“WHAT THEY ARE, SO SHALL WE BE”
COME FIND ME
Larkin quickly corrected, “The letter was not addressed to Noah. He opened the envelope because he still lives at my former place of residence and it had been left in the mailbox. Our unknown perpetrator was perhaps unaware I had moved out at the time.”
“Until now.”
Larkin hesitated a beat, then said, “I updated my address with HR on Tuesday, May 26.”
A tense and heavy quiet, punctuated only by the drone of the window unit, settled over the room.
Connor didn’t break eye contact with Larkin as he addressed the CSU detective. “Give us a minute alone.”
The detective seemed only too happy to answer, “I’m actually done here. I’ll get this to the lab to test for any trace evidence.”
Larkin’s phone buzzed in his pocket as the detective collected his kit. He reached inside and glanced at the caller ID flashing on the screen.
Ira Doyle.
Larkin sent the call to voicemail as the CSU detective ducked between himself and Connor before slipping out the front door.
“Somebody with inside information is trying to play games with me,” Larkin stated.
“It’s not a cop.”
“With all due respect, sir, you cannot write off a potential angle of investigation because the possibility of where it might lead upsets you. I am, by no means, thrilled at the prospect of a fellow officer insinuating themselves into my cases, taunting me with nonsensical messages and bizarre memento mori tokens, suggesting they might have compelling information on brutal serial killers never submitted into evidence, knowing where my ex-husband lives, or knowing where I and my current partner reside. But wecannotignore the fact that they knew Harry Regmore worked for the Department of Parks and Recreation, that they warned of a subway-related crime forty-eight days before I came into possession of the death portrait planted on Niederman’s body at the Fifty-Seventh Street station, that they used a law enforcement acronym in that damn fax, and that they only redirected mail to this addressafterI had my personnel file updated!”
“Grim,” Connor bellowed. “There’s gotta be an alternative explanation for all this horseshit that doesn’t involve a sociopathic cop.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Connor’s face was flushed in the way that those with fair skin were susceptible to showcasing their emotions. “Then you’d better find it. I’ll get that tape expedited at the lab.” He walked to the front door, opened it, and said over his shoulder, “Have a good night.”
Once Larkin was alone, he slid down into a crouch, back against the bottom kitchen cupboard where Doyle kept all the pots and pans. He covered his face and shouted, “Sonofabitch!”
For a solid minute, all Larkin could hear was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and when it began to dissipate, the aggravating tone was replaced with the everyday life of a Manhattan walk-up: the consistentchug,chug,chugof the AC unit, theclop,clop,clopof Mr. Gabel overhead, thebeep,beep,beepof a car alarm on the street. Frustration, sensory stimulation, and—admit it—fear, was making Larkin’s skin crawl, his heart beat too fast, his underarms sweat.
The phone in his hand buzzed a second time.
Larkin blindly tapped Accept, put the cell to his ear, and said in a single breath, “I really need a Xanax but I’ve already taken my allowed allotment for the day so could you please talk to me for a moment while I calm down?”
Hesitation, and then, “Everett?”
Larkin pulled the phone away and looked at the caller ID.
Not Doyle.
Noah Rider.
Larkin said, “Not right now.”
“Wow,” Noah said, his tone unkind. “Did you think I was him? Are you so high you can’t even tell the difference between the guy you’re fucking and the guy you fucked over?”
Larkin begged, “Notnow.”
“We’re sure as hell doing this now. I just got off the phone with my lawyer. He’s filing for a preliminary conference at court becauseyoucontested the terms put forth in the divorce papers.”
Larkin tried to catch his breath, but it sounded like a choked sob.
