Doyle grabbed a towel, dried his hands, and then cupped Larkin’s face before kissing him. “No, you haven’t.” Doyle traced Larkin’s cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs before letting go, so mindful of how long his touch lingered. “I’m all that’s left of my family, and I guess… I’m not used to talking about them with other people.” Doyle smiled abruptly, and it was bright enough to contest with the sun. “Anyway. I told Craig why I was back a day early, and since I’m not scheduled for any composite work until tomorrow, I thought I’d see what’s on this tape for myself.”
“Do you not trust me to relay the details,” Larkin asked.
“It isn’t about that.” Doyle collected his suit coat from the back of his chair.
“What is it about, then.”
Doyle turned as he adjusted the collar. “You—being observed and bullied and targeted? This is personal, Evie.”
“I’m quite practiced at defending myself,” Larkin remarked.
“Yeah, but we’re partners,” Doyle said. “That means you don’t go at it alone.”
Precinct 19 was located on East Sixty-Seventh Street, between Third and Lexington on the Upper East Side. The front doors were flanked by the same green lanterns pockmarking the five boroughs—the watch always vigilant, always on duty—a symbol so old that its origin could be traced back to when New York City was known as New Amsterdam. Inside, the lobby was unreasonably quiet for—Larkin checked his watch—7:49 a.m., but the mingling uniformed officers seemed to be on their way out for morning patrols, and the phones were bound to start ringing off the hook at any time.
The heels of Larkin’s derbies tapped loudly against the tiled floor as he strode past the officer on desk duty, both bathrooms, and toward the staircase on the right.
From the second floor, Porter’s voice echoed, “Your choice in footwear is like a goddamn bell on a cat collar, Grim!”
Doyle wasn’t quite able to stifle his laugh as he followed Larkin up the stairs.
Upon reaching the landing of the drab bullpen that the Cold Case Squad called home, Larkin looked to his right as Detective Jim Porter—a short, stocky, middle-aged man with an aggressively receding hairline—spun in his chair to meet him. Standing beside Porter’s desk was Detective Aiko Miyamoto, tall and rail-thin, with a pixie haircut and, despite the off-the-rack business casual she sported, her punk attitude still managed to shine through.
Larkin paused long enough to give his trouser legs a brief tug, directing attention to his shoes. “They’re new,” he explained, before moving to his desk, sandwiched between Porter’s ahead and to the right, with the banister overlooking the ground floor directly behind.
“They’re purple,” Porter observed lightly.
“Magenta,” Larkin corrected. He tapped the Power button on his computer, picked up his desk phone, and pressed a few buttons on the dial pad to connect to his mailbox.
Doyle said to Porter, while pulling the strap of his portfolio bag over his head, “He’s very excited about them.”
“I can hear you,” Larkin murmured, glancing at Doyle. He hit a button to skip to the second voicemail.
Doyle winked at him before turning to shake both detectives’ hands. “Morning, Porter. Miyamoto.”
“If you’re really looking for a career change,” Porter began, “I’m sure Connor wouldn’t be averse to assigning you the wobbly desk in the Fuck It.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hall, the once-office and now glorified storage closet where all of the squad’s tired furniture and obsolete technology was left to rot until Judgment Day.
“Thanks, but I prefer pencils over pistols,” Doyle answered amusedly.
Larkin tapped the Next button again.
Miyamoto said to Doyle, “So… word is, you and Larkin are buddy-buddy?”
Porter interjected before Doyle could reply, “Isn’t that obvious, Moto?”
“I mean, buddy-buddy in a biblical sense, dumbass,” she corrected. “You know—taking the F train to Pound Town.”
Doyle faltered. “Ah….”
“That explains Grim’s recent bid to join our Divorcé Club,” Porter said thoughtfully. To Doyle, he added, raising three fingers in emphasis, “We’re three members strong in a squad of ten.”
Larkin glanced up a second time. Doyle was looking to him for direction, clearly unwilling to overstep and potentially complicate the relationships Larkin had within his own squad. Putting the receiver down after the last voicemail had concluded, Larkin said in his usual monotone, “Call it what it is, Miyamoto. We’re all adults here.”
“You guys are fucking?” she supplied helpfully.
“Dating,” Larkin corrected.
To Doyle, Miyamoto concluded, “You two would make beautiful babies.”
