He told Camila that a whole new generation of runaways was being subjected to Niederman’s sadistic pleasures, that they’d become accessible due to a homeless man who’d never gotten the help he needed and who Niederman kept strung out on heroin. He told Camila about Hernandez’s wild and unfounded claim, after he’d been arrested for aiding and abetting second-degree murder, that he’d received an anonymous letter at the church one afternoon with proof of where Niederman could be found, and that the sender would “leave it up to you to do with this information what you will.” How Hernandez had sent Dicky on his way with extra food from the pantry, if in return Dicky would give Niederman his card, because Hernandez wanted to finish the business he never could as a kid.
He’d wanted to kill Niederman.
And Larkin told Camila how Megan had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the fourteen-year-old had managed to strangle Niederman the same instant Hernandez came looking around the station, sick of waiting for Niederman to show his face at St. Jude’s, and how, together, they’d hidden his body but failed to come up with one shared alibi—leading to Larkin’s breakthrough on the case.
Larkin was quiet afterward. The wind was still blowing, and he imagined Camila listening to the static over the other end.
“My son’s murderer will never go to trial,” Camila said, very quietly.
“I’ll see that he’s found guilty.”
“He’s dead, Detective.”
“Posthumously.”
“What will it matter?”
Larkin closed his eyes. “Maybe it’s the kind of ending where you decide whether you want something out of it.”
“I’m tired, Mr. Larkin,” she answered, using Larkin’s name instead of his title, for the first time. “I don’t think I have the energy. It’s like fighting the inevitable. The sun will always set. The tides will always wash out. And Marco will always be gone.”
Larkin swallowed.
“Do you think it’s wrong of me to be happy that man is dead?”
“I think we all grieve differently, and our solace is just as unique.”
“Come now. Be honest. Jesus will judge me, not you.”
Larkin let out a breath of a laugh as he opened his eyes again. “No. I don’t think it’s wrong. I think it’s human—to hate. The capacity is in us, after all, or such a word wouldn’t exist in our vocabulary. But I think, to love, is far greater.”
“I cannot love that man, Mr. Larkin.”
“Love can be interpreted in so many ways, Ms. Garcia.”
“That girl—she will go to court?”
“Yes. She has to.”
“I would like to be there. I think I should be there. I think people should know what he did to my son and so many other babies, before they judge her too harshly. Will you see that this happens for me?”
“I will.”
“Detective?”
“Yes.”
“Every night, I say a prayer for Marco. It helps me dream of him. But last night, I had a dream about a white boy. With green eyes. What color eyes did your Patrick have?”
Larkin’s heart felt as if it’d seized in his throat, but somehow, he managed to whisper, “Green.”
Camila made a sort of knowing sound before saying, “I think, maybe you are right… about love.”
Larkin ended the call. He took a moment to add a reminder to his calendar about seeing Camila included in Megan’s court proceedings. After, he slowly got to his feet, walked across the pea gravel, and pulled open the roof access door. He took the stairs slowly, quietly, stepping past Mr. Gabel’s door and heading down to the fourth floor. Larkin opened 4A, entered the studio apartment with its fairy lights and chugging window unit and the treasure of his heart standing at the kitchen counter.
Doyle looked up from chopping carrots. “How’d it go?”
Larkin shut the door, strode across the room, took Doyle by the hips, and kissed his mouth firmly, deeply.
