“Humoring would imply I think you’re wrong,” Doyle answered, unwrapping one of the sandwiches. “And I learned my lesson on March 30 when you tore into me, remember?”
“Yes, of course,” Larkin said. “I was very rude. And I’m not perfect .”
“No,” Doyle agreed. He took a bite of the egg and cheese before adding, “But your professional commendations aren’t exactly participation trophies.” He took a sip of coffee. “And never before have I been on the receiving end of a dissertation that so effectively combined human psychology and animal biology that it made me want to shower and put on a suit before the sun was up.”
The corner of Larkin’s mouth tugged upward. “You wore your navy suit on purpose.”
Doyle feigned surprise. “What? Come on. I just like blue.”
Larkin picked up his own sandwich and began to unwrap it. “As the NYPD’s ‘very own Sherlock Holmes,’ as theTimesso unoriginally put it, I’ve deduced that navy compliments you in the same way that a vest accentuates your height and… trimness.”
“My trimness?”
“Well, what am I supposed to say, Ira, that you have a very nice waistline.”
“Sure.”
Larkin rolled his eyes. “And I know you’re aware of how this suit flatters you.”
“You’re so cute.”
“I’m a professional,” Larkin said, without humor.
“Absolutely,” Doyle said placatingly.
Larkin took a bite of his sandwich so as to avoid giving in to Doyle’s obvious teasing.
“Did you want to use my laptop?” Doyle asked after he’d finished his sandwich in a few big bites.
“Yes, thank you. I need to start confirming old arrest records.”
“You want to know if Natasha worked at the Dollhouse?” Doyle asked. He walked across the office, fetched the laptop from one of the overcrowded shelves, and returned with it to the worktable. He set it down, plugged it in, and tapped the Power button.
“To begin with,” Larkin said, taking a seat at one of the stools. “It’d give this rather outrageous proposal of mine a bit more solid ground in which to continue building upon. I’d also like to have a closer look at Wagner’s laundry list of crimes and time served. And regarding Ms. Clark—?” Larkin let the statement linger long enough to suggest it was a question.
Doyle, coffee cup to his lips, lowered it enough to say, “I have her address. She said she’d be home all day.”
“Then I’ll see what turns up for Esther Haycox and then we can compare that to what Ms. Clark has to say in-person,” Larkin concluded.
Doyle logged into the computer for Larkin before tossing his suit coat over the abandoned drafting table. He walked toward the storage closet while unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them back, opened the door, and collected his work apron from a hook on the inside. Doyle crossed the ties once over his front, like he always did, before knotting it in the back, then collected a hefty block of red clay in a plastic bag from deeper inside the congested space. Larkin put a hand on both coffee cups just as Doyle deposited the twenty-something pounds on the tabletop, causing it to shudder and wobble. Larkin let go of the cups and returned to navigating the internal police databases.
Doyle had taken a seat and was carefully unwrapping the plastic and cloth from yesterday’s reconstruction—although it looked like nothing more than a skull-sized lump to Larkin—before Larkin said, “Ira.”
“Hmm?”
Larkin waited until Doyle looked at him, then said, “I know it was unreasonable of me to ask we come into work at just after four in the morning. And you would have been entirely within your right to say no.” He tapped his fingertips against the table in a series of quick, compulsive movements. “The complexity of this case worries me.” Quieter, Larkin said, “And the intrigue I feel regarding that complexity worries me more. Like, I too am playing into a relationship that will turn volatile and I haven’t noticed because I’m getting something out of it.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.”
Doyle looked… taken aback. He got to his feet and moved to stand in front of Larkin. “You said before that Harry Regmore was the catalyst for these events.”
“Yes, but not merely—”
Doyle spoke over him, “This madman might have been the catalyst for our meeting, but he’s not the reason foryou and me.” Doyle gave Larkin’s chin a nudge up so their eyes met. “Right?”
“Ira—”
