare, since the center closed at eight o’clock and this was after-hours for the student passes.”
“The Q doesn’t go to Inwood,” Doyle pointed out.
“No. Marco rode the A home.”
“So why….” Doyle trailed off when Larkin held his hands out, his palms up. “That’s the mystery. Got it. And we know for certain he didn’t fall onto the tracks, right?”
Larkin collected an accordion file from his desk drawer. He removed a slim folder, flipped through the years and years of DD5s to the original report, and read, “Brian Hoffman, fifty-three, CPA with Harold, Hirth & Goldman in Midtown, asserted he was waiting on the downtown side, having just missed the Q that, presumably, was carrying Marco’s students home. He claimed to be the only straphanger besides Marco, who he noted was standing somewhat closer to the northern mouth of the uptown tunnel, but otherwise he was focused on reading theNew York Times, which Mr. Hoffman had been unable to read on his morning commute. Quote, ‘I thought the kid was talking to himself, but when I heard shouting, I looked up, and there was a second guy. I didn’t notice him come down the stairs. They were arguing, but I don’t know over what, because the uptown train was approaching. Then the kid was shoved. He went right over the edge. The train laid on the horn, but it had no time to stop.’ End quote. Detective Kent asked about the second man, but Mr. Hoffman could only say that he was taller and wore some sort of utility uniform.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Marco was dragged under two of the eight cars before the train was able to come to a full stop. Mr. Hoffman said the second man was long gone by then.” Larkin snapped the folder shut.
“Did Kent ask Mr. Hoffman to note where he himself had been standing on the platform?”
“He did not.”
Doyle blew out a breath. “Okay, well, I know that entire station has gotten a facelift since the ’90s, but the suspect could have run up the stairs nearest the northern mouth of the uptown tunnel and not have been seen, if Mr. Hoffman was standing toward the middle. Alternatively, the suspect could have jumped onto the downtown tracks and hidden inthattunnel.”
“Unfortunately, we’ll never be able to clarify,” Larkin said. “I reached out shortly after adopting the case—Mr. Hoffman died of an aneurysm in 2004.”
Doyle looked down at his notepad, stuck the end of his pen in his mouth, and chewed absently on the cap. “So we’ve got no suspects or persons of interest in the murder of Marco Garcia, and even fewer in the case of IKEA-John.”
“And that about brings us up to speed,” Larkin concluded. He dropped the folder onto the desktop before leaning over Doyle a second time to reach the keyboard. “Can you move.”
“I don’t mind.”
Larkin typed his password and hit Enter.
“You smell nice.”
“Don’t smell me at work.”
“If you didn’t want me to smell you at work, you wouldn’t wear a very expensive Eau de Toilette that you’ve now taken to spritzing on both your wrists and neck.”
Larkin glanced sideways.
Doyle’s smile could have bankrupted even the most moral of men. “You used to only spray your wrists,” he clarified.
“Fair enough.” Larkin navigated to his inbox, which was clean and orderly, because despite the medical leave, he had refused to return to work with hundreds of unread messages that would only bog him down, and so had diligently tapped out one-handed responses to each new email every morning, but only after Doyle left for his precinct, lest Larkin be called out for working while off the clock.
Doyle turned in the chair and said, “We need to get creative with our approach. What about thatHamletessay? It’s likely to have been a final project, because a week later would have been June and—Marco would have been a senior, right?”
“Correct.”
“So he’d have had class finals, potentially some AP tests, even Regents, if he hadn’t finished fulfilling those requirements. It’d be worth running to ground any of his former teachers and asking if they recall suspicious or concerning behavior during that time. Maybe Marco was being bullied. Maybe he had a bad breakup. I know neither of those circumstances would explain the photos or IKEA-John, but we have to start somewhere.”
Larkin briefly looked away from the screen. Doyle was staring at him expectantly. “Camila insisted Marco was well-liked and well-behaved. She said he had one or two girlfriends in high school, but nothing serious enough that she could recall a name.”
“Sometimes parental figures are the last to know there’s a problem,” Doyle replied.
—“A divorce? Everett, you’re being absolutely ridiculous! Noah is perfect for you.”—
