Larkin said, completely straight-faced, “You’re much more afraid of us than we are of you. Have you considered standing perfectly still. Perhaps our vision is based on movement.”
Miyamoto pointed at Larkin and countered, “I thought you were supposed to play dead around gays? Lie down on your belly? Spread your legs?”
“That’s an open invitation to attack,” Larkin corrected.
“Got it, got it.Oh!Ulmer, have you tried discharging your guts out your anus? Like a sea cucumber?”
Ulmer slammed his mug down on the counter, turned, and said to Larkin, “I hear you and your artist buddy are butt-fucking.”
Larkin didn’t react, but asked, in the same monotone, “Have I mistaken a high school locker room for Precinct 19.”
Miyamoto asked Larkin, “For real? Did you forget you’re married?”
Larkin met her surprise, briefly raised his left hand and tapped his bare ring finger with his thumb, then shoved his hand into his pocket.
“Oh shit, man, I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You were busy on medical leave.”
“Yes, I try to plan my soul-crushing breakups accordingly.”
Miyamoto snorted and shoved Larkin with her elbow.
Larkin looked at Ulmer, who was glowering. “You saw the fax.”
“The entire squad uses that machine,” he retorted.
Larkin glanced at Miyamoto from the corner of his eye. “It’s a bandolier,” he asked again.
She seemed to recall herself, returned the autopsy photo, and said, “Not a real one. It’s a dummy belt—the bullets can’t be fired. Totally harmless and part of the punk aesthetic since forever. Even this new generation of pop-punk fetuses wear them, but kids these days, they’ve got no clue. They think it’s all aboutthe style.” Miyamoto tapped the side of her head as she said, “Punk is a mentality, not a look. Be yourself and fuck the rest.” She left the breakroom.
“Touching,” Ulmer said into the quiet.
Larkin stared, unblinking, at Ulmer. “I don’t care what you say about me.”
“No? Good. I’ve got plenty to say.”
“But if you try to tarnish Doyle’s reputation simply due to his general proximity to me, I will take off my badge, and I won’t regret what I do in the moment that follows.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Absolutely.” Larkin walked to the door.
“Grim.”
He turned in the threshold.
“You think you’re so goddamn smart.”
“I don’t think—I know.”
Ulmer smiled a nasty, vicious kind of smile. “Moto’s dusty pussy will take any attention it can get, even if it’s from an uptight prissy fag, and you might have fooled Connor into thinking you walk on water with those mental card tricks you perform, but I know you’re teetering. Aren’t you? Just one well-timed breakdown away from jumping in front of a bus.” He winked. “Good luck, pal.”
Larkin hesitated a fraction of a second, then left the room. He strode quickly through the bullpen, conversations, ringing phones, shuffling paper, all of it falling back, further and further until it registered like static found in between radio stations. Larkin ignored Doyle standing to one side and speaking into the desk phone receiver, and opened the top drawer where he kept his office supplies. He reached for an unassuming 2x3 envelope, the sort used for evidence collection at crime scenes, but also for hiding Xanax from his too-vigilant—partner? friend? romantically interested party?Boyfriend?
The envelope was empty.
