He sure as fuck was feeling that right then.
All of it.
At once, even.
Someone knocked quietly on the doorframe.
Larkin opened his eyes.
The crumbs were still on the counter.
He didn’t move as he asked, “What.”
“I emailed you a copy of Joan Jett.”
Larkin turned on the tail of that settling smoke. Doyle stood in the threshold, sketch pad tucked under one arm, the other pressed against the doorjamb, like he was holding it up. Larkin marveled at the way Doyle was able to claim space without being overbearing. It was more like… his soul grew roots, his smile relaxed, his beauty unfurled.
Everywhere he went.
“Thank you,” Larkin answered. He grabbed the water bottle, crossed the room, then clarified, as he paused to stand in the doorway with Doyle, “I’m low on sleep.”
“I know.”
“And I dislike Homicide detectives.”
A laugh rumbled in Doyle’s chest like a big cat’s purr. He shifted, motioning Larkin to walk first.
“Do you recall the incident with Charlie Stolle,” Larkin asked over his shoulder, leading the way into the bullpen once more.
“Yeah….” Doyle drew out. “He sat on Natasha Smirnova’s murder, right?”
“Right.” Larkin reached his desk, set his water down, put his hands on his hips, and turned to look up at Doyle. “Stolle came up through Vice—’85 to ’90. He busted Natasha and her roommate, Danielle Moreno—”
“Regmore’s last victim,” Doyle said.
Larkin counted to five as he took a deep breath. He let it out. “Correct. I read both of their files back in April—Stolle arrested the women on numerous occasions for prostitution and drug-dealing at peep shows in Times Square. He worked the neighborhood right up to when the Dirty Dollhouse was shut down by city cleanup initiatives.”
“And the Dirty Dollhouse was….” Doyle hesitated, then filled in the blanks himself. “The former peep show you were called to yesterday. So you think Stolle might know something about the mummy?”
“If he sat on one murder, who’s to say he didn’t sit on more.”
“We can show him the composite,” Doyle continued, patting his sketch pad. “Maybe he’ll recognize this woman too. If he does, it’d give us a better working timeline of when she died.”
“Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re just a pretty face,” Larkin concluded.
Doyle laughed and tucked his pad into his portfolio bag before asking, “Would your neighbor mind if I used her phone?”
Larkin looked at Baker’s desk to the left of his own. It was its usual dumpster fire of organizational skills, her chair partially pushed into the kneehole, computer monitor black but the Power button on the tower blinking steadily, suggesting the elusive detective had at least logged in at some point that morning.
Larkin motioned to the desk phone. “She’d have to be here to mind. Who’re you calling.”
“Debra Baan in public relations,” Doyle answered. He turned the phone on Baker’s desk around, put the receiver to his ear, and punched in an extension he clearly knew by heart. “I don’t want that composite sitting in purgatory.”
Larkin stared unblinking. “You’re going to flirt with Debra so she does you a favor.”
“I never flirt.”
“And I don’t sing along to ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ whenGentlemen Prefer Blondesis on.”
