“Who? Oh right. Jackson Pollock at 1PP.”
Larkin frowned but said, “Doyle works primarily in illustration, but he’s a very competent visual artist and is knowledgeable on painting, sculpture, and photography. Based on the brand of photo paper and the printed code on the back, he estimates this picture was taken between 1985 and 1990. Her clothing would suggest Doyle’s evaluation to be accurate.” Larkin planted both feet on the floor before leaning forward to tap the evidence. “She’s also dead.”
Connor blinked owlishly. He looked at the photograph. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Low and gravelly, Connor murmured, “It’sInception, but with death instead of dreams….” He raised his head and stared at Larkin. “What train was this off of? The Q?”
“The F,” Larkin corrected. “Fifty-Seventh—” He stopped abruptly, pushed to his feet, and left the office without further word.
“Grim?” Connor called after him.
Larkin removed a ring of keys from his pocket as he approached his desk. He chose a small office key, stuck it in the lock on the second drawer, then jerked it open. Larkin was poring over the precisely aligned and organized accordion files of his active cases when slow, heavy steps on the stairs to his right indicated that Detective Jim Porter was pulling a late night. The crinkle of a plastic bag further suggested that he’d been out picking up something to eat.
“Hey, Grim,” Porter said from the landing. “You on duty?”
“Tomorrow,” Larkin replied without looking up. He yanked a depressingly slim file free, then shut and locked the drawer.
“Welcome back,” Porter answered absently. He set his takeout on the desk in front of Larkin’s. The aroma from the bag suggested the meal was Porter’s usual go-to: breakfast for dinner.
“There’s over a thousand calories in just two of those cheesecake pancakes alone,” Larkin said, already on his way back to Connor’s office.
“Yeah, well, fuck you too,” Porter called without malice.
Larkin stopped in the threshold of the office, unbound the file, and held up a yellowed report as he said to Connor, “On May 19, 1997, Marco Garcia was pushed in front of an incoming Q train.”
“At what stop?” Connor asked, his brow furrowed as he struggled to catch up to whatever connection Larkin had already made.
“Fifty-Seventh Street. The Q used to run what is now the F line during the ’90s.” Larkin studied the printout he’d adopted from Homicide Detective Wally Kent upon his retirement, and said, “Today is the twenty-third anniversary of Marco’s death. Once is chance. Twice is coincidence.” Larkin looked up and finished with “Three time’s a pattern.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The arrival ofan early summer was already wreaking havoc on those who called walkups in the city home, and Larkin wasn’t surprised that the window unit of 4A was on as he opened the apartment door. The hundred-year-old Village tenement, with its fire-engine red façade, was poorly insulated against heat and acted a bit like a poor man’s sauna. Despite the sun having set half an hour ago, the unit would be chugging in the kitchen window most of the night as it combatted the effects of a house closed-up for twelve hours.
The television against the bare brick wall was tuned to a Mets game, the volume dialed down low. The fairy lights strung throughout the studio were giving off that ever-welcoming sepia glow. And Doyle stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, wearing a pair of old Levi’s with the pant legs cuffed and a white T-shirt with the iconic stencil art of Banksy’s Flower Thrower. He was pulling takeout containers from a paper bag as he looked toward Larkin in the doorway.
“Perfect timing,” he said, his smile so warm, it made Larkin feel as if he’d been drinking on an empty stomach. “Tonight’s dining experience will include spinach salad with blue cheese—not goat, I know you don’t like it—walnuts, apples, and a vinaigrette dressing.” Doyle raised a white cardboard container and shook it. “Also an order of waffle fries, because who can resist?”
Larkin turned, quietly shut the door, and threw the deadbolt.
“And I made mocktails,” Doyle continued as he finished with the takeout containers and threw the bag into the recycling bin. “It’s lemonade with raspberries, cucumber, and mint.”
Larkin wedged a finger behind the knot of his tie, tugged it free from his neck, and turned right toward the open french doors of the room just big enough for a bed, dresser, and closet.
“Hey.”
Larkin looked over his shoulder.
Doyle held a fork in one hand and motioned toward the brick wall.
Larkin reached into his trouser pocket, removed the keyring, and hung it on the hook by the door. He was still getting used to new patterns and routines at Doyle’s apartment and didn’t mind the occasional prompt, mostly because the way in which Doyle went about it made him feel a little less like a dysfunctional and neurotic mess.
The bedroom was dark, but the reflective glimmer of the fairy lights on the glass doors was enough to see by, and Larkin put his wallet, phone, and cuff links on the nightstand already crowded with Doyle’s own wallet, phone, a book entitledMasterpiece or Master Forgery?: The Geniuses Behind the Lies, and a photo of his late daughter, Abigail. She was four in that snapshot, sitting on a stoop beside a much younger and clean-shaven Doyle, both of them blowing bubbles from little plastic wands. Larkin returned his tie to the rack in the closet, removed his pocket square, hung up his suit coat, then sat on the foot of the bed and let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding the entire drive home.
According to Marco’s scant file, twenty-three years ago, the last thing Camila Garcia ever said to her baby had been: Take the trash on your way out.
Larkin knew she regretted those words, was haunted by them. Because no one ever expected tragedy. That happened tootherpeople—strangers, whose universes never overlapped with your own. For you, there would always be a tomorrow. There would always be another opportunity to say the important words, the meaningful words—a hundred more “have a good days” and a thousand more “I love yous.”
