Doyle chuckled at Larkin’s deadpan delivery before saying, “You were right about artists wanting stories, though. In fact, photography is the art of subtle fabrication, of pushing a particular narrative. Susan Sontag wrote, ‘The camera’s rendering of reality must always hide more than it discloses.’ That reality is hidden in the photographer’s decisions of not only light and texture, but the actual geometry of the photograph itself.”
“It sounds like you’re reading from an influencer’s vade mecum.”
Doyle’s head fell forward, as if he were trying to tuck his chin to his chest. “A master’s in art history, and he compares it toThe Real Freshman Handbookfor social media bobbleheads.”
“I’ve misspoken.”
Doyle raised his head.
After a brief pause, Larkin began to add, “I did not mean to imply your schooling—” But he stopped abruptly when Doyle smiled—and it wasn’t a social or masking expression, but his usual and true, genuine smile—a Duchenne smile, was the technical name.
It was the crow’s-feet.
Dead giveaway every time.
“What,” Larkin asked.
“You can just say, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I’m sorry.”
Doyle picked up the photograph, motioned with a nod of his head for Larkin to follow, and walked to his drafting table. He took a seat, set the photo on the work surface, flicked on the attached desk lamp, and adjusted the magnifying head over the image. “If you had any doubt as to the decade this photo originated, your subject is wearing a polka-dotted shirt, floral-print vest, and acid-wash jeans while sporting perm bangs.”
“And these crimes against humanity continued to flourish well into our own childhoods,” Larkin replied. He leaned over Doyle’s shoulder to stare at the photo. Something about this girl—her expression? her posture?—puzzled him. It was as if she’d failed the uncanny valley test, in that she washuman enoughto provoke a negative reaction in Larkin. It was something in her half-hooded gaze, he decided. Something cold. Something almost lifeless. He stated abruptly, and without hesitation, “She’s dead.”
Doyle had said in the same breath, his comment overlapping Larkin’s, “I think she’s dead.”
CHAPTER THREE
Industrial disinfectant ofan indeterminant citrus scent had been spilled in the women’s bathroom of Precinct 19. The door was propped open by a janitorial cart, and Larkin could hear Joseline inside expelling a world-weary sigh as she cleaned the mess. He took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, the bullpen a home away from home for the detectives of the Cold Case Squad. The early mornings and late nights, the twelve-hour shifts, the endless overtime—it could be seen in how ten overworked humans left pieces of themselves behind in a mass-produced American office: a framed photo of a five-year-old black boy wearing his kindergarten finest on Detective Baker’s desk, even though her son was now finishing seventh grade; Porter’s #1 Husband coffee mug, despite his divorce having settled the year Larkin joined the squad; Miyamoto’s Doc Martens that’d been sitting atop a box of files beside her chair for months, because she kept meaning to fix one of the soles with Krazy Glue but never found the time to run out on her lunch break to buy adhesive. It was the accumulation of umbrellas in the stand beside the stairs, the collection of full-sized condiment bottles in the breakroom fridge, the closet beside the copy room overcrowded with coats and sweaters suitable for every season because “it’s not like I wear it anywhere else but work” that suggested these unofficial roommates put in more facetime at Sixty-Seventh between Third and Lexington than they ever did in their actual homes.
When Larkin reached the landing, the lemon—possibly orange—cleaner had mingled with fresh toner and coffee that’d been on the warming plate until it overcooked, concocting a stink that he hadn’t been subjected to in forty-nine days and so would have to acclimate to all over again. Larkin walked past his desk, noted the cup of pens and Lisa Frank pencils on its spartan top was lacking its usual quantity, and frowned when he counted several pens of his preferred brand on Baker’s warzone of a desk. Two were missing the caps.
Larkin continued to Lieutenant Connor’s open office door. It was 7:27 p.m. and the imposing Irishman was in the midst of pulling his suit coat on when Larkin knocked on the doorframe. “Sir.”
Connor turned, and a smile cut across his freckled face. “Grim!” he greeted him with that usual, booming voice. “Welcome back.”
“I need to speak with you.”
Connor nodded as he fixed his coat collar. “Sit down.”
Larkin took a seat in front of the desk, crossed his legs, and opened his mouth to speak as he raised the evidence bag to eye level.
But Connor asked first, “How’s the arm?” He sat and leaned back in the computer chair until it creaked ominously.
“Fine.”
“Been doing your PT?”
Larkin’s hold on the bag faltered as he answered, “I have stress balls in three different colors, resistance bands, and am particularly adept at the wall push-up now.”
“You’re a bad patient, aren’t you?”
“I’m not a good one,” Larkin qualified.
A laugh rumbled from deep within Connor’s chest. “I bet your husband is happy to get you out from underfoot, though.”
“I’m in the middle of a divorce.”
