“I ain’t impressed.”
“You will be.”
“Look, how long is this gonna take?”
Larkin narrowed his eyes, studying the pugnacious man. Shorter than Larkin, Costa had white hair, a goatee peppered with black, and thick, still-black brows. He wore his trousers too high on his belly and a button-down that he’d sweated through at the armpits. A gold chain with some kind of religious pendant was visible where he’d unbuttoned the collar. Larkin pegged him as being old enough to take advantage of Krispy Kreme’s ten percent senior discount.
In his ever-consistent monotone, Larkin asked, “Do you have somewhere more important to be, Mr. Costa.”
“I got a business to run,” Costa countered. “And I sure as shit can’t do that with youse all standing around, braiding each other’s hair and talkin’ about your feelings.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“There is no business to run,” Larkin said. “At least, not in a legal sense.”
Costa pointed down the hall toward the showroom. “What the fuck do you call that, then?”
“A front.”
“What’re you on about, Grim?” O’Halloran asked.
But Larkin ignored the other detective and said to Costa, “The ambient temperature outside is eighty-five degrees, but due to the Urban Heat Island Effect, Manhattan is just over ninety degrees today. Your storefront is located in a high foot-traffic neighborhood, but the lack of AC will be an immediate turnoff for tourists seeking both respite and souvenirs. Much of your stock is covered in a fine layer of dust—especially obvious on the kitsch snow globes that when you shake, a plastic bag floats among the snow. Some of the cheapest and most popular souvenirs to stock in gift stores are postcards and keychains, but your cards are decidedly dated in both style and content—you have three separate designs that include the Twin Towers—and while state keychains with names are quite popular with children—James, William, Olivia, and Emma statistically being some of the first to hit low stock levels—your display is full. There is also a decidedly closed-up odor, suggesting not only poor air circulation, but a lack of people. A lack of customers.” Larkin slid his hands into his pockets. “You’re also doing construction of some sort—”
Costa shot back, “I’m building a room for storage.”
“We’ve already established you’re not selling your mass-produced-in-China wares, which is further enforced by the fact that drywall dust goes absolutely everywhere during renovation, and you’ve not protected a single display. Plastic covers come in a variety of sizes, are relatively affordable, and widely available both in-person and online. No, don’t worry, I’ll figure out what you’re constructing on my own. Tell me, who called the police.”
“Laborer out front,” O’Halloran answered before Costa could speak.
“Did you interview him,” Larkin asked, glancing at O’Halloran.
“Not yet. Only speaks Spanish. You speak Spanish, Grim?”
“French.”
“That’s about as useful as tits on a bull.”
“I won’t disagree with you. My parents are rather pretentious.”
O’Halloran actually laughed.
To Costa, Larkin said, “So you have no customers to tend to, no stock to store, a body in your wall that any cop would investigate as a ‘suspicious death,’ and yet you exhibit only irritation at our presence and considerable contempt toward me, specifically. Do you know what contempt is, Mr. Costa. It’s a universal facial expression and the only one to present unilaterally—meaning that only one side of the face will tighten, typically in the raising of the lip. It’s often accompanied by other physical telltales such as chest-puffing, looking down one’s nose—which of course you can’t do, seeing as I’m taller—and eye-rolling, which you are, in fact, doing. Contempt is meant to assert power or feelings of superiority and is especially present when the individual in question is uncertain of their place in the situational hierarchy.” Larkin smiled briefly. “I’m at the top of that hierarchy, in case there was any doubt.” He turned on one heel and walked farther down the hallway.
“You fuckin’ pig!” Costa called after him. “I’ll beat your ass any day, you hear me? You come intomyplace of business? You talk tomelike that? No—fuck you, you fuckin’ mick—”
Larkin ignored the sudden uptick in verbal diarrhea coming from both O’Halloran and Costa at his back. He stopped at the dead end, just past the hole in the wall on his left, and studied the beadboard paneling. It went up what Larkin suspected was exactly six feet and eight inches, before meeting horizontal paneling that ran across the width of the wall. Larkin held his palm out, not quite touching the paneling, and began to slowly move it back and forth before he felt a slight draft and distinct change in temperature.
Cool air—like from an AC.
Larkin leaned close to the all-but-invisible crack and inhaled deeply through his nose.
That same overly sweet scent as before, but in greater abundance, a bit like artificial strawberry and candied apple.
It smelled like February 12, 2011. Walking the beat, Larkin’s then-partner opted they get out of the cold and grab a coffee at one of the stores in Grand Central’s market, where they’d walked into a robbery in-progress. The suspect had fled with ninety-four dollars in cash and the barista’s iPhone. Larkin—younger, thinner, and much more spry than his partner—had taken off in pursuit. He chased the thief through the Beaux-Arts-styled Main Concourse, zodiac constellations watching from high overhead on the turquoise ceiling, then out onto Lexington Avenue, through two blocks of tourist-heavy foot traffic, until the dipshit had made a calculated error by running into a Bath & Body Works on the corner, where Larkin had shoulder-checked him into a display of Berry Berry lotion and Vanilla Coconut body spray before handcuffing him.
“Larkin?” That was Millett.
