“Now Earl had unlimited access to beautiful women walking around topless, bottomless, doing unspeakable sexual acts for very little money. He was living his best life. And Matilde didn’t care, because their relationship wasn’t one of love and devotion in the sense that you and I know it. Theirs was truly Machiavellian. She controlled Earl’s life. Gave him just enough of what he wanted so he came back hungrier each time.
“He’d pay girls at the peep shows or sex clubs a little something extra if they’d let Earl take the goods out for a spin, and these girls, a lot of them couldn’t say no. They’d go to one of the roach-infested hotels in Times Square after their shift, go upstairs to the room Earl rented, and they’d find his wife waiting inside. He’d say something akin to ‘my wife gets off on watching.’ And the girls maybe thought that was weird, but they weren’t threatened by another woman’s presence, not intimidated in the way they’d be if it were two men in the room. So Earl had his fun, and just before those girls got up, got dressed, took their few bucks in cash, he’d grab them, hold them down, and Matilde would administer a lethal dose of digoxin—cleansing the city of society’s rejects.”
Larkin set a clear plastic evidence bag on the tabletop. Inside was the colorful, handmade handkerchief. “Matilde’s first sex worker kill was Esther Haycox in 1982. Esther set the pattern, the routine, the obsession. Matilde kept a little trophy for herself. Serial killers often do this, as a way to relive the moment and those intense emotions. She kept Esther’s veil, a piece of her costume that was original mourning fabric.” Larkin tapped the evidence with one finger. “But then she started making this. And you know what it is, don’t you. Matilde started leaving behind a piece of the veil with every victim, and in its place she took a piece of fabric from the girl’s clothes. She was making an all-new veil for herself—a little token of mourning. How many ‘bitches’ did you say I was supposed to choke on.”
Costa’s face had gone very pale, and it made the black in his facial hair pop.
“Twenty-two,” Larkin said for him. He picked up the bag and asked, “Does this mean there are twenty-two victims for me to find.”
Costa swallowed, licked his lips.
Larkin set the bag down. “Matilde hit a little snafu when Earl fucked around with Mia Ramos and got an underage girl pregnant, but Earl kept hunting with Matilde, remained faithful to the control Matilde asserted, so she hadn’t cause for concern. At least, until Mia’s child was born and this now almost-sixteen-year-old relentlessly pursued Earl to end his marriage so they could run away together and be a family. Matilde was concerned Earl might actually do that, wasn’t she. So when he landed his ass in prison for the umpteenth time, she took matters into her own hands. The problem was, without Earl to lure those women to hotels where Matilde could kill in private, she had to improvise. And your sister isn’t good at that. She followed Mia uptown to the Fifty-Seventh Street subway after her shift at the Dirty Dollhouse. Mia was waiting for the all-clear so she could hop onto the tracks and head toward a hideaway in the tunnel that’d recently been discovered by homeless youth in the area. That was when Matilde probably grabbed her from behind and stabbed her with the digoxin. Do you know what gave it away about Mia’s murder.”
Costa hesitantly shook his head.
“Mia was terrified of needles,” Larkin answered. “That’s how we knew she wasn’t just another OD. But then Matilde had a dead body in the subway. People in the neighborhood knew Earl. They knew Matilde. They knew Mia. She was understandably losing her cool. At some point, and please correct me if you’re familiar with the exact details, Alfred Niederman came forward. He’d maybe been hitting up the peep show to watch Mia. She was young, perky, underage… just his type. But then he saw his favorite girl murdered and your sister in a panic. He maybe asked Matilde to help him pose Mia’s body—he wanted a photo for posterity. Maybe he did something else to her body too. It wasn’t Matilde’s cup of tea, but afterward, Niederman agreed to help hide Mia and they could both pretend neither of them were monsters. That’s where you come in.”
“E-Earl knew Al,” Costa said, his voice dry like all the moisture had been sucked right out of him. “From prison in… in ’84, I think.”
“He did some time in ’84 for abusing a corpse in a funeral home.”
“Earl… that stupid sonofabitch probably ran his mouth,” Costa continued. “Al was at the Dollhouse every goddamn night after they both got out.”
Larkin leaned forward. “Did Matilde call you in 1988.”
“I picked them up from the subway—them and Mia,” Costa said. “Coulda thrown her body in the Hudson, I guess… make it like a mafia thing. But you don’t think logically in moments like that. Your sister calls, says she’s got a problem, and you help her. The Dollhouse had some private booths—big enough for a few people to screw around, instead of the single booths those lonely fuckers jacked off in. We tossed her in there, locked the door, and decided to deal with it later. But then the Dollhouse got red-taped by the city and she was in there for weeks. I wasn’t gonna move that mess with the city breathing down our necks. But in the end, it didn’t matter.”
“Until your renovation.”
“I told that guy to take out theotherwall.” Costa swore under his breath and shook his head. “Never did have a good handle on Spanish….”
“Esther Haycox’s murder is on tape,” Larkin stated. “Did your sister film it.”
“I wasn’t there. How the fuck should I know?”
“Someone knows,” Larkin pressed. “Because it ended up in my possession, as a means of incriminating your sister.”
Costa stared at an invisible spot on the dented table.
“Do you know who killed Mia’s child.”
“No.”
“You were doing so well, Mr. Costa.”
Costa’s head snapped up. “Read my lips, dipshit: I. Don’t. Know.”
Larkin stared at Costa for another long minute.
Costa broke the contact first, looked down at his manacled hands.
“Why did you try to kill me last Friday.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be you. Tilly—fuck. Tilly told me that Earl was a loose cannon. He had something the cops—you, specifically—wanted. She was afraid he was going to blow it all over again.”
“Matilde shot him up with digoxin at the hospital. But she phoned my partner beforehand, to lure Detective Doyle into a trap. All the while she was actually at the hospital, establishing her whereabouts—thereby putting herself in the clear of what was supposed to be the murdering of a cop. It almost worked. It would have, if I hadn’t made a few phone calls.”
“Blood is thicker than water,” Costa murmured. “I love my sister.”
