Larkin turned, held his hand out for silence.
Millett, partially sticking out of the hole, rested his forearms on the broken drywall and muttered, “Sure, I’ll just wait.”
To O’Halloran, Larkin called, “Please be quiet.”
“What?”
“Cease talking,” Larkin said, more curtly. He returned his attention to the beadboard wall before him, and after four, five, nine seconds… heard a muffled voice.
Not speaking, so much as grunting.
“Hey, hey, what’s he doin’?” Costa asked as Larkin felt along the paneling. “Tell him to stop.Buddy! Take your body and get the fuck outta my store.”
Larkin ignored Costa’s indignant protesting, glanced at the floor, tugged up the legs of his trousers, then crouched.
“Come on, Detective!”
Larkin drew his fingers over what looked like a sort of button, two inches in diameter and level with the tile—like it was engaged. He glanced at the wall a final time, stood, unholstered his SIG P226, then pressed down on the switch with the toe of his wingtip. Larkin raised his weapon to firing stance as the hidden door popped open from the beadboard to reveal an unaccounted-for space.
The booth was a cramped five-by-six with harsh red mood lights, what looked like a blue, possibly black, shiny vinyl couch, and an AC unit working overtime to circulate cool air laden with the stink of cheap body spray and sex. Sprawled on the couch was a middle-aged business man, his trousers pooled around his ankles, with a woman, her back to Larkin, giving him a blowjob. A second woman, naked but for a pair of cheap heels and tube top pulled down to reveal her breasts, was performing a dance that was about as seductive as it could possibly be, without any music to partner her movements to.
All three of them startled.
The woman on her knees looked over her shoulder, and still holding her client’s dick in one hand, squeaked like a mouse underfoot when she saw Larkin standing in the doorway, pistol drawn.
Larkin sighed, lowering his weapon. “Everett Larkin, NYPD. Ma’am, please pull your top up—thank you. Ma’am, you’ll need to let go of the gentleman’s penis before you rip it off. Sir, I didn’t ask you to move.”
“Can I pull my pants up?”
“You should have thought of this before you took them off,” Larkin replied. He holstered his gun as O’Halloran shouldered into the doorway.
Costa was moaning from his office door like he was going to be sick.
“You running a prostitution ring, Costa?” O’Halloran called over his shoulder. He sighed heavily before saying to Larkin, “I’ll toss you for it.”
Larkin snorted under his breath and turned away from the booth. “It’s your problem.”
“I’m Homicide!” O’Halloran protested.
“I’m Cold Cases,” Larkin returned evenly. “And I do believe there’s a DB in the wall that requires my attention.”
“For fuck’s sake. Lady,” O’Halloran barked, “get your panties on. My guy, tuck your fucking schmeckle in your drawers and stand up.”
Larkin stopped beside Millett, who was still waiting inside the wall, but addressed Costa, “There’s a second door, behind the couch. Where does it lead.”
“The delivery access door.”
Millett commented, “An ingressandegress? Very fire-safety oriented.”
“The girls have the door code,” Costa admitted. “Business at all hours….”
Larkin said, deadpan, “You are a true titan of industry. So you’re constructing a second booth, your laborer calls 911 to report the body before you had a chance to stop him or warn your girls to hang back, and then unbeknownst to them, the police show up while they’re… with a client.”
Costa sneered, watched O’Halloran march the two scantily clad, tight-lipped sex workers and sniveling customer, who swore he’d been drugged, he had no idea how his dick ended up in this lady’s mouth, he was a married man, down the hall and into the storefront. To Larkin, Costa said, “The booths are already there, behind the drywall. I was restoring them, is all.”
“Restoring,” Larkin repeated.
Costa crossed his arms, shrugged. “This place used to be the Dirty Dollhouse—a peep show. They shut it down in ’89.”
