“How the…?”
“Come now, Ray,” Larkin said. “We both know I’m one of the best detectives this city has ever seen.” Turning, Larkin stepped into the long hall, the heels of his wingtips crunching loudly over debris. He briefly considered the short, pudgy white man sulking in the open doorway of what appeared, at a glance, to be an office with about the same level of organization as the store-proper. So the owner of this hellhole, Larkin assumed. He shook his head, as if the visual mess was an irritating gnat, and continued deeper down the corridor, where the drywall on the left side looked like a wrecking ball had been taken to it, revealing an unlit space within.
“The NYPD’s been hiding their very own Sherlock Holmes within a small, forgotten team known as the Cold Case Squad.”
Larkin looked away from the hole in the wall. CSU Detective Neil Millett stood to one side, tugging his arms through the sleeves of his white PPE jumpsuit. Millett was a tall and slender man, a few years older than himself, Larkin suspected, with brown hair he often thought of as honey-colored, but in the harsh yellow lighting, looked more like coffee with too much cream in it. Millett was a decent cop, and one of the few officers on a scene who Larkin could trust to not give him a hard time, seeing as how Millett was gay himself, although he’d not actually voiced that particular truth aloud, so Larkin continued to pretend he hadn’t clued in on it. Millett also had a sharp tongue that, for the most part, Larkin appreciated. But it depended on his mood.
Millett zipped the front of his jumpsuit. “That was some write-up you got in theTimesafter the Niederman case. ‘The modern mastermind detective saved three lives, including his own partner’s.’”
—The deafening explosion of a Glock fired at close quarters, Harry Regmore sprawled on the floor like a pinned insect in an entomological study, Larkin’s erratic breathing only something he could feel not hear, and Doyle lowering his gun from firing stance—
Larkin winced, the blast still thudding in his eardrums, his head, reverberating through his entire skeleton, the air sharp with gunpowder. There’d been so much blood on Doyle’s face. Larkin cleared his throat and said to Millett, “Detective Doyle is no slouch either.”
Millett grabbed an N95 mask from the kit at his feet. “How’s he doing, anyway?”
Larkin opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as O’Halloran entered the hall.
“Listen, Grim. It ain’t about the butt-fucking.”
Millett had his mask halfway over his face, paused, then lowered it.
Larkin turned around. Slowly, curiously, he asked with inflection, “I’m sorry?”
O’Halloran faltered temporarily under the steady gazes of both detectives, as well as the plump little shop owner still standing in his office doorway, and then, his face red, he barked, “Every guy gets backdoor curious at least once.”
Larkin replied, “A 2016 study suggests up to thirty-five percent of men in heterosexual relationships have engaged in anal intercourse.”
Millett interjected, “Does that stat refer to giving or receiving?”
Larkin turned and gave Millett an incredulous expression.
Millett pulled his mask on, grabbed his camera, said, “I’m gonna climb into this hole now,” and then ducked his head into the broken drywall.
“I just don’t understand how you can be into a—aman,” O’Halloran continued.
Larkin explained, “A recent genome-wide association study of same-sex sexual behavior indicates the answer is far more complicated than the suggestion of a ‘gay gene,’ which was the prevalent theory during the ’90s, and in fact, that human sexuality is highly polygenic. But given our still rudimentary understanding of genes and a sordid history of utilizing genetic data in an attempt to control minorities viewed as ‘undesirables,’ there has been considerable reluctance in the continued exploration of sexuality, from this specific angle. So to put it simply: I was born this way.” Larkin’s reaper-gray stare was steady.
O’Halloran, the Irish lug, took a deep breath. “But—”
“No one is asking you to participate, O’Halloran.”
“How’s that?”
Larkin said, “No one is demanding that you kiss a man, fuck a man, love a man, marry a man. You don’t even need to understand homosexual attractions, only respect our right to have them.”
“This how you boys talk at every crime scene?” the owner asked. He spoke the way New Yorkers walked—fast and with somewhere to be—an understated whiney quality in his tone.
O’Halloran retorted, “This is a private conversation.”
The owner countered, “There’s a body in there.” He pointed at the wall that Millett was rummaging around in.
“Your concern is unwarranted,” Larkin replied. “They don’t get very far when they’re dead.”
“You think you’re funny?”
O’Halloran crossed his big arms, inclined his head toward the office, and said to Larkin, “Sal Costa, the owner.”
Larkin left O’Halloran, sidled up to Costa, and said, “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.”
