Doyle nodded, slid the tip of his index finger under the hair tie on Larkin’s wrist as he put his hand over the phone, rubbed the pulse point for only a second, then stepped back. Doyle tapped a name in the contacts list and brought the cell to his ear.
Larkin mouthed, “I love you.”
Doyle smiled, so big and bright, but didn’t have a chance to respond before saying into the phone, “It’s Ira Doyle, actually. Yeah, sorry about that—just borrowing his phone. Do you have a minute?”
Larkin left him to speak with O’Halloran and walked toward the breakroom. He poked his head around the corner, moved into the threshold, and asked, “Do you still want in.”
Distractedly, Ulmer asked, “I thought you didn’t trust me?” He stood in front of the open fridge, sniffing a container of lox before making a face and returning it to the top shelf.
Larkin frowned. “Do you want in or not.”
Ulmer shut the door and turned. “What’s the case?”
“I’m looking for sex workers who were reported as missing in Times Square between 1982 and 1989.”
“Oh, come the fuck on,” Ulmer protested. “I don’t work Missing Persons anymore. I’m not doing more of this grunt work for you.”
Larkin raised his voice and kept talking, “I’m also looking for OD cases, same victim type, location, and time period.”
“Are you nuts? Overdoses and runaway prostitutes?”
“Sex workers,” Larkin corrected.
“You might as well just flag every fucking case from the ’80s.”
Larkin had been robbed of his ability to maintain small talk and offer sincere flattery on August 2, 2002. Since that day, he couldn’t even utilize praise-manipulation tactics to get assholes like Ulmer to do his bidding because his aloof personality and brutal honesty simply didn’t translate. And so Larkin had adapted. He’d learned to keep himself at arm’s length to protect his mind from overstimulation and negative associations, but most importantly, he’d discovered how to wield ego and confidence as his tools of the trade. They might have been far less subtle, but society’s foundation hadn’t been laid with people like him in mind.
Larkin said simply, “I had a write-up in theTimesfor the last case I solved, but you’re free to do as you please.” At that, he turned on the heel of his black derbies with stark white stitching and left. And like he’d hoped, the counterintuitive method worked. Larkin had hardly passed Miyamoto’s desk when—
“Grim!”
He stopped, looking back.
Ulmer entered the bullpen after him, saying, “You’ve gotta give me more. It’s too vague.”
“Focus on women who might have been employed at peep shows or sex clubs along Broadway—the Dirty Dollhouse or Frills. Anything north of West Fortieth. Start by pulling Esther Haycox. It’ll be a closed case, but I’d like to see the original report.”
“And?”
Larkin shook his head and stared expectantly.
“You’re not investigating dead crackhead hookers because you got nothing better to do.”
“Sex workers. Honestly, Ulmer, I don’t know how many times I need to correct you before it’ll stick.”
“What’s the case?” he asked again, low enough to keep the conversation between them. “There’s no goddamn way you’ve landed yourself three serials in as many months.”
“What do you want me to say.”
“That’s pretty fucking suspicious, Grim. Don’t you think?”
Larkin didn’t blink, asking, “Are you helping or not.”
Ulmer clucked his tongue a few times before making to shove Larkin’s shoulder on his way to his own desk, but Larkin sidestepped quick enough that the sleeves of their suit coats only brushed. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
Chapter Fifteen
Phyllis Clark, the supposed former lover of Esther Haycox, lived in Brooklyn.
