Doyle turned the pad in his hand around to face Larkin. “What do you think?”
Larkin pocketed his phone and studied the portrait. The woman from the video wasn’t pretty—not in a traditional sense, anyway. Larkin almost wanted to describe her as handsome. She had a strong face, that prominent Roman nose, big doe eyes, and a very dated shag haircut. He said, “I think you drew Joan Jett with a more prominent bridge.”
“What?” Doyle turned the sketch pad around and stared at it. “I did not….”
“Porter,” Larkin said.
“Leave me out of your domestic dispute.”
“Joan Jett,” Larkin began as Porter still obediently turned in his chair. “Yes or no.”
Porter glanced at the sketch pad as Doyle held it up, smirked, and said around a laugh, “Hey, I love rock ’n’ roll too.”
Larkin pushed his suit coat back to rest his hands on his hips, giving Doyle a challenging gaze.
“If I drew Joan Jett, it’s only because the woman on the video was emulating her,” Doyle stated. “Come on—it was the eighties and she was huge. Don’t give me that look, Larkin. I heard you say something about hairy daddies before I walked in.”
Larkin dropped his arms to his sides.
“He totally did,” Porter interjected. “And about bleached assholes too.”
“We’ll call it even,” Larkin hastily said.
And Doyle answered, “I’ll scan this,” before heading toward the copy room with the sketch pad.
Porter snickered, and it had a wheezy, Muttley-like quality.
“You’re a shit-stirrer, Porter,” Larkin muttered.
“You got it bad, Grim.”
Larkin looked away from Doyle’s retreating form and reached for his desk phone, dialed an extension, and put the receiver to his ear.
After two rings, it was answered with a gruff, “O’Halloran.”
“It’s Everett Larkin.”
The Homicide detective sighed loudly. “Mustyou call my fuckin’ desk?”
Larkin read his watch: 9:23 a.m. “Would you rather I call your cell when there’s a likelihood you’ll be on the john after your morning coffee hits.”
“I bet you’d like to know how many times I shake off.”
“Just remember, more than three is playing with yourself.”
O’Halloran made a strangled noise—like he’d swallowed a snarl and a laugh at the same time. “What do you want?”
“Sal Costa, of yesterday’s tourist trap.”
“What about him?”
“Where is he in the system.”
“I think he’s been issued a DAT and sent on his merry way.”
“When’s his court date.”
“You’d have to ask Vice.”
