“You two are hard-core,” Millett said.
Larkin plucked at his shirt and said with obvious disapproval, “It wasn’t a teambuilding exercise, Millett. He ruined my shirt. This is Ralph Lauren.”
“Gee, no Tom Ford?”
“Not on a detective’s salary.”
Millett didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t have to. “Come in, then. But only to the bedroom threshold. I’m still working in here.” He disappeared inside.
Larkin moved to stand obediently in the doorway and watched as Millett snapped a few photographs. “Anything of merit in his desk at the high school,” he asked.
“Just the photographs you two found.” Millett glanced over his shoulder. “Good investigating, by the way.”
“I have an embarrassing number of commendations in regards to my investigative proficiency. I do not require further accolades.”
“You can compliment me,” Doyle said as he moved to stand behind Larkin. “I’m always grateful.”
Larkin held up a hand, quickly saying, “That will not be necessary.”
Millett shifted his line of sight to Doyle, just over Larkin’s shoulder. He said matter-of-factly, “Your partner is giving me the evil eye.”
“He’s a bit territorial,” Doyle replied.
“I most certainly am not,” Larkin said, turning to address Doyle. “You’re just flirting to get a rise out of me.”
Millett raised both brows. “Anyway….”
“Have you found any photographs in the apartment,” Larkin asked.
“Uh, you’ve seen the creep’s walls, right? You’ll need to be more specific.”
“Photographs that are comparable to the death portraits he kept hidden at school. They’d have recently been taken in this apartment of a teenage girl with dyed red hair.”
Millett gave a curt shake of his head before opening the closet door on their right. “Nothing like—God.It smells like piss in here.”
“He kidnapped her,” Doyle said somberly. “Kept her locked in the closet.”
Larkin leaned into the room, attempting to look around the corner and into the closet. “Does Reynold own belts.”
“He’s got a few hanging up,” Millett confirmed, still making a face. “Why?”
“Take them into evidence.”
Doyle tugged Larkin back by the shoulder until the two of them were standing in the doorway, looking at each other. “You said Reynold’s psychology wasn’t that of a killer.”
“He’s not a man capable of premeditated murder, no. But someone strangled John Doe with an out-of-the-box weapon and locked him in a utility closet with a death portrait in his pocket. I can’t rule out that Reynold perhaps panicked and killed out of self-preservation—especially if that individual turns out to be Dicky—who, from what it sounds like, would have rolled on Reynold for next to nothing.”
“But why on Earth would Reynold leave that cryptic note asking foryou?”
“I don’t know,” Larkin said with more force than what was typical of his discussions with Doyle. “But John Doe’s murder is related to Marco Garcia’s. Ithasto be.”
“Hey,” Millett cut in. “Mom and Dad.”
Larkin and Doyle both turned toward Millett and stared.
A hint of a smirk flitted across Millett’s expression as he pulled out a handful of belts from the closet, asking, “You found out who the human soup used to be?” He dropped the belts into a paper bag, crouched beside his kit, and began to fill out an evidence label.
Larkin answered stiffly, “Possibly.”
