Doyle paused at the steps of apartment building 605 and said, “That’s the best part.”
Larkin turned that over as he hiked the steep stairs ahead of Doyle. He stopped to study the panel with resident names and apartment buzzers. The list looked as if the tenants had either never moved out, or it’d simply not been updated over time—ballpoint pen had faded, peel-and-stick labels were furled, and punch labels had cracked. Larkin noted 3D—Manuela Ramos—and tapped the button.
The tinny voice of an older woman answered, “Hello?”
“It’s Detective Everett Larkin with the Cold Case Squad, ma’am. We spoke on the phone about an hour ago.”
The front door buzzed in response.
Larkin grabbed the handle, pulled it open, and stepped into the vestibule. He went through the second door, briefly holding it for Doyle, then started up the very old and very cramped staircase that’d have anyone wondering the mathematics involved for getting any sort of furniture past the ground floor. The building was quiet, but this being a working-class neighborhood, most everyone would be away from home at eleven o’clock on a Thursday.
A door opened as Larkin and Doyle reached the third-floor landing and an elderly woman poked her head out, studying them warily from the opposite end of the hall. She kept her hair very short and dyed a convincing shade of brown, despite it not matching her age, which Larkin estimated was closer to seventy than sixty. Her brows were carefully penciled in, lipstick had been applied, and she wore dainty gold hoop earrings that all women of a certain generation seemed to own. She pulled the door open the rest of the way and stood in the threshold. She wore black pants and a green peasant blouse with a loud floral print that didn’t exactly accentuate her large hips and chest in a positive way, but at least seemed comfortable for the heat of summer.
“You’re the detective?” she asked with a note of doubt.
Larkin retrieved his badge and displayed it from where he stood at the stairs. “Everett Larkin. My partner, Ira Doyle,” he said, pointing to Doyle before tucking his shield away. “Are you Manuela Ramos.”
She nodded, still uncertain. “Mia’s auntie. How long have you been a detective?”
“Ten years on the force, seven as a detective,” Larkin replied.
“You look like a baby.”
“I assure you, I’m of a sufficient age to be investigating your niece’s disappearance. May we come in.”
Manuela gestured for them to follow as she shuffled inside. The entrance opened onto a small kitchen with an off-white refrigerator and the dated, cheap pine cupboards that graced so many New York City rentals. It was clean and organized—impressive, considering how unbelievably small it was. An ancient ceiling fixture overhead housed a bulb that probably maxed out at forty watts, but was too high for Manuela to replace, so she clearly made do with the relative gloominess, which was reinforced by the fact that the railroad-style home had only two windows at the front of the building, which Larkin suspected was a bedroom.
Manuela waited until Doyle had closed the door behind himself, then said, “My sister lives with me now. It’s easier this way.”
The second room—although it wasn’t self-contained and the kitchen really just bled into it—was being utilized for both dining and relaxation. A plain wooden table with four chairs was pushed into the far left corner so only two of the seats were actually accessible. To the right of it was a boxy, faux leather sofa in a chocolate brown that was once plump, now sagging, with a small old woman sunk into its cushion.
Her hair was styled short like Manuela’s, but was thinning and entirely gray. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her face was heavily wrinkled—from age, yes, but it was clear she’d once been a hard drug-user—with a cannula slipping out of place. She glanced away from the flatscreen television mounted on the opposite wall that was playing a Chinese drama with Spanish subtitles, made eye contact with Larkin, and narrowed her dark eyes until she was scowling. She raised a knobby hand and absently readjusted the oxygen flow to her nose.
Manuela moved to stand beside the couch, putting both hands briefly on the other woman’s shoulders as she said, “This is Mia’s mother, Silvia Ramos.”
“My name is Everett Larkin—”
“Everett?” Silvia croaked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave an unimpressedharumphbefore turning her attention back to the television.
“I’m a detective with the Cold Case Squad, and I’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter, Mia.” Larkin waited, but Silvia said nothing. He glanced at Manuela, who offered him a curious expression of both sympathy and apology. “Mrs. Ramos—”
“I wasn’t ever married,” Silvia muttered.
“Ms. Ramos,” Larkin corrected automatically. “May we sit down.”
Manuela opened her mouth to answer, but Silvia huffed a second time, fished the remote out from where it’d been wedged between the couch cushions, and tapped Pause. She looked at Larkin and said, “I’d better not die before I get to watch the end of this episode.”
Manuela motioned to the table. “Please sit. I’ll make coffee.”
“That’s not—”
“They don’t need coffee, Minnie,” Silvia snapped.
Larkin took a breath, calmly said to Manuela, “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” and then he and Doyle pulled out the chairs at the table.
