Doyle subtly angled himself toward Larkin as he held out a battered rectangle of cardstock. It looked like it’d been printed on a typewriter, with a stamped date and string of numbers on the bottom, and a signature for a one Barbara Fuller. There was no photograph, indicating a New York license issued before the ’80s, when the state began taking action against forgeries and counterfeit IDs.
“Who is Barbara Fuller,” Larkin asked.
“No idea,” Phyllis answered.
“There’s even more in here,” Doyle murmured, displaying the contents inside the purse.
Larkin arranged the first three pieces of documentation on the bed, took a picture with his phone, and then asked, “May we take her purse and costumes into evidence.” He saw the clear hesitation in Phyllis’s face and said, “Ms. Haycox was murdered.”
“I get that,” Phyllis said. “But… it’s been,fuck, almost forty years? What’s it matter anymore?”
“Someone has been freely walking the streets of this city for thirty-eight years,” Larkin said. “And Ms. Haycox hasn’t. That’s why it matters.”
But Phyllis was uncompromising as she answered, “You’ll have to come back with a warrant if you want those.”
It was 10:38 a.m. by the time Larkin and Doyle had gotten back to the Upper East Side for their appointment with Candace Ward-Flynn. Traffic was its usual late-morning shitshow, and the congested streets wouldn’t see relief until after dark. Larkin had his left arm propped on the driver’s side door, head leaning against his fist, while his other hand rested on the wheel. They sat, gridlocked on East Eighty-Sixth Street.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Doyle said at length.
Larkin snapped out of his daze and turned his head. “What.”
“You’re quiet,” Doyle repeated. “Everything okay?”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
You, Larkin wanted to say. He took his foot off the brake as the vehicles ahead began to move. “The case.”
“You didn’t like Phyllis, did you?”
“Not particularly,” Larkin answered. He followed the flow of traffic onto Fifth Avenue—the left side of the street lined with multimillion midrises that overlooked Central Park, and a plethora of food vendors on the right, taking advantage of the deluge of tourists visiting the Met only one block south. “I found her total disgust of sex workers to be noteworthy.”
“There was a pretty severe dichotomy within the feminist movement then,” Doyle remarked. “Antipornography and sex-positive both marched at the same time.”
“I personally wouldn’t want my partner to be fucking other people for a paycheck,” Larkin said, pulling into an open parking spot in front of one of the luxury apartment buildings. “But Ms. Clark’s approval of one thing and not the other is hypocritical and borderline emotionally toxic for a relationship.” Larkin turned off the Audi, set his parking permit on the dash, and looked at Doyle. “Her reluctance to answer certain questions, her unwillingness to hand over Ms. Haycox’s falsified documents into evidence—it was very suspicious.”
“I’ll agree with you on that point.” Doyle climbed out of the car after Larkin. “We’re a little early for our meeting—” He was interrupted when a doorman stepped out from the faux gold double doors and called out to Larkin.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but you can’t park here.”
“That’s not correct,” Larkin answered.
“You can’t be blocking the building,” the doorman insisted. “We got residents coming and going.”
“I actually can. Street parking belongs to the city, not a privately owned building. Per the Department of Transportation, it is illegal for any persons to attempt prevention of parking on the street, which includes the usage of hand signals, physical mechanisms, or signage.”
“You think I won’t call the cops, buddy?”
Larkin removed his wallet and flashed his badge. “I can make the call for you, if you’d like.”
The doorman made a sound in the back of his throat, waved his gloved hand in a “fuck you” gesture, then walked back inside.
Doyle moved between bumpers, joining Larkin on the sidewalk as he pulled the strap of his portfolio bag over his head and let it rest across his chest. “Remember when I said authority was hot?”
“Yes.” Larkin tucked his shield away.
“It’s like scorching when you do it.”
