“All of these unsolved murders—”
“Now hang on—”
“Why turn it into this vigilante bullshit.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“How’re you connected to Alfred Niederman.”
“I’m not.”
“Where’s the body of Mia Ramos—”
“I only wrote the notes!” Stolle snapped, words pouring out of him without any apparent contemplation.
Larkin hesitated, then said slowly, “I didn’t mention any notes.”
Stolle was frozen, like a deer in the headlights of a tractor trailer. His complexion had taken on a waxy appearance, and when he pulled his glasses off, his hand was shaking. “I only wrote the notes,” he said again, but in a whisper.
“Which notes,” Larkin asked.
Stolle closed his eyes briefly. “On the photo of a dead girl. And the fax—that stupid fax about you and whoever the guy is that you’re using as a cum-sock.”
Larkin jabbed two fingers hard against Stolle’s shoulder and he stumbled back from the sudden force. Larkin followed the motion, keeping the distance between them close and uncomfortable. “His name is Ira Doyle. And if you talk about him like that again, I’ll break your face. Do you understand me.”
“Wh-what the f-fuck is wrong with you?” Stolle spluttered, wiping spittle from his mouth.
“I don’t like bullies. Why would you send that fax. I could sue you for libel.”
“I had to.”
“Why,” Larkin growled.
Stolle’s breathing had gone ragged. His hand came up, floated at his hip, nearly rested on the butt of his pistol, but Larkin narrowed his eyes and Stolle let it fall to his side again. “My benefits—mypension. I’m about to retire, and a lifetime of work was gonna be taken away from me like that,” he protested, snapping his fingers.
“Taken by who.”
“I don’t know.” And then Stolle protested louder, “Idon’t. Holy shit, stop staring at me like that, you goddamn weirdo.”
“Contrary to what my face says, I am not a patient man,” Larkin warned.
“I—I did some stupid shit back in the day. Wealldid stupid shit then.”
“Let me guess. You had your Vice cake and ate it too. Someone has blackmail on you, don’t they,” Larkin asked. “What is it—did you ply sex workers with get-out-of-jail-free cards in return for a blowjob. Did you help yourself to cocaine from evidence lockers. Did you take bribes to overlook pertinent, case-closing particulars.” Larkin watched Stolle wince—the involuntary recoil, the drawing together of his brows, the tensing of his lower lids. “There it is.”
“Wh-what?”
“Who’d you take bribes from.” But just as easily as Larkin asked the question, the answer presented itself—like finding the edges of a thousand-piece puzzle. He was no longer looking at a floating, abstract concept, but an idea with dimension and depth.
Click,click,click.
Larkin shoved Stolle hard and without warning. “You knew what Regmore was doing and you took his bribe to look the other way.”
“Don’t touch me,” Stolle yelled, pushing back.
“You swore an oath to uphold the law. You could have stopped him at Natasha. You could have saved Andrew Gorman, Danielle Moreno—the half a dozen other victims Regmore’s taken credit for—and you lined your pockets instead.” Larkin shoved Stolle again. “Who knows about this. Who’s blackmailing you. Who made you write those notes.” He spat the last question with such fury in his voice that Stolle’s jaw dropped in a blatant display of distress.
An unfamiliar voice broke into the argument, calling from the street, “Detective Larkin?”
