“How long is ‘a while,’” Larkin butted in.
Megan said, “Last Friday. Maybe he finally OD’d.”
Larkin was staring at Doyle as he asked, “Could you describe this man.”
“Right down to the last gross little skin tag on his face.” Megan made a noise and shivered melodramatically before asking, “Why?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was 4:42p.m. and Larkin stood outside Megan’s hospital room, watching through the window in the door as Doyle sat in the vinyl chair Larkin had previously occupied, the overbed table’s height adjusted and situated in front of him, as he worked on a composite sketch of Creepy Dicky. Larkin placed his cell to his ear, watching Megan swing her legs back and forth over the side of the bed while gesturing animatedly with her descriptions. Larkin put in a call to the Major Cases Squad at 1PP and filled the responding detective in on Megan’s kidnapping, subsequent rescue as it related to Cold Cases, and relayed her current location in hopes of promptly passing responsibility for her to a more qualified unit in the department. He answered a few questions, confirmed her age, suggested that due to the circumstances of the kidnapping, it wasn’t a matter for SVU, but he’d leave that for Major Cases to decide, then hung up.
Larkin asked the uniformed cop, who was still keeping watch, where Gary Reynold was being kept, and the officer said his partner had reported that Reynold was out of surgery and she was on guard in room 512. Larkin took a final look through the window, watched Doyle’s progress on the characteristics stage—shaping the face and hair style, defining the linework, turning an unremarkable mess of shapes into a piece of art—and headed for the bank of elevators. Upon reaching the fifth floor, Larkin made a second phone call, this one to MTA Station Manager, Tanisha Crowley.
“Detective Larkin,” she said, her voice rich and resonating like the Mother of Blues, Ma Rainey. “How can I help you?”
“My apologies, Ms. Crowley. I wish I had been able to inform you earlier that we will be unable to meet this afternoon.”
“I know that.”
“You do?” Larkin countered, a rise in his pitch.
“Your partner called me. Almost two hours ago. He said there was an incident and you were delayed at the hospital. I hope it’s nothing pertaining to you, specifically?”
Larkin automatically put a hand to his chest, feeling the bandages under his dress shirt. He stopped walking, closed his eyes, clung to the vestiges of the all-but-exhausted Xanax high.
—Noah slid a silver band over Larkin’s finger, the air heavy with the perfume of summer flowers, sun dancing across the water—
Larkin shook his head and pressed his thumb against his left eye until it hurt.
—Noah slid a silver band over Larkin’s finger, the venue of St. Jude’s Church an oppressing and unhappy concession to Larkin’s frosty in-laws, and even his willingness to marry in a religious setting, when he himself was not a religious man, had done nothing to garner their respect—
“No, nothing pertaining to me,” Larkin answered.
“Your partner suggested tomorrow. I’m free after twelve.”
“Yes, that works. How is three o’clock.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Crowley.” Larkin ended the call, opened his calendar, and amended the date and time of his MTA appointment.
Larkin found room 512, knocked, and entered without waiting for a response. The room was smaller than Megan’s, but private, with the same color palette and antiseptic perfume. A uniformed female cop was seated on the farther side of the bed, resting her head against her fist and scrolling on her phone. She glanced up, likely expecting a nurse or doctor, but when Larkin flashed his badge from where he stood in the doorway, she promptly tucked her phone out of view. Larkin studied Gary Reynold—handcuffed to the bed railing and looking sufficiently doped from anesthesia and pain medication.
“Give us a moment,” Larkin stated.
“Yes, sir.” The officer rose, moved around the foot of the bed, and slipped past Larkin into the hall.
Larkin’s step was in-beat with the heart monitor as he reached the bed. He set his hands on the railing. “I thought perhaps Detective Doyle might have been joking,” he said, and his voice was like a gunshot in its own right. “But I see he visits the range for more than his twice-a-year recertification.” Larkin’s gaze shifted from Reynold’s heavily bandaged, postsurgery knee, to the man’s sunken face. “It’s almost a shame he’s so competent. It’d have been something else if he missed and shot your nuts off.”
Reynold swallowed and made a quiet, whimpering noise. “I-it’syou.”
“Where would you like to begin,” Larkin asked. “With Marco Garcia or Megan Flouride.”
“I—I’m sick in the head,” Reynold protested with a wheeze, causing his New York accent to distort a bit. “It’s not my fault that I’m like this.”
Larkin narrowed his eyes. “Marco Garcia, then.”
“I don’t remember—”
