No, Larkin wasn’t okay. He was still raw, over an hour after walking out of the Fifty-Seventh Street station. Walking? Tryrunning. He hadn’t even spoken to the MTA employee responsible for calling in John Doe. How ridiculous. How unprofessional. Larkin could lie. Say that after forty-eight days of medical leave, he was rusty, misread the scenario, hadforgotten. Except that Larkin forgot to load the wash into the dryer. He forgot where he’d taken off his red derbies. He forgot the grocery list but didn’t notice until he was already at the store and nearly melted down in the dairy aisle. Larkin forgot the unscheduled events, the impromptu errands. Hedidn’tforget to interview witnesses, because that was routine, and routine was what kept him breathing.
It’d been the two associations while in the utility room.
One right after the other, like he’d been KO’d and then punched in the head a second time, just for good measure.
In the beginning, Larkin had thought the growing distance and dissatisfaction between him and Noah had been the motivation to reach out for pharmaceutical aid. But now he was realizing he couldn’t do this anymore—couldn’tlive, couldn’twork, without medication. And when one pill hadn’t been enough, had barely supplied a sense of calm, of normalcy to his fucked-up neural pathways, Larkin took a second. A third. The prescription didn’t stop the associations—memories of the best and worst days of his life right there, as if they’d only happened seconds ago—but the euphoria sure helped Larkin care a whole lot less.
He wished he’d grabbed a third pill before coming upstairs.
Larkin swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “I—I could use a hug.”
Without hesitating, Doyle wrapped his arms around Larkin’s shoulders. Larkin slid his own under Doyle’s to grip the back of his shirt, and they stood flush against each other—immovable and resilient and quiet. After a moment, when Doyle shifted, Larkin held on just a little longer, a little tighter, because sometimes it felt as if the only thing keeping him standing on his own two feet wasthis.
But eventually Larkin let go. He nodded once and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Doyle answered. His expression was that of a man watching a trainwreck occur in slow motion, who knew Larkin wasnotokay, but who was also aware that asking “Want to talk about it?” before Larkin was ready, would only make everything so much worse. So all he said was “Tell me about this John Doe.”
Larkin quickly said, “Victim was an adult male, found in the utility closet at the south end of the Fifty-Seventh Street F train platform.” He moved to the worktable and leaned one hip against it. “He was stuffed into a reusable IKEA tote, but advanced decay has currently hindered any further conclusions without an autopsy.”
Doyle joined him, his thick and expressive brows furrowed. “How long was he in there?”
“The heat and humidity sped up the decomposition process, but based on insect activity—” Larkin paused as Doyle shuddered reactively, involuntarily, at the mere mention of creepy-crawlies. “Are you—”
Doyle motioned with one hand for Larkin to continue.
“Blowfly lifecycle indicates time of death is between Sunday, May 10, and Monday, May 11.”
Doyle glanced sideways at the dates mentioned.
He wasn’t the fool he played.
Larkin could see Doyle snapping the clues in place, completing the mental jigsaw puzzle that explained Larkin’s immediate need for physical comfort upon arrival.
“It’s an association. Sounds, typically, are what do it for me, but dates too.”
“You’re making a compelling case for Homicide taking point,” Doyle said.
Larkin reached into his inner suit coat pocket and retrieved the plastic evidence bag. He offered it, saying, “My presence appears to have been requested.”
Doyle took the bag, studied the scrawled note on the back of the photograph, then murmured, “The NYPD is allowing suspects in a murder investigation to pick and choose their lead detective?”
“I haven’t spoken with Lieutenant Connor and gotten his explanation behind this decision yet,” Larkin answered. “But you make an assumption that this note was left by the individual responsible for the death of John Doe.”
“It’s a pretty sound assumption. What was this photograph sitting in?”
“Decomp.”
“Jesus.” Doyle dropped it on the tabletop. He popped the cap off the jug of distilled water Larkin had picked up on his way downtown, and poured the contents into both pans before reaching for a pair of latex gloves.
On April 1, after the subsequent brawl and arrest of Harry Regmore at his mother’s apartment in the Bronx, Larkin had been whisked to the hospital for surgery to correct a broken arm. It’d been a rather incredible injury in the grand scheme of events. Because Larkin had frozen. He should have died that afternoon. But Doyle had been there, had saved his life. And while Larkin had been alone in the ER, an anonymous letter addressed to him had been delivered to the nurses’ station.
HAPPY APRIL FOOLS’ DAY, LARKIN
DEATH MASKS ARE “HORRIBLE THINGS”
I HAVE A BETTER MEMENTO FOR YOU
COME FIND ME
