“You were not responsible for Marco Garcia’s death,” Larkin reiterated. “Alfred Niederman was.”
That’s when Hernandez’s expression did something…strange. His brows rose and his eyes grew, like in surprise, but then the rounded, geometric shapes in his face elongated, drew out. Surprise transitioned to its close and often mistaken for cousin: fear.
Emotion was present in a situation Larkin had expected it to be devoid.
And he’d caught it.
“Do you know Alfred Niederman.”
Hernandez wiped his mouth and shook his head. “No. I—I don’t know the name.”
“Mr. Hernandez,” Larkin said, “Marco Garcia has never gotten justice. Jay Gibson has never gotten justice. Six more victims, and these consist only of those whose photographic evidence we’ve obtained, have never gotten justice. Do not lie to me. Not now. Not about this.”
“I’m not lying,” Hernandez protested. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a kitchen to run and people to take care of. If you’re trying to find out what happened to that Niederman guy, look at Dicky.” He pushed between Larkin and Doyle and started for the door.
Larkin turned. “Who said anything about Niederman being dead.”
Hernandez stopped, looking over his shoulder. “I assumed. You were asking about Dicky’s whereabouts and you’re trying to solve old murders.”
“I don’t believe you,” Larkin said simply.
“That’s on you, Detective. If you want anything else from me, you’ll need a warrant, and I’ll be asking for a lawyer.” Hernandez stepped through the kitchen door, and it banged shut behind him.
A warm breeze picked up, scattering loose white petals into the manicured lawn.
“He’s lying,” Larkin said.
“Yeah,” Doyle answered.
“He was smoking in the janitor’s closet,” Larkin continued. “Logically, the windbreaker belonged to the janitor.”
“Archie Bunker worked at the YEC the same time as Marco,” Doyle said, picking up the train of thought. “Archie is Niederman.”
“And Niederman worked for a custodial service,” Larkin concluded. “Goddamn it.There’smy proof he murdered Marco. After his students had boarded the downtown Q on the evening of May 19, Marco confronted Niederman about the death portrait of Jay Gibson. The one witness on the platform said Marco had been arguing with a man in a ‘utility uniform.’” Larkin spread his arms out to either side. “Coveralls. I’ll bet Niederman’s uniform used to be coveralls back then.”
Doyle was still staring at the kitchen door. He bit on his thumbnail, chewed it for three, five, seven seconds, then said, “You think Hernandez killed Niederman? Some sort of revenge for what happened to his best friend twenty-three years ago?”
“The business card in Niederman’s pocket puts him in Hernandez’s direct orbit.”
Doyle retrieved his cell and scrolled through recent calls. “I’ll ask Niederman’s manager if she can confirm over the phone his employment at the Center in ’97.” He put the phone to his ear.
Larkin unbuttoned his suit coat and rested his hands on his hips. He pushed Doyle’s whiskey voice to the back of his consciousness, letting it ebb and flow like the tides. Smooth. Soothing. A constant murmur that he could latch onto, the sort of white noise people used to help them fall asleep—a psychological addiction to a rich baritone. Larkin turned his face, closed his eyes, and soaked up the kisses of sunshine that peered through the boughs of the dogwood. He spun his mental Rolodex and let it stop on Niederman.
A lesser man would wrap the investigation here.
Let Niederman’s death succumb to and wallow in the same inactivity, the same injustice that had been served to his victims all these years.
Because who the fuck cared that a child molester and murderer was offed?
It was justice in its own right—a betterment for all of society.
But Everett Larkin had sworn an oath to uphold the constitutions of the United States and the state of New York to the best of his ability, and to allow vigilantism, to turn a blind eye to a perpetrated crime—to murder—was detrimental to his skills, his pride, his self-worth, and made him no better than the one who’d killed Niederman. That person was to be tried in a court of law by a jury of their peers, no matter what Larkin thought.
Besides, to investigate Niederman in death was to investigate Niederman in life, which would aid Larkin in identifying all of those lost children. And when justice was served and one by one their cases closed, he could shuttle those forgotten names and forgotten souls onto somewhere better. Where they would be remembered for who they were and not what they had become.
Reynold had claimed that Dicky, a longtime homeless man, had been someone Niederman had known since the community of pedophiles had interacted with each other on now-defunct internet forums. Hernandez had further confirmed this as fact when he claimed to have known Dicky since he was a kid—when both Jay and Marco were still alive.
Fast forward twenty-three years.
