“Without lessening the travesty of their deaths,” Larkin began, “within the context of this ‘game’ the sender is playing, they were pawns whose sacrifices lured out the more valuable pieces. By bringing Gorman’s death to my attention, we discovered Regmore and his array of victims. The same can be said of Garcia—we exposed Niederman and his cache.”
“So… does that mean another cold case in your stacks will exposeanotherkiller and even more vics the NYPD has never been aware of?” Connor countered.
“No, not this time,” Larkin replied. “The sender wanted us to establish the identity of the first postmortem photograph. Her name is Mia Ramos, and she’s the clue we need to focus on. Doyle was also able to identify her this morning as the young woman in the wall through facial reconstruct—” Larkin froze.
“Larkin?” Doyle asked, his hand hovering, but not touching, at Larkin’s elbow.
Larkin spun on his heel, opened the door, and rushed out of the office.
“Not this again…. Grim!” Connor called, the direction and volume of his voice changing as he moved around his desk and to the threshold. “What’s going on?”
But Larkin ignored Connor’s protests as he walked around the backside of Baker’s empty desk, removed a ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the second drawer of his own desk. He yanked it open and ran his index finger along the precisely aligned and organized accordion folders of forgotten names, forgotten faces, forgotten lives.
The slow and heavy tread of Jim Porter entered from the direction of the breakroom, followed by the quietthumpof his coffee cup being set down, then him swearing over the inevitable spill, because Porter always filled his #1 Husband mug too much, never left enough room for the cream, and he refused to apply the cream first, coffee second technique, despite Larkin having proved it a superior method.
“Morning, Grim. What’s with the boo-boo? You and Doyle like it rough?”
“Good morning, Porter. No, I was shot at.” Larkin located the slimmest folder of the lot, tugged it free, and held it overhead as he turned toward Connor and Doyle still in the open doorway. “Baby Hope.”
“Shot at?” Porter protested.
Larkin walked toward the office, saying, “Friday, June 3, 1988, Baby Hope was found strangled to death in the women’s restroom of a Times Square establishment.” He opened the accordion case, took out a manila folder, and passed it to Doyle, saying as his partner flipped it open, “A burlesque theater called Frills.”
“Located on Broadway,” Doyle read aloud. He angled the file so Connor could get a look at the discolored pages and dated typeset.
“Mia Ramos had a cesarean scar,” Larkin added after a beat.
Doyle raised his gaze. His entire body had gone perfectly still. “You think this child belonged to Mia?”
“I think a runaway turning up dead in a peep show and a baby murdered in a burlesque theater, both six months before the Dollhouse’s closure, is very strange. But I think a baby who might’ve had a runaway for a mother wouldn’t appear in the national database for missing and exploited children because no one would’ve known she ever existed. And I think that’s enough probable cause to encourage the department to pay for a maternity test between Mia Ramos and Baby Hope. Hope’s DNA is already on file,” Larkin concluded.
“Hang on,” Connor interrupted, raising a hand. “You said Gorman and Garcia inadvertently solved the last two cases. How does a maternity test help withthiscase?”
Larkin cocked his head. “It takes two to tango, sir.”
Connor flushed, and he looked both embarrassed and irritated.
Doyle closed Hope’s file and pressed it to his chest as he crossed his arms. “A romantic partner is always going to be the first suspect. And you said that Mia was found wearing a wedding ring, right, Larkin?”
Larkin nodded.
Doyle said, “Nearly ninety-five percent of female homicide victims are killed by a man they knew.” He turned to Connor and added, “And of those, about half had a relationship that was intimate—dating, married, recently split.”
“Point made,” Connor grumbled. “If Mia and Hope are mother and daughter, we’ll have a father worth checking out. He might already be in the system. If the sonofabitch had the fortitude to kill a teenage girl and her baby, he’s not new to crime—no, hang on. That doesn’t work. Mia wasNiederman’sfirst victim. Are you saying Niederman might be the baby-daddy?”
Larkin furrowed his brows. “Perhaps I’m mistaken.”
“That’ll be a first,” Connor said mildly.
“Certainly, she was a victim of Nieder—”
“Larkin,” Doyle interrupted.
“What.”
“I think you’re right.”
“About which part.”
