“Well, I’m not going back to sleep, so knock yourself out.”
“How long have you been representing Mrs. Ward-Flynn.”
“Since 1980. She starred inMemoirs of Miss Janeand exploded on the scene. Shark and scumbag alike wanted to rep her.”
“Why did she choose you.”
Byrd laughed mockingly. “Because I don’t whore out my models. I pay them out of my own pocket if a production stiffs them. I organize their transportation, call-times, medical appointments. For fuck’s sake, I help these girls file their taxes. For thirty years, I landed Candi some of the best scenes in the industry, and as one of the highest-paid models to boot. That’s why she chose me.”
“And you continue to represent her in retirement.”
“She’s retired from thescreen,” Byrd clarified. “Candi’s been intimate with just about every dick that’s come swinging through those doors. That’s some serious dedication to the art. Candi still goes to conventions, though. Draws a hell of a crowd. She gets a lot of speaking and hosting engagements these days.”
“Thank you for the… informative conversation, Mr. Byrd,” Larkin concluded. “Please be sure to call me back with the time Mrs. Ward-Flynn will be available for a conversation.”
“Hey. Can I askyoua question now?”
“What.”
“The woman—what happened to her?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Sure, but, does her family know? I mean, that she’s dead?”
Larkin hesitated, but then said honestly, “I’m not sure.”
“It’s not like it was forty years ago,” Byrd said. “All those girls lied—their age, name, where they were from… they had to. I used to take more trips out East back then, lots of girls looking for work. Every one of them had the same story: they’d just moved to the Big Apple from upstate or Jersey or God-fucking-fearing-Alabama, and they wanted to become a famous actress. Wanted to see their name in lights. They’d buy a fake ID on Broadway for ten bucks and sign with these scuzzy, panty-sniffing hacks masquerading as talent agents with their closet-sized offices above 24-7 diners full of girls turning tricks in the bathroom or strung-out on coke and heroin in the gutters. Those girls were underage and stupid. They had no idea the sort of predators who hunted in Times Square.
“And look, I’m no saint. I make six figures a year because my models agree to cramming a dick into their every orifice for the camera. But I’m always straight with my girls. I work for the porn industry—that’s the sort of glitz and glam I can hire them for. And if they want it, great, if not, so long. But I don’t trick them, I don’t sell them, and I don’t get them hooked on drugs. I lost my fair share of models to ODs back then, before I put a strict no-drugs policy in place. I’d try to write or call their parents because… I mean, if she was my kid, I’d want to know. But those letters always came back undeliverable. The phone numbers would ring to a random business found in the phonebook. All of them lied back then, even to me.” Byrd was quiet a moment. “I guess what I’m saying is, question the validity of your facts, Detective.”
Chapter Six
It was 10:42 a.m. and Larkin sat behind the wheel of his black Audi, stuck in a snarl of uptown traffic on Eighty-Fifth and Park Avenue. The crosswalk was busy: a mother steering her young daughter on a pink scooter, a UPS driver hauling a loaded handcart, a father pushing a baby stroller from the side instead of directly behind, suggesting his masculinity was particularly fragile, and a dog walker leading a herd consisting of two golden retrievers sharing joint custody of a single brain cell, one Bernese so big that he likely required his own room in his owner’s apartment, a sleek Weimaraner, and one poodle who looked to have missed his last grooming appointment.
Ahead of Larkin was a red Mustang convertible with the top down and a vanity plate reading 2COOL4U. The driver, a middle-aged white man in a baby-blue polo with the collar popped and sunglasses on thebackof his head, despite the brilliant glare of the morning sun, was blasting Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise.” Bikers with insulated bags strapped to their backs wove through traffic and skirted the crosswalks, and just past the light, a Mister Softee van had parked on the southeast corner. It appeared to be doing a brisk trade, despite it being only late morning.
Larkin glanced at Doyle, whose attention was focused on the four wheels and diesel fumes of their youth, before taking his foot off the brake and stepping on the gas. He put a block between them and the teeth-grinding jingle of the ice cream van before saying abruptly, “InThe Adventure of the Yellow Face, Sherlock Holmes ruminates on the stem of a pipe that’s made of amber and how the method in which we gauge its authenticity—a fly caught inside the fossilized sap—has become counterfeited just as much as the amber itself. A sham fly placed inside sham amber. And so in a case such as ours, how do we verify the most common qualities of man if the methods in which we certify their validity are just as grossly fabricated as the facts themselves.” Larkin spared Doyle a second look.
Doyle was staring at him from behind his tortoiseshell sunglasses. “And I was just thinking about ice cream.”
Larkin continued, “While you were out, I spoke with the agent of a porn star.”
“You let me miss that?”
“I can do one better—we’ll be speaking with her sometime tomorrow. I’m waiting for Mr. Byrd to confirm the time.”
“What’s her name?”
“Candace Ward-Flynn.”
Doyle corrected, “Her stage name, Evie.”
Larkin pulled to a stop at the next red light. “Candi Bomb.”
Doyle whistled. “Candi Bomb…wow. I sawBackyard Boyswhen I was twelve.”
“You watch straight porn?” Larkin asked with a hard inflection on the question.
