Larkin looked at his watch. “That wasn’t even four hours ago.”
“You shot him in the chest.”
“He shot at me first.”
“I’m not being accusatory,” Doyle replied. He turned on the blinker, moved into the left lane, and shot past a coach bus. “Matilde said he suffered a massive heart attack.”
“What exactly did she tell you,” Larkin asked.
“I don’t have autobiographical memory, Evie.”
“Yes, of course you do. All humans do. You mean to say, you don’t haveHighly SuperiorAutobiographical Memory.”
Doyle took a breath. “Are you mad?”
“I’m very irritated,” Larkin corrected.
“I thought you said that Wagner didn’t match the pathology of a mission-oriented killer.”
“He doesn’t—based on third-party descriptions, at least. But whether those details are ascertained via arrest records or an interview with his own wife, the Earl WagnerIknow has been tainted by how he was interpreted by other people. Everyone has biases, and whether they’re aware of those attitudes and viewpoints or not, they will filter the world around them through their own moral, spiritual, and political beliefs.
“The police painted Wagner as a lowlife. Ms. Ward called him a creep. His wife believed him a wounded lamb. It’s quite the gamut to analyze without the opportunity to listen firsthand to Wagner’s speech pattern, to reflect on his vocabulary range, or to study his physical mannerisms. All of those would paint a far more concise portrait of this man and whether he was capable of murder—whether on his own or as an accessory.”
Doyle let a span of silence stretch—nothing but tire eating up asphalt—then said, “That’s what hard evidence is for.”
“Whathard evidence. We have none. That’s why these interviews are so important.” Larkin tugged on his seat belt so he could turn to study Doyle’s profile. “Before you met me in person, you knew me based on the watercooler chitchat of colleagues.” Larkin began ticking points off his fingers. “Intimidating, rude, egotistical, strange. Am I all of those things. Yes. To a degree. Much like Wagner likely was, to a degree, a lowlife creep who needed help. But what our gossiping coworkers failed to realize is that I am also, sometimes, anxious and overwhelmed and full of self-doubt. And they never noticed these other aspects of myself because their perspective didn’t allow for it. So what is it about Wagner that we’ve lost the opportunity to—nine and three, for the love of God, Ira.”
Doyle didn’t adjust his hold on the wheel, instead keeping his left arm resting on the driver’s side door. He said, “All right. I need you to take a deep breath or I’m going to pull off at the next exit and make you take a walk.”
“We don’t have time for games. Matilde is waiting. She told you she wanted to “come clean” about Wagner before going to the hospital, did she not.”
“She’s waiting forme,” Doyle corrected, his whiskey voice unhurried, his volume low, his tone as smooth as a lake on a windless day. “She doesn’t like you and doesn’t want to talk to you. And if you raise your voice to me, I’ll leave you on the Upper East Side and conduct the interview myself, okay? I need you to count to five.”
Larkin dropped his hands in his lap.
“Evie.”
“I’m counting,” Larkin answered, barely managing to keep his attitude in check.
Doyle waited.
Larkin counted to five once.
Then a second time for good measure.
He added a third count as the compulsive, problem-solving tick began to wane and the irritation brought on so easily from his near-constant drug cravings was cooling off, leaving in its place a kind of festering humiliation. Larkin swallowed and covered his eyes with one hand.
“You okay?” Doyle asked.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
“Can you look at me?”
Larkin scrubbed his face with both hands before turning his head.
Doyle spared him a quick glance. “I’m on your side, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
