Doyle stopped too and turned to look back.
“Have you worn my pocket squares on your crotch. Because these are silk.” Larkin put a hand to his breast pocket in emphasis.
“No,” Doyle said, a mischievous smile growing to encompass his entire face. “But now you can’t stop thinking about it, can you?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Evie, you don’t know the half of it.”
Larkin was absolutely not blushing as he bullied past Doyle and took point once again. They crossed the street, passing lost tourists traveling in packs three across, produce vendors lined along the sidewalks with handwritten signs in Chinese and piles of fresh lychee, dragon fruit, cherries, apples, and longan set out on makeshift tables, and one poor bastard fighting to get the only available Citi Bike, clearly stuck, released from the dock. They walked by a tea museum, two local pharmacies, a bakery, and one hole-in-the-wall shop still selling knickknacks from Chinese New Year, before coming to a stop outside the unassuming front door of 189.
A Chinese man, maybe in his forties, bald or purposefully shaven, it was difficult to say, wearing chic tea shade glasses, a salmon-colored polo, and khakis, stood to the side of the door. He looked both Larkin and Doyle over before saying, “You must be the cops?”
“Yes, I believe we spoke on the phone,” Larkin said, offering his badge before a quick handshake. “Detective Everett Larkin. This is my partner, Ira Doyle.”
The man nodded, looked at Doyle as he flashed his own badge, and introduced himself. “Dan Chen. Al was one of the tenants that came when I bought the building… geez… at least ten years ago.” He returned his attention to Larkin. “He’s really dead?”
“That’s correct,” Larkin answered. “And you had no reason to be suspicious of his absence.”
“You’re asking? No. I mean, I’m not friends with my tenants. The only time I really hear from them is if something breaks—which they rarely report anyway—and when the rent’s due first of the month. I suppose, if you guys hadn’t shown up today, I’d have eventually reported him missing come June when I had no rent check.”
“May we see Mr. Niederman’s apartment.”
“Sure.” Dan tapped a code on the door panel and the locks buzzed open.
Larkin and Doyle followed Dan into the vestibule and up the stairs.
Doyle asked, bringing up the rear, “Did Mr. Niederman live alone?”
“Yup,” Dan called over the creaking of the stairs. “Pretty sure he was a confirmed bachelor.”
“Mr. Niederman was homosexual,” Larkin asked.
Dan stopped at the landing of the second floor and turned to look down at the two still on the stairs. “What? No, no. I meant, like, literally. Al was definitely into women. I’ve had enough casual conversations with him over the years to know that much. But he was… kind of socially awkward, you know? I guess he never found the right socially awkward lady to play house with.” He motioned them to follow him to the end of the hall. Dan removed a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door to 2D, and pushed it open.
Larkin took out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, with Doyle doing the same, and said, “If you will remain in the hall, Mr. Chen.”
Dan blinked owlishly, glanced into the apartment, then back to Larkin. “Is it a crime scene or something?”
“Mr. Niederman’s death is being investigated as a homicide. Everything is a potential clue.” Larkin stepped into the studio.
Upon first glance, the apartment was incredibly unassuming—bland, even. There was little, if no, personality, polar opposite when compared to thehomeDoyle had turned his own studio into. There was an antique range and fridge to Larkin’s right, a generic storebought rack with various pots and pans stacked on its shelves, with a sink and counter just large enough for a coffee pot on the left. A shower curtain and bath mat were visible beyond the sink, and Larkin glanced into the nook to confirm, yes, the shower was in the kitchen. A window stood across from it with a view of the second-floor apartments of the building on the opposite side of Elizabeth Street, where tenants had likely been subjected to a wet and naked Niederman, fresh from the shower, on more than one occasion. Around the corner was a twin-sized bed, neatly made, a floor lamp and oscillating fan, both turned off, and a half-full garment rack pushed against the wall.
“Nothing like exfoliating in the same room you brew your morning joe,” Doyle said at Larkin’s back.
Dan replied from the doorway, “It’s an old building.”
“How much was Niederman paying?” Doyle asked.
“Eighteen hundred a month.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“He worked for one of those janitorial cleaning services,” Dan said. “The sort that clean the big Midtown offices after hours.”
“And he had no problem making rent?” Doyle asked.
“He was never late,” Dan confirmed, a shrug in his voice.
