“Why go to the effort of hiding her?” Millett asked.
“—or sexually-motivated violence.”
“I’ll take assault for five hundred.”
Larkin turned on his heel, surveyed the dingy corners of the room, then said, “Two problems.” He held up his index finger. “The ring. Diamonds. Gold. A quality, if dated in style, engagement ring wasn’t taken from her after death, which would suggest her attacker wasn’t a stranger who’d take advantage of something that could be easily pawned. According to a study conducted by the Department of Justice, over seventy percent of Intimate Partner Violence victims who end up murdered are female and knew their assailant, so whether she was ever reported as missing by a romantic partner will be of particular interest. It’s also odd to me that a woman would workhere—a block away from what was considered the most dangerous street in the entire city throughout the ’80s—but be marrying into a life that suggests comfort.” Larkin raised a second finger. “There’s also what looks to be, perhaps, a scarf tied too tightly around her neck—”
“She might have been strangled with it,” Millett suggested as he rose to his feet.
“Why remove all of her clothes, right down to her shoes, but leave what is potentially the murder weapon, behind.”
“DNA testing was still in its infancy,” Millett replied with a shrug. “Committing a crime was different back then.”
Larkin frowned, set his hands on his hips, and muttered, “I’m too intelligent for such simple murders.”
Millett laughed under his breath and asked, “Are you aware you do all your thinking aloud?”
Larkin raised his gaze. “Does it bother you.”
“No. Some people don’t notice they talk to themselves is all.”
“I—I have mild obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Speaking aloud helps.” Before he could say anything more, his phone buzzed against his thigh and Larkin reached into his trouser pocket. He retrieved the cell, studied the notification on the illuminated screen, and said quietly, “Shit.”
Chapter Two
It was 6:06 p.m. when Larkin was shown into the office of Dr. Elizabeth Myers, with its sage green walls, tungsten floor lamps, comfortable and modern furniture at a midrange price, and those horribly bland but undisruptive landscape paintings on the walls.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said. The receptionist closed the door behind him as Larkin moved to the couch, unbuttoned his suit coat, and took a seat.
“It’s quite all right, Everett,” Myers said, rising from behind her desk and taking a seat in the matching cushioned chair to the left of the couch. She wore her typical uniform of approachable professionalism: a navy blue accordion skirt with a tucked-in baby blue button-down, which Larkin felt was too much of one color, but it did have a way of flattering her steel-gray hair. She’d paired the look with a very pale pink heel and another of her chunky, frankly ugly, necklaces, although this one had enough reds, pinks, and yellows in its twisted design for the overall palette to more or less work. Myers set a notepad on the armrest and smiled. “How’re these weekly appointments working?”
“I’m still adjusting. I use a calendar reminder,” Larkin answered, leaning back and crossing his legs.
“It’ll be routine soon enough,” she replied, making a small notation. “Have you had any intrusive associations this week?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And have they been more, less, or about the same since we reduced your dosage another five percent?”
“Xanax doesn’t cause associations,” Larkin answered flatly. “It just makes me care about them less.”
“I know,” Myers said in that same cool, crisp tone of speaking. “But we need to address your stress and anxiety while detoxing, so that you don’t relapse. Your HSAM adds complexity to the equation.”
“The associations are the same.”
“How have you been feeling otherwise?”
“More headaches and less sleep,” Larkin said. “Typical benzo withdrawals.”
Myers made another note before saying, “I think a transition to Prozac for the long-term will be a lot better for you.”
Larkin said nothing as she rattled off the pros and cons of his soon-to-be new prescription, and looked toward the large windows, studying the city from fourteen floors up. It was awash in that golden light particular to summer evenings—light that drew friends to sharing a bottle of rosé at a restaurant’s outdoor seating alongside the hustle and bustle of Midtown traffic, light that drew couples to walk hand-in-hand along the West Side’s High Line, light that drew families to the nearest park with their blanket, their picnic-basket, their two point five children, and twenty-pound, apartment-friendly dog, light that drew humans outside to soak up vitamin D, reconnect with nature, and commit murder.
It’d been studied for decades and statistically proven that violent crimes had a noticeable uptick during the summertime, not only because of how some people reacted poorly to heat, but because of contributing factors such as longer daylight hours, unaccompanied youth, and more vacations in which property was either unattended or tourists visited unfamiliar destinations.
Right now, Larkin thought, somewhere in that metropolis of eight million people, someone was dying.
Brutally.
