Larkin glanced down at the remaining printouts in his hands, shuffled through them, then pinned another photograph.
“Yeah, see that?It’s an inscription.The mourner might have only worn this for the designated period of time, in regards to their relationship with the deceased—”
“Wives mourned husbands for up to three years,” Larkin interrupted.“That’s what you told me.”
Doyle nodded.“That’s right.But jewelry was easier to maintain than the strict clothing guidelines.Some mourners wore these pieces for the rest of their lives.Do you see how faded the inscription is?It rubbed against clothing for a long time.”
“What might it have said.”
“It’s typically the name and death date of the deceased,” Doyle confirmed.“But I’d need to see it to be certain.”
“It’s at the lab in Queens.”
“Whaddya think the brooch has to do with Wagner?”Doyle asked.“I mean, could it have belonged to her?Like a family heirloom?”
“Speculation without the introduction of evidence allows for anything to be a possibility,” Larkin replied, and when he didn’t get an immediate response, when he instead felt eyes on him, Larkin turned his head.
Doyle’s expression had gone soft, almost dreamy, around the edges.Every minute of every day, he had this way of looking at Larkin, like being in his presence was akin to having been struck by a lightning bolt—just three hundred million volts of attraction and affection coursing through his body—and all of that sentiment portrayed in the smallest of gestures, like the way his eyes drew a little half-lidded whenever he listened to Larkin speak.
Larkin had been with other men, loved other men, had been married to another man, but in the last eighteen years, not one of those men, not even Noah, had beensmittenwith Larkin’s brand of sarcasm and humor, wrapped up and delivered in a monotone package.
Doyle touched a bit of hair that’d fallen free from Larkin’s side part and curled against his forehead.He gently combed it back into place before suggesting, “This whole thing has an uncanny resemblance to the subway events… it mirrors how Alfred Niederman was found.”
Larkin crossed his arms and studied the brooch again—the way the camera flash had picked up the viscous fluid covering it.He said, “Serial killers who opt to take a trophy have utilized a number of different personal effects—undergarments, driver’s licenses, the victim’s internal organs, even—but jewelry is by far the most commonly found cache.Rodney Alcala, the Dating Game Killer, kept the earrings of several of his victims.DNA from some found in a storage locker was later used in his conviction.”
“I sense a ‘but.’”
“But we know what Wagner kept as a trophy: scraps of clothing from her victims.She had sewn them together—a mourning veil by another name.”
“Somebody did a sweep of the Wagners’ apartment, right?”Doyle asked.
“O’Halloran,” Larkin confirmed.“Last month, after Sal Costa was arrested.”
—the sour taste of the handsewn rag stuffed in his mouth, the weight of the gun barrel against his forehead, the gurgle and choke of the Maglite crushing Doyle’s windpipe—
Larkin flinched.
He wanted to spit.
Instead, he took a swig of cold coffee.
Doyle’s reaction, always subdued where Larkin’s was visceral, was in his tone of voice.“We should go back.”
Larkin set his hands on his hips, index fingertap,tap,tapping as he considered.After a moment, he asked, “What does a toothpick have to do with the Hudson River.”
“What do you mean?”
Larkin glanced up.“The first letter included a transit token.Forty-eight days later, Alfred Niederman is found dead in the subway.The second letter had a ticket stub.Nineteen days later, Mia Ramos—”
“Is found on Broadway,” Doyle finished.
“So, what does a toothpick have to do with the Hudson,” Larkin asked again.
“I don’t know.”
Larkin blew out a breath.He checked his watch.“Would you like to take a night drive.”
CHAPTER THREE
