“I’m researching,” Larkin piped up, not looking away from his computer screen.
Ulmer tossed his hat into the fray, saying, “Let Grim be, Lieutenant. He’s never seen a pair of tits in real life and curiosity has finally gotten the best of him.”
At that, Larkin rolled his chair to one side and stared at Ulmer down the aisle. “I’m actually screening a copy ofCocks Out. The critics call it a stunning and emotional portrayal of bareback humping, with cameos by hairy daddies and their bouncing ballsacs, and twinks with bleached assholes. The sequel is supposed to be this year’s summer blockbuster.”
Miyamoto began howling with laughter.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ulmer asked.
“Is my objectifying of the male body offensive to you.”
“It’s disgusting,” Ulmer corrected.
“Imagine how our female detectives feel every time you open your mouth.”
“Both of you can it,” Connor barked. “Grim, what the fuck are you doing?”
Larkin glanced at Connor and said, “Reading about the former peep show where yesterday’s DB was discovered. The most comprehensive history available on the Dirty Dollhouse is a collection of articles on an adult entertainment website. Would IT prefer I forgo solving a murder and instead clutch my pearls over the audacity of human sexuality.”
Connor shook his head and said, “I’ll let them know,” before returning to his office.
Larkin pushed his chair back to his computer. He sent the articles to the printer before opening a new tab and searching the porn star, Candi Bomb. Dozens of results populated for a Candace ‘Candi Bomb’ Ward-Flynn, a well-preserved woman of sixty, with bleach-blond hair, a tan she probably paid good money to maintain, and a chest that undoubtedly required a custom brassiere.
According to her official website: Candi made it big in 1979 with her debut film,Memoirs of Miss Jane, considered to be one of the cult-classics of the genre, before going on to star in award-winning titillations such asGirls and Cherries,Big Truckin’,Pretty as a Peach, andAlone in LA. Candi had a long history of staunchly defending her right to pornography, having clashed with both feminist and conservative movements, as well as undercover Vice in New York City during the ’80s. She had (proudly) been arrested seven times for indecent exposure and solicitation. These days, Candi has retired from the silver screen, but still attends adult expos and award shows, where she loves meeting old and new fans alike. Candi lives in Manhattan with her two yorkies, Guac and Salsa. Business inquires can be sent directly to her agent, Graham Byrd.
Larkin clicked the link to Byrd’s website. It was sleek, minimalistic, with none of the garishness of Candi’s homepage that would suggest he oversaw the careers of those in adult entertainment. He was jotting Byrd’s email and phone number down in his notes when Ulmer tossed a pile of printed documents on his desk. Larkin calmly set his pen down and started to organize his articles on the Dirty Dollhouse before coming across three missing persons forms mixed in among them. He glanced up. Ulmer was still looming at his desk.
“What’re these,” Larkin asked.
“Potential matches for your Janie Doe.”
Byron Ulmer, resident bully of the bullpen, with shoulders like a football player and a head like a billiard ball, had come up through the Missing Persons Squad before earning a position on the illustrious Cold Case Squad. Connor had smartly wanted Ulmer’s connections, which Larkin had begrudgingly taken advantage of while working the case of Regmore’s murdered dancers. And after the fiasco with Niederman and his runaways, Larkin had tapped Ulmer again to help put names to the faces of dead children.
Until now, there’d been radio silence from his buddies in Missing Persons.
Larkin studied the three forms, each with varying levels of beneficial information that’d been submitted during the initial report, which accompanied dated photographs of teenage Latina girls. “Thank you.”
“I want in.”
Larkin looked up a second time. “What.”
“I want in,” Ulmer repeated, his voice low enough to keep the conversation between them. “You’re working something big.”
“I’m trying to give a murdered child her name back,” Larkin corrected, giving the paperwork a hard tap against the desk to align their edges.
“And I’m the errand boy,” Ulmer countered.
“Have you heard of the metaphor ‘cogs in a machine,’” Larkin asked. “No one cog is more important than the others in getting the job done. We all want the same thing—to put this girl to rest.”
“Says the guy with a Combat Cross.”
Larkin set the papers down, threaded his fingers together, and said, “If you’re going to bring my commendations into this conversation, then you should be aware that I’ve been awarded the Combat Cross twice.”
Ulmer jabbed at the documents. “I’m doingrealwork for you. Your butt-buddy ain’t even in our squad and he’s getting more attention from Connor than I am on this.”
“Ira Doyle,” Larkin corrected, still maintaining that placid monotone, but inside he could feel his patience, limited in his sober state, fraying and snapping. “And he’s been a detective with the Forensic Artists Unit for three years, who’s provided critical assistance on a number of cases in my stacks. So unless I’ve overlooked your ability to create composite sketches and facial reconstructions, I wouldn’t attempt to make further comparisons.”
Ulmer said, with a narrowing of his eyes, “Think about it.”
