“Really?”
Larkin shrugged. “I was financially better off and I wanted to be a good husband.”
“I can’t speak on your marriage to Noah,” Doyle said, “but based on our relationship, I can promise you, you’re a great partner. And making those payments was incredibly thoughtful of you.”
“But,” Larkin asked.
Doyle slid his hand free from Larkin’s leg. He took a bite of his cone, swallowed, and said in that same gentle voice he always used whenever broaching the subject of Noah Rider, “I think Noah might be scared, might be overwhelmed, but I also think he’s taking advantage of you. Your retirement fund is not his piggybank.”
“Well… it’s going to court now.”
“So he’s going to pay out his nose in legal fees just to stick it to you?”
Larkin stared at the last few bites of his ice cream.
Doyle blew out a breath. “I’m sorry.” He lifted his sunglasses to sit them on his head, leaned close, and kissed Larkin’s cheek.
Larkin turned and caught Doyle’s mouth in a second kiss, his lips cold and tasting like chocolate.
“I’ve watched you bend over backward to accommodate him these last few months, and—” Doyle stopped and shook his head. “I wish he’d show you the same courtesy now and then is all.”
“Some people just don’t understand neurodivergence.”
“It’s never too late to learn.” Doyle stood and turned to look down. “And a teacher should know that most of all.”
“Oh my God,hello!” Candace Ward-Flynn cried upon answering the door of her fifth-floor unit. She drew out “hello” until it took on a singsongy cadence. She was a tall, trim, top-heavy woman with blond hair done up in a partial bun, the rest hanging to her shoulders in big, lazy curls. Candace had expertly applied makeup on, but was still dressed in a white satin bathrobe that looked like something straight out of old-school Hollywood. With its long flowing sleeves, a train like a wedding dress, and feathered trim, Candace was one cigarette holder away from telling some hardboiled PI that her unfortunate husband must have fallen on that knifehalf a dozen times.
“Mrs. Ward-Flynn—” Larkin began.
“It’sMs. Ward, baby,” Candace corrected with a purr. “Mr. Flynn flew the coop.”
“Ms. Ward,” Larkin said before showing his badge. “My name is Everett Larkin. I’m a detective with the Cold Case Squad.”
“Hm-hm, Grahamy told me.” She looked Doyle up, down, then up again. “And who’re you, honey?”
Doyle raised his badge. “Ira Doyle. I’m with the Forensic Artists Unit.”
“May we come in,” Larkin interjected.
“Please do,” she answered, somehow making it sound provocative. Candace turned and led the way down a brightly lit foyer.
“You first, honey,” Larkin said dryly.
“Thank you, baby,” Doyle returned.
The opulence and white-glove attention to extravagance they had seen in the lobby when entering the building continued to be showcased here: a marble-floored entrance with high ceilings, original crown molding, and dozens of framed photos of Candace through her long and successful career—some candid with people who might have been family or close friends, others clearly posed as studio promotion, and countless more of Candace attending glitz and glam events across the country with an ever-rotating cast of handsome men on her arm.
She led the way past a spacious and spotless eat-in kitchen, with more cupboards than Larkin knew what to do with, stainless steel appliances, and a stove with six burners. On the right was an open doorway that looked into what was clearly the master bedroom, with its plush carpet, king-size bed, and a champagne pink silk comforter, pillows, and matching upholstered headboard topped with a gold crown in the Italian Rococo style. A vanity in the same over-the-top, gilded gold aesthetic was set up on the left. Its tabletop was bigger than Larkin’s work desk, and covered in every possible makeup and beauty tool he both recognized and was ignorant of.
Candace walked into a living room featuring more ornate, Europeanesque furniture, including a stark-white couch and matching daybed. The large windows let in bright, clean light and overlooked the park entrance where Larkin and Doyle had shared a moment of respite. An impressive television was mounted on one wall, the other had built-in shelves lined with books and a number of phallic-looking trophies. Two yorkies sat on an overstuffed dog bed, eyeing Larkin and Doyle with beady black eyes.
Candace draped herself across the daybed, adjusting her robe to cover most, but not all, of her legs. “Take a seat, boys,” she said with a hand-flick in the direction of the couch. “Can I have the maid get either of you a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Larkin said, taking a seat and sinking into the cushion a little.
Doyle propped his portfolio bag against the armrest and sat beside Larkin, giving a little start as he sank in more than expected.
“You’ve done very well for yourself, Ms. Ward,” Larkin stated.
