Larkin spun the shovel in one hand, held the handle tight, and slammed it into the back of Megan’s knee. She screamed, fell, and the gun went off, a round firing into the white subway tiles above Doyle’s head. Larkin grabbed the pistol from Megan, who now lay on the ground, cradling her leg. He holstered the weapon and bent over as Doyle was trying to hoist himself up onto the chest-high platform.
The train laid on the horn again.
Sparks shot up in a spray of bright white and blue as the wheels grated against the rails.
Larkin shouted, “Ira!” He grabbed Doyle’s hand with his left, but the weakened, post-surgery muscles were close to giving out, the soles of his shoes were skidding along the tactile caution strip as Doyle’s heavier weight overpowered him, and Larkin blindly reached for, caught, and hauled Doyle up by the back of his belt just as he slipped and crashed backward onto the platform.
The train zoomed past them and came to an emergency stop half a dozen yards ahead. Heat and wind rushed onto the platform a second later. A silence settled over the station.
Larkin was shaking underneath Doyle, who lay sprawled atop him. He yanked his arms free, grabbed Doyle’s face in both hands, and asked, “Is all of you here?”
Doyle looked over his shoulder, like he actually had to confirm both legs were attached by sight and not feel alone, then said with an equally shaky voice, “Looks like it. Thanks.”
Larkin wrapped his arms around Doyle’s neck and began to cry.
Out of fear?
Relief?
Larkin didn’t know.
He didn’t care.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Larkin considered, forprecisely four seconds, to take up cigarette smoking.
In reality, he was certain he merely wanted something to do with his restless fingers as he listened to the phone ring against his ear.
It was Friday, May 22, 4:24 p.m., and Larkin sat on the rooftop of Doyle’s building, his back against the surrounding ledge and a warm breeze mussing his ash-blond hair.
One more ring and it’d click over to voice—
“Hello, Detective,” Camila answered.
Larkin hadn’t considered the possibility that Camila might have actually saved his contact information in her address book, and was thrown off balance by not having the upper hand with his usualThis is Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.He struggled for the proper introduction but ended up simply saying, “Hi.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment, and when they did, it was over each other.
“I wanted to tell you—”
“I saw you on TV.”
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said. “You go.”
“On TV yesterday,” Camila reiterated after a brief hesitation. “At the subway station.”
“Yes.”
“The news said you caught a child molester.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Will you tell me?”
Larkin intended to say,I’m sorry but the investigation is still ongoing. I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge certain details of the case yet. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Instead, he told Camila everything. He told her that twenty-three years ago, a twelve-year-old Noel Hernandez confided in his trustworthy mentor at the YEC that he’d found photographs of his best friend, dead and in compromising positions, in the janitor’s closet. He told Camila that Marco Garcia promised to take care of the situation, and when he’d approached Alfred Niederman with the story Hernandez shared, Niederman panicked and shoved Marco in front of an incoming Q train. He told Camila that Niederman never stopped his abuse, and for another two decades, floated from job to job, through his company like a toxic cloud of exploitation and death, always on the hunt for whatever suited his fancy—be it access to early photo labs, before he was forced to build his own darkroom and learn the art, or access to the children themselves.
