Larkin raised one fine eyebrow.
“You’re aware of the zoning laws regarding adult storefronts in Times Square, aren’t you, Mr. Costa?” Millett asked.
“I’m aware of what that schmuck of a mayor did to this neighborhood when he started to Disney-it-up in the ’90s,” Costa retorted. “There’s no character left! It’s Dave and Busters this. Red Lobster that. A fucking M&M’s store? It’s that dickhead’s fault the girls work the streets instead of being steadily employed. It’s unconstitutional is what it is. Selling sex is my God-given right as an American.”
O’Halloran, who had returned somewhere around “dickhead,” dropped a meaty hand on Costa’s round shoulder and said, “The pimp is always innocent, ain’t he? Let’s go, Fabio.”
Larkin watched the two leave the hallway before he turned to Millett. “My apologies.”
A trace of amusement flickered behind Millett’s eyes. “You might want to take a look at what’s going on in here.”
“Is there room for me.”
“Sure.” Millett stepped back, disappearing into the booth beyond the hole.
Larkin quickly fetched one of the tripod work lamps, situated it nearby so as to properly illuminate the space, then carefully eased one leg into the hole, briefly straddled the opening, and took Millett’s hand for balance as he got his other leg through. Larkin thanked the detective and absently wiped his trousers of any white dust.
Like Costa suggested, the five-by-six area looked to have once been a room that’d simply been walled up at some point in the building’s apparent sleazy history. The cheap pink paint had long since bubbled, peeled, and discolored from water stains and the dirt that simply collects over time. The floor was covered with debris, a considerable amount of dust, and a complete human skeleton, splayed on its back, arms and legs awkwardly spread.
Larkin crouched to study the body. There was a good deal of tissue still present—darkened and dried, but attached to the bones—leaving the skeleton in a mostly articulated state. Chunks of shoulder-length black hair still remained. There was no indication of the victim having been disposed of with their shoes or clothes, the exception being a single length of gauzy-looking fabric—filthy, dull, and black—wrapped around the neck.
“What can you tell me,” Larkin asked.
“That I’m not the ME,” Millett answered. He offered a pair of latex gloves before getting down on one knee beside the body, raising his camera, and snapping a few photos.
Larkin chose to ignore the comeback as he donned the PPE. “The shape of the pelvis suggests female.”
“That and the rock on her finger.”
Larkin shifted his weight, leaned farther to one side, and studied the bony fingers of the victim resting palm-up above the skull. “That was a tragically heteronormative observation, Millett.”
“Was it?”
“My ex-husband was very insistent on a diamond ring—princess cut, one and a half carats set in platinum. Have you taken a picture.”
“Yeah.”
Larkin gently eased the tarnished band from the finger and held it toward the work lights for a better view.
“Ex-husband….” Millett snapped a few more pictures. “You get that down payment back?”
“Wedding rings are considered unconditional gifts. I expect it’ll be sold on eBay to pay his legal fees for the contested divorce.”
Millett said, “You’re not doing a great job of talking up the benefits of marriage.”
Larkin lowered the ring and stared at Millett. Unblinking, he answered, “I don’t regret my marriage. And there is nothing inherently wrong with those that come to an end.” At that, Larkin brought the ring close and huffed warm breath against the diamond. He studied the precious gemstone a moment, then said, “No fogging.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s real,” Larkin clarified, handing Millett the ring before getting to his feet. “This room has no secondary door, which would suggest the victim has been here since the space was walled up. They were left nude—”
“But thiswasa peep show of some flavor, wasn’t it?” Millett interjected.
“Would you remove your shoes and walk barefoot around Times Square during the heroin epidemic of the 1980s,” Larkin countered.
“I would not.”
Larkin reiterated, “She was left nude in a room only five by six feet. It would be literally impossible to overlook her. Someone knew she was here—wanted to leave her here—because her death wasn’t natural, ergo suspicious. Given her presence in what was once known as the Dirty Dollhouse, the assumption is that she was employed here, which would make her death one of two possibilities: a drug overdose—”
