Larkin blinked.
Doyle’s self-admission of having abused gin.
His religious zeal when it came to maintaining an exercise routine.
His insistence on remaining busy even in his downtime.
The ever-constant, alcohol-free home.
Doyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m six years sober. I should have told you sooner.”
“There isn’t a rulebook in place for these sorts of conversations,” Larkin said, as gently as he could manage. He reached, awkwardly took Doyle’s free hand, and gave it a quick squeeze while hoping his default of touch aversion wasn’t painfully obvious at that moment. Because Doyle needed comfort, and Doyle’s love language was touch.
Doyle returned the squeeze, and there was a certain amount of fear in his expression as he lowered his hand from his face. So much of Doyle’s life was being dredged up that he was clearly struggling with those long-buried truths now being laid out in the sun for even Larkin—especially Larkin—to see. “I hope this hasn’t changed the opinion you had of me.”
Larkin said, simply, “Never.”
“So the murderweapon wasn’t a belt either,” Doyle said, following Larkin up the stairs to the second floor of Precinct 19.
Larkin had informed Doyle that not only had no DNA been recovered from Reynold’s belts, but that none had matched the wound pattern, leaving them with yet another dead end in the ongoing mystery surrounding the body in the tote bag. Upon reaching his desk, Larkin retrieved the autopsy report and accompanying photos belonging to John Doe that he’d printed the day before, and held up one that showed the distinct and consistent pattern around the side of the neck.
“It looks like a belt,” he said with only the smallest hint of protest in his tone.
“It’d be a pretty big belt,” Doyle said, placing his thumb and index finger to the photo, then mimicking the relative size by placing his fingers to his own neck.
“Wide belts are back in vogue.”
“Says who?”
“Fashion,” Larkin said with a shrug.
Doyle crossed his arms, still studying the grim autopsy photo. “Maybe that’s what it is—some kind of high fashion chain belt. Although then you need to take into consideration the mindset of someone who’d yank off their thousand-dollar Gucci belt to use as a weapon.”
“You also make the assumption that someone who wears a thousand-dollar Gucci belt would be an active patron of the subway.”
“Good point.”
But the concept, however flawed, gave Larkin an idea. He looked across the room—Miyamoto’s desk was empty. “Stay here,” he said to Doyle before walking toward the breakroom. Larkin poked his head around the corner, then stepped inside. “Miyamoto.”
She turned from the counter with a start, finger in her mouth as she was in the midst of shoving half a donut in. “Whu?” she asked around dough and cream.
“I see you found the donut I left you.”
Miyamoto wiped some of the cake batter from the corner of her lips. “Fank yoo,” she replied.
Larkin moved toward her, extending the photograph. “You wear an appropriately alternative wardrobe in your off-hours. Do you know of any belts or accessories that would match this wound pattern.”
Miyamoto took one look at the photo, groaned around the donut in her mouth, and dropped the other half of the Krispy Kreme confection back into the box Doyle had brought Larkin yesterday. “Thanks for ruining a perfectly intimate moment with fat and carbs and sugar, Larkin.”
“You can continue after answering my question.”
“The moment’s lost.” She snatched the picture, giving Larkin a dirty look as she did. Miyamoto shifted her posture, putting her weight on her left leg and jutting a hip out. “Might be a bullet belt.”
Larkin cocked his head. “Like a… a bandolier.”
Heavy footsteps entered from behind, and Ulmer muttered, as he bullied his way to the fridge Larkin and Miyamoto stood by, “Moto and the Homo.” He grabbed the coffee creamer from the top shelf, shut the door, and poured some into a mug from the cupboard.
“Give it a rest, Ulmer,” Miyamoto grumbled.
