Larkin said, as the nurse applied an ointment to his wound, “I was asking Stolle about his history with Harry Regmore.” And Larkin breathed a very small sigh of relief as O’Halloran began to dutifully write, because the moment he’d walked into the Homicide bullpen at Precinct 9, he’d seen the realization dawn on O’Halloran’s face. O’Halloran, already feeling like something had been off with Stolle’s arrest history, knew then and there that it had been more than laziness. That it couldn’t be swept under the rug.
Not then, not now, not ever.
“From the street, the perp called my name,” Larkin continued.
“How’d he address you?”
“Detective Larkin.”
“Which direction did he come from?”
“Unknown.”
“And you haven’t met this guy before?” O’Halloran tried. “I don’t just mean someone you’ve interviewed on a previous case. You’ve been on the force how long? Maybe you busted him in the past.”
“Ten years, and I haven’t.”
“What about out in the real world? You could have cut him off driving, bumped shoulders in a bodega, stiffed a tip—”
“Ray,” Larkin interrupted. “I assure you, I haven’t met him before.”
Doyle, his arms crossed, murmured to O’Halloran, “If Larkin says he doesn’t recognize the guy, you need to take it as gospel.”
O’Halloran shot Doyle a mildly irritated look before saying, “You’re not God, Grim.”
“And yet my memory is nearly infallible.”
“What happened next?”
“He drew a 9mm from the back of his waistband,” Larkin said. “He shot before either of us could react.”
“First at you, then Charlie?”
Larkin was thoughtful as the nurse taped a bandage in place. “I was standing close to Stolle.”
“How close?”
“Ten inches.”
“You were in his face?”
“Yes. The gunman called my name, I turned, which put some, but not enough distance between us. The balusters in front of the precinct are only three feet tall… but he had no problem making a kill shot.”
Doyle said, “You think the first shot wasn’t a miss, but a distraction?”
“Yes, exactly,” Larkin said. “It was only bad luck on my part that the stone chipped and hit me.”
“Targeting Charlie is one thing, but how’d he know you?” O’Halloran asked, like a mad dog not giving up the chase.
“The answer to that question lies in who our perp is,” Larkin commented. He was interrupted when the nurse handed him a printout.
“These are directions for at-home care—how to dress and clean the stitches. We’ve sent two prescriptions to your pharmacy, one for antibiotics, another for surgical dressings. You’ll want to pick those up today.”
Larkin nodded, folding the paper twice before getting off the bed and tucking it into his back pocket. “Thank you.” He waited until the nurse left, then said, “Is the gunman alive.”
“Last I checked. He’s in surgery right now.” O’Halloran looked down at his notepad, flipped a few pages, and said, “He had ID in his wallet—Earl Wagner.”
Larkin picked up his suit coat and pulled his arms through the sleeves.
