“You can speak with me,” Webster retorted in a hoity-toity tone of voice. “Although….” He faltered a moment. “I will admit, my knowledge is a bit on the general side. Damn. Of all times for such an inquiry….”
“Meaning,” Larkin asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Webster said automatically, but like someone who was going to explain exactly what they meant, regardless. “It’s only, we had a curator who was fabulous, absolutely fabulous, with regard to some of the more, how shall I say this…taboosubjects in history. I’d suggest you speak with him, to be quite honest. But he’s no longer with us at the museum.”
“Does he have a name.”
Webster laughed condescendingly. “Yes.”
“I’m working a homicide, Mr. Webster,” Larkin reminded. “My time and patience are both limited.”
“Er, well, I don’t have his contact information.”
“I’m certain I can find it.”
Webster made a sort ofharumphsound, then said, “Mr. Ira Doyle. That’s I-R-A. Like I said, he did remarkable work over the years. Some of our most visited exhibits: Homosexuality in Gilded Age New York, Victorian sex and pornography—that was a very popular ticket as you might well imagine—and nineteenth-century death culture, which is why his name immediately sprang to mind.” Webster sighed before adding, with what sounded to be authenticity, “We do miss him.”
Before Larkin could even feel the question out, consider whether he wanted to know,shouldknow, he asked, “Why is Mr. Doyle no longer an employee.”
“Ah… he had a death in the family. The rest is… personal, I’m afraid.”
“But you didn’t hire him back.”
“Pardon?”
Larkin’s grip on the receiver tightened. He said in a clipped tone, “Mr. Doyle experienced a tragedy that is simply unfathomable to most in today’s society, and your response to his needing time to cope with loss and subsequent grief was to fire him.”
Webster blustered, “E-excuse me,sir, but we did notfireMr. Doyle.”
“No. Perhaps it all came down to your unwillingness to provide a paid leave of absence. Is that it. Maybe you firmly suggested he resign so that you might save face. You would not speak of your most skilled curator in the past tense otherwise.” Larkin could feel his anger growing, unfurling, blossoming. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Webster.” He slammed the phone down, turned away from his desktop in the computer chair, and leaned over on his knees. Larkin closed his eyes, pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, and allowed himself to release pent-up rage through chest-heaving breaths.
They had told Larkin to shut up because people didn’t want to know.
But Doyle?
They hadn’t ever even listened to begin with.
“Larkin?”
Larkin raised his head and spun around. Doyle stood at the second-floor landing, the strap of his portfolio bag across his chest, a hesitant smile on his face. Larkin got to his feet, collected his suit coat from the back of his chair, and said, his voice almost steady, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
It was 10:14a.m. and Larkin sat in a café named Coffee two blocks from his precinct. Technically, the business’s official name was Sue’s Coffee, but the “Sue” portion of the sign had apparently been damaged by scaffolding and the owner never replaced it, leading to the neighborhood’s gentle shift from “Want to go to Sue’s?” to “Want to go to Coffee?” over the decade that followed.
As far as sit-down establishments went, Coffee was one of the few locations that Larkin actually enjoyed and wasn’t overwhelmed by. It was located in the basement level and patrons had to take stairs down from the street. It was extremely small, but without a sense of claustrophobia. The brick walls had been painted white, and funky but unassuming artwork hung from nails. The overhead lighting was warm and a mellow yellow. The speakers were always on, tuned to the kings and queens of blues and jazz, but the music was quiet, so one didn’t feel like they were competing to be heard. What Larkin liked most about Coffee was the fact that they only had five seats—one barstool at the window, two single tables on the right, and one on the left just big enough for two.
Larkin studied Doyle as he placed their order at the counter. He wasn’t above staring when it came to those shoulders, that trim waist, and an ass so fine even God would’ve said, “Damn.” Doyle paid for the coffees, said something that made the girl behind the counter laugh and blush and probably fall in love that very second, then joined Larkin.
Doyle set two lattes on the table. His had a foam heart design on top. Larkin’s was a tulip in theory, but in practice it looked more like a lumpy penis. Doyle sat before saying, “You look a little stressed-out.”
“I’m always stressed-out.”
“Do you need a Xanax?” Doyle shifted, putting a hand to his pocket for the daily pill box.
Larkin shook his head. He stared at the wall beside him, the rough edges, dips, and cracks in the painted brick for one, two, five seconds. He looked back at Doyle. “Yes.”
Doyle retrieved the little box without comment, popped the top, and removed one of two pills. He set it into Larkin’s extended hand before returning the box to his pocket.
Larkin dry-swallowed the Xanax.
