Doyle removed the notebook he kept in his inner suit coat pocket, a pen that must have been new because it lacked the usual chew marks, and said, “Tilly. Are you aware that this afternoon, your husband Earl approached two NYPD detectives outside of Precinct 9 and opened fire, killing one and wounding another?”
She pursed her lips, clutched her hands together, and stared at her lap for a long moment before whispering, “He’s been struggling with his relationship of late.”
“With you?” Doyle asked.
“We love each other as a good husband and wife ought to. No… I meant, his relationship with God.”
“Committing murder isn’t a typical consequence when having a crisis of faith,” Larkin pointed out.
Matilde raised her head. “We will all stand before the judgment seat of God.”
“Earl will face judgment in a court of law,” Larkin corrected.
“Are you without sin, Detective?” She asked curiously. “Because you cast the first stone with considerable confidence.”
“Your moral principles aren’t applicable to how I choose to live my own life, ma’am.”
Matilde looked at Doyle and said cooly, “I don’t like him.”
“And yet, I find no need to pray for your discretion,” Larkin said mildly.
Doyle put a hand up, a silent request for Larkin to allow him to be good cop and redirect the conversation. “Tilly,” he said, “how did you and Earl meet?”
Larkin wasn’t certain if it was the pleasant nip in Doyle’s whiskey-smooth voice that’d drawn Matilde’s attention, softened her edges, or if it was the question—meant to ground and disarm her. Probably a little of both.
“I was a nurse at the New York Infirmary, before it moved downtown,” Matilde said, blushing prettily. “In 1979, I was just a girl. And Earl… he delivered medical supplies. He was so charming and kind. Always listened so attentively when I spoke about the work I did at the hospital—how I let the Lord work through me to save my patients.” Matilde reached for her necklace and tugged absently on the pendant. “We got married after only six weeks.”
“And Earl continued his delivery job?” Doyle asked, jotting down the pertinent details.
Matilde hesitated. “He had another calling.”
“He was fired,” Larkin corrected.
Matilde shot him another irritated look. “Earl has wandered from the truth a time or two, but I’m patient with him.”
Doyle interjected, “Can you tell me where he worked afterward?”
“Earl didn’t come from a good home. His mother and father beat him. His teachers said he’d never amount to anything. I saw the good in him, of course, but he struggled to find lasting employment.”
“That must have been very difficult,” Doyle said, his sympathy placed so exactly that it was probably sincere.
Larkin cocked his head and studied Matilde’s face as she looked to the side, collected a small handbag on the chair, retrieved a tissue, and dabbed her eyes.
“It was—” She took a deep breath. “—very difficult. Earl found custodian work in Times Square. It was a vipers nest, but we looked upon those—‘the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral’—and asked ourselves, can they be saved?” Matilde reached for her handbag a second time, the used tissue falling to the floor.
Larkin stretched a leg out, put his shoe over it, and dragged it backward.
Doyle noticed, raised an eyebrow in Larkin’s direction, but was redirected to Matilde when she held up a travel-sized bible.
“Like how Dr. Blackwell of the New York Infirmary entered the neighborhoods of the most destitute to teach good hygiene, Earl’s position was God’s will,” Matilde explained. She patted her bible and said, “He was sent to be among the sinners to save them. He read scripture to those women whenever there was a moment to spare.”
“And what was the name of this establishment?” Doyle asked. “Do you remember?”
“I do. The Dirty Dollhouse.”
“How long was Earl employed at the Dollhouse?”
Matilde hummed as she thought. “Let’s see… I believe he was hired in late ’81 after he was released from prison. He worked there on and off until… ’88 or ’89, I believe.”
