“I know what we’re watching on our next date night.” He winked at Larkin before saying in his patent smoky voice now cranked all the way to eleven, “Good morning, Debra. It’s Ira. How are you?”
Larkin rolled his eyes. While Doyle buttered Debra Baan up to do his bidding, Larkin made a call to Vice. He managed to get Sal Costa’s contact information out of a surly detective who’d only changed his tune about interdepartmental communication after Larkin had not so subtly suggested he could instead simply arrest Costa for the murder of the woman in the wall and everyone would know that the Grim Reaper of Cold Cases yanked Vice’s case, publicity, and attaboys right out from under them.
Larkin was dialing the provided cell number when Doyle said, “There’s classes, you know.”
Larkin glanced up, phone to his ear.
Doyle rested his backside on Baker’s desk, legs stretched across the aisle toward Larkin’s own desk. He had his arms crossed but was counting points off his fingers. “Articles, videos—you can even hire a coach.”
“What’re you talking about,” Larkin asked as the call began to ring.
“How to flirt.”
“We’ve been through this once before. I will not flirt as a motivator for someone to perform the basic tasks and duties found within their job description.”
“It is a less antagonistic approach, though.”
“I’m not antagonistic. I have expectations. And while we’re on the subject, I didn’t flirt with you, and yet, I still got what I wanted.”
Doyle grinned. “Touché.”
Larkin was close to preening when Costa’s voicemail picked up. It was the generic “the person you’re trying to reach is unavailable” greeting, and after Larkin was informed to leave a message after the tone, he said, “Mr. Costa, this is Everett Larkin of the NYPD’s Cold Case Squad. I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding 1612 Broadway and when you took possession of said storefront. Please call me back as soon as possible.” Larkin left his cell and desk numbers on the recording and hung up.
“So what’s the deal?” Doyle asked.
Larkin said, “Right, sorry, I’ve been updating you haphazardly, at best.”
Doyle shrugged. “Since we haven’t linked yesterday’s DB to the videotape, it’s nottechnicallymy case. But I’m nosey.”
“Sal Costa owns and ‘operates’ NYC Souvenirs out of the same storefront that was formally the Dirty Dollhouse. I use air quotes because it’s not a tourist trap so much as a front for an amateur prostitution ring. He was attempting to restore the private booths that’d been walled up after the Dollhouse closed, and that’s how the mummy was discovered.”
“Uh-huh. And was good ol’ Sal pimping or… soliciting?”
“Pimping.”
“Sounds like a real charmer.”
“I can attest, he’s quite the opposite. Anyway, there might be a familial relation between him and the late owner of the Dollhouse, and at the start of an investigation, I’ll take any potential leads I can get my hands on.” Larkin studied the paperwork still laid out on his desk, put a finger to the note he’d jotted earlier with Graham Byrd’s phone number, and said, “I have one last call to make, and then, pending its outcome, I’d like to pay the Ramos family a visit while I have a free moment in which to jump cases.” He looked at Doyle again. “Would you come with me for that.”
“Of course,” Doyle answered, standing up straight. “Debra said the composite would go up on Local4Locals today. I’m gonna step out and grab a coffee. Want me to pick you up anything?”
Larkin hesitated, then said, “Tylenol. I’ve had a headache since yesterday.”
“Sure thing.” Doyle moved around the backside of Larkin’s desk, patting his arm as he passed. “See you in a few, Butch.”
Larkin’s mouth quirked. He took a seat in his chair, picked up the phone receiver, and dialed Candace Ward-Flynn’s agent.
It was answered on the third ring by a man who sounded both half-awake and like it was his full-time job to put away cigars. “Graham Byrd.”
“Mr. Byrd, my name is Everett Larkin and I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Cold Case—”
Beep,beep,beep.
Larkin blew out a breath, muttered, “Wrong day to test my patience, Mr. Byrd,” and dialed the number a second time. When the line picked up, Larkin immediately said, “I would like to actively discourage you from hanging up on the police.”
Byrd snarled, “It’s…6:59in the goddamn morning!”
Larkin’s gut lurched the same way it always did whenever he forgot to leave himself reminders and ended up overlooking appointments or errands—his short-term memory issues having long established his obsessive need to constantly check and recheck the time. Larkin tucked the handset against his ear and shoulder, pulled the sleeve of his suit back to read his watch, then frowned in confusion. “I was unaware you were located on the West Coast, Mr. Byrd, and for waking you, I do apologize, but your vitriol is uncalled for.”
