O’Halloran continued, “Earl did time in ’81, ’84, ’87, ’88, ’92, ’05—it goes on like that.”
Doyle cut in. “What were his charges?”
“Uh… let’s see… theft, solicitation, solicitation, possession, blah, blah, blah.” O’Halloran snapped his notebook shut. “A real gift to society, that motherfucker.”
“But no assault and battery?” Doyle pressed. “Manslaughter, homicide?”
“It’s all bottom-feeder shit. Why?”
“Because murdering a man in broad daylight doesn’t match his history of petty criminal charges,” Larkin explained, wiping at a dried bloodstain on the lapel of his coat. He looked up. “Should I lose the coat.”
Doyle made a face.
Larkin dutifully took it back off and said to O’Halloran, “To understand what a man will do next, look at what he’s done in the past.” He moved around both detectives and into the hall.
From behind, O’Halloran said, “There’s more.”
Larkin paused, looking over his shoulder.
“Earl’s wife is here, waiting for him to get out of surgery.”
Larkin narrowed his eyes.
O’Halloran tapped the notepad uneasily against the palm of his hand, before saying at length, “And Charlie was his arresting officer in ’87—during a raid on a peep show. 1612 Broadway. Wasn’t that the address of where we were yesterday?”
—black-and-white photograph, feathered hair, dead eyes, mop in-hand—
Larkin winced and pressed his thumb against his left eye.
Doyle took a step forward. “Larkin?”
“Vinny’s Spunk Cleaner,” he said promptly, looking up.
“Sorry?” Doyle asked.
“Come again?” O’Halloran said over him.
Larkin beckoned his partner to follow as he made for the exit, calling over his shoulder, “Earl Wagner was a former employee of the Dirty Dollhouse.”
Larkin had been directed by hospital staff to find Matilde Wagner in a small waiting room on the fourth floor. It was windowed on two sides, allowing for a view of an interior big enough for half a dozen chairs upholstered in a russet vinyl, offset by walls of beige with olive-green trim, giving the space very dated, Southwest interior design vibes. A television mounted to the far wall played reruns of one of theReal Housewivesspin-offs.
“Larkin, hang on,” Doyle said, moving ahead to cut him off. “You need to go home.”
“No.”
“You were part of an officer-involved shooting.”
“This isn’t just about me anymore—about us, even. A man was murdered—”
“Please,” Doyle said, his tone both unyielding and placating. “Pleasedon’t make me call Connor and report you.” He looked up and down the hall before saying, quieter, “I’m saying this as a fellow detective, as your partner—”
“Doyle—”
“And as yourboyfriend.” Doyle spoke over him.
Larkin held back a frown, keeping his expression a carefully composed neutral. “That was an unconventional use of out-in-the-field rule three.”
“I don’t even remember what that rule is.”
