Carroll Gardens, to be precise. It was once a mostly working-class Italian neighborhood that’d been steadily losing its Italian population for the last forty years, gaining in their place an influx of affluent, upper-class French expats. The neighborhood was famous for historic brownstones and large front gardens, nineteenth century Catholic churches, and beautiful tree-lined streets dotted with local businesses ranging from whiskey bars and antique shops to vegan ice cream parlors and upscale dog salons.
Larkin pulled to a stop at a red light on the corner of Henry and Union Streets. A young woman in a sundress crossed in front of the Audi, glancing over her shoulder as she walked. Larkin followed her attention to the right—two beat cops were speaking with a clearly intoxicated man wearing an inflatable unicorn costume, who’d been riding a skateboard and double-fisting two open White Claws.
Brooklyn, Larkin thought with an internal sigh.
“Brooklyn,” Doyle murmured from the passenger seat.
The light turned green.
“Can you trust Ulmer?” Doyle asked.
Larkin stepped on the gas. “Idon’ttrust Ulmer. But he’s got the experience of working Missing Persons and I simply can’t afford the necessary time to sift through those stacks myself.”
“What do you think of Wagner?”
“I think it’s a pity I’m not allowed to speak with him yet.”
“Youdidshoot him,” Doyle pointed out. “You’re lucky he’s not dead.”
“He would be if I hadn’t had blood in my eye.”
“I mean, do you think he’s our perp?”
Larkin checked for traffic before turning off Henry and onto Carroll Street. “He doesn’t fit the classic pathology of a mission-oriented killer. His employment history is shaky, he’s financially unstable, and strikes me as a disorganized man. But I do think he’s involved to some degree.”
“Do you think Matilde knew what Wagner was planning to do yesterday?”
“I think she knew her husband was frequenting sex workers at the Dirty Dollhouse,” Larkin answered. “And has been lying to herself about the truth, or making excuses for his shortcomings, for a long time. But regarding yesterday at the precinct, I don’t think she knew what Wagner intended to do.”
“This is getting convoluted and dangerous,” Doyle murmured. He tapped his window as a red brick, two-story family home came up on the right. “That’s it.”
There was only a motorcycle parked in the postage stamp–sized driveway, so Larkin pulled the Audi onto the curb, blocking it in. He turned the engine off, climbed out, and watched Doyle over the roof as he pocketed his tortoiseshell sunglasses and slung the strap of his portfolio bag across his chest.
Larkin had hardly taken a step when his cell vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it free, read the reminder he’d added the night before in regard to the seemingly now incognito Sal Costa, and swore under his breath. Larkin tapped a few times before putting the phone to his ear.
“Something wrong?” Doyle asked.
“Sal Costa hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
“He’s not sitting in jail for the prostitution gig, is he?”
Larkin shook his head. “Vice released him same-day.”
“His phone turned off?”
“It’s ringing,” Larkin confirmed, and at that, the same generic voicemail answered and requested he leave a message after the tone. “Mr. Costa, this is Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s 9:27 a.m. and I’d still like to speak with you in regard to your storefront at 1612 Broadway. Please call me back.” He tapped End and started for the ground floor front door.
“Did you want to swing by his residence today?” Doyle asked, joining his side.
“We might have to if the twerp keeps screening me.” Larkin knocked loudly.
“Twerp…,” Doyle whispered to himself, shaking his head in mild amusement.
Heavy footsteps approached, a deadbolt was turned, and the door opened to reveal a white woman, late sixties, with closely cropped and dyed purple hair and aviator-style glasses. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Phyllis Clark,” Larkin asked.
“Yes.”
