“A lot of things.”
“About the fax—us.”
Larkin answered, “Lieutenant Connor is a decent man who is also very aware of what a discrimination lawsuit would entail for the department.”
“You’re brutal,” Doyle said with a hint of amusement.
“Thank you.”
Doyle picked up his mug and took a sip of the cooled-down coffee. He licked foam from his lips before saying, “Look, Evie… I’m not happy you hid this.”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“You did. Because you had an opportunity to explain it all yesterday, and you chose not to. That being said, I understand your thought process as to why. I’m still not happy, but I get it. But going forward, can we just…not? We have to be a team from the onset or this won’t work.”
“Out-in-the-field, rule four: Always tell the truth.”
“I think it’s rule five.”
“The driving one doesn’t count.”
Doyle took another sip of the latte. “Have you considered two perps?”
“What.”
Doyle shrugged. “You’re trying to assign these correspondences to Archie, but by your own assessment, they don’t fit into his personality. Connor might see it as escalation, and maybe, if Archie was relatively new at this kill-and-photograph initiative, but he’s not. That first photo you obtained is from the ’80s. He’s been doing this as long asyou’vebeen alive. It doesn’t make sense, purely from a survival point of view, that he’d suddenly take chances like reaching out to you—by name—threetimes. One of which was before Regmore’s arrest even hit the evening news. How’d he know who you were?”
“I don’t know.”
“It sounds like two conflicting behaviors.”
Larkin considered this. “If that was the case, what is the end goal of the individual behind the correspondence. To put me on the path of arresting Marco’s killer, or to harass me.”
“I have no idea,” Doyle answered. “Any logic behind the motive is lost to me, but it’d explain the inherent dichotomy seen in both cases and the available clues.”
“You’re very smart,” Larkin murmured, almost absently, as he turned the concept over in his mind.
“I know.”
Larkin looked at Doyle a second time. He was sporting that trademark smile. And maybe it was the Xanax kicking in, but he asked suddenly, “Why didn’t you tell me you used to curate exhibits on death culture.”
Doyle’s expression skittered and dropped like a skipping stone succumbing to gravity. “What?”
“I called the Gilded Age Home,” Larkin said.
Doyle stared for a long minute before scrubbing his face with both hands.
“Your inability to fold and put away clean laundry notwithstanding, you’re nothing short of perfect, Ira. But sometimes I also feel like you’re a complete mystery. I asked Neil Millett with CSU why he’d recommended you by name in March. He said he’d first met you when you worked at the museum.”
“Jesus,” Doyle muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Not—not entirely.”
“I didn’t mention it because it was a long time ago and the museum and I didn’t part ways on the best terms.”
“Because of Abigail.”
Doyle looked like he’d aged a decade in a matter of seconds. He said, “Because I’m a recovering alcoholic, Evie. I made some really bad decisions, and they cost me.”
