Larkin moved down the block at a brisk pace, approaching two multiuse buildings wedged together—Chinese takeout and dry cleaning in the ground floor storefronts. At least, that’s what Larkin surmised by the scent wafting from the first and the clutter seen through the window of the second. The restaurant’s awning was torn to shreds, fabric flapping and fluttering in the June breeze. An AC unit with no support sagged in the window, spewing hot air in Larkin’s face as he walked past it. The dry-cleaning business didn’t even have an awning anymore, just the skeletal frame. A handwritten sign on neon pink poster paper had been taped to the window with the business hours and phone number.
In between the stores were two doors to access the apartments overhead. One was black, the other blue. Both were battered and stained. Larkin stopped before them, raised his head, and studied the three stories above. The red brick façade was tired and crumbling. Some windows had AC units, but most didn’t. One fire escape had a rat’s nest of jumbled cables on its landing, as if the last internet installation hadn’t gone so well. The general disregard and lack of upkeep suggested to Larkin that if both buildings weren’t already labeled as slums, it was only a matter of time before they were put on the city’s list for demolition.
Recalling the address Matilde had provided yesterday during their interview, Larkin grabbed the handle of the blue door and gave it a try.
It opened.
Larkin stepped into the tiny vestibule, with its mismatched black-and-white tile floor, sloppy pile of unclaimed junk mail, and flickering incandescent bulb that couldn’t have been more than twenty-five watts. He tried the interior door next and found the latch had been duct taped so the door couldn’t automatically lock.
Unholstering his SIG P226 and keeping it at low-ready, Larkin stepped into the hallway beyond. He took the sagging stairs at an angle so he could keep an eye on the second floor, but the building sounded—felt—empty. The floor groaned underfoot as Larkin reached the landing. He started down the hall, keeping an eye on the next set of stairs, clearing it of anyone looking to shoot him in the back, before he approached 2A.
Still standing at an angle, so his center of mass was as small a target as possible, Larkin knocked loudly. “Matilde Wagner?”
Silence.
Larkin tested the knob.
The door eased open onto a dark apartment, residual light in the shape of a rectangle leaking from around the corners of a blackout curtain drawn tight over the window on the opposite end of the room. Larkin waited, listened, adjusted his grip on the SIG.
“Matilde Wagner. NYPD. Make yourself known.”
Larkin pushed the door open farther with his foot, tried to peer around the corner on his left, but it angled too sharply to make out any details from where he stood. Larkin would have to position himself in the threshold properly to see, which would only make his silhouetted frame the perfect target. Knowing he had perhaps a minute, at best, before Doyle was in the building and facing immediate peril, Larkin slipped inside.
The apartment was hot, the air still. It smelled mildly of dirty laundry and remnants of last night’s dinner—some kind of meat. Larkin could make out the bulky shape of furniture in the front room: a loveseat, recliner, television on some kind of table or stand. There was a closet immediately behind the front door, and Larkin had to close one door to open the other. Nothing but a few pairs of sneakers, boots, and winter jackets.
Larkin moved back a step. His underarms were sweating. He approached the open doorway on his left before peering into the gloom.
Something hard slammed down on the back of his head and Larkin dropped.
Lights out.
—Doyle’s deep, smoky, unhurried voice all around him, never ending, never beginning, the life to Larkin’s death—
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
—Joy and light—
Larkin’s hands were forced together, as if in prayer, and duct tape was haphazardly wrapped around and around and around his wrists.
—Humming the melody of a tragic love song—
“Pick up the goddamn phone!”
—“Good morning, sunshine.”—
Larkin’s eyes snapped open as he was jostled none too gently on the linoleum floor of what he thought was probably a kitchen. His head was pounding, pulsating in time with the wild, frantic beating of his heart. He couldn’t see, couldn’t focus, his eyes kept drooping shut.
“It was the other guy—theothercop,” a familiar voice said, whisper barely containing his fury. “This isyourfuckin’ mess, Tilly. What am I supposed to do now? No, he’s not dead, he’s—oh fuck he’s already awake.”
Larkin took a breath, blinked a few more times, and a blurry Sal Costa stood hovering over him with a phone in one hand. The older man’s gold chain dangled from his hairy chest and Larkin tried to focus on the pendant that mirrored the one he’d seen around Matilde Wagner’s neck, but he kept seeing two or three when he knew there should only be one. Larkin opened his mouth to… he wasn’t sure, but Costa took the opportunity to shove a rag, a handkerchief,somethingin his mouth—hard enough that Larkin gagged and tried to spit it out.
“Change of plans, faggot.” Costa dropped the phone, tore another strip of duct tape from a roll on the floor beside Larkin, and pressed it to his mouth. “Your partner was supposed to be the one with twenty-two bitches shoved down his throat.” He roughly slapped Larkin’s face. “I guess we can only hope he’s as smart as you.” Costa reached out of sight, then put the barrel of Larkin’s SIG to his forehead. “How about that hierarchy now?”
“Drop the weapon,” Doyle commanded, his voice emanating from somewhere behind Larkin.
Costa hesitated.
Even in the gloom, Larkin could see the wheels turning behind the pudgy man’s dark eyes. Costa had disarmed a police officer, was ready to commit murder on behalf of Matilde Wagner, had nowhere to run.
