Larkin could never predict what Doyle would say.
But he at least knew it would always be kind.
“What’s your favorite song of hers?”
Larkin’s brows rose.“Oh… um….”He smiled a little self-consciously and, leaning forward, whisper-sang in his usual monotone the title and subsequent opening line, “I wanna be loved by you.”
“This is even better than when you sang that one line from Sesame Street.I’m serious.You should belt them out more often.”
“I can’t sing,” Larkin answered.
“Says who?”
“I just explained—”
“Marilyn still sang,” Doyle pointed out.
Larkin hesitated, and his split-second of doubt allowed Doyle to smile triumphantly.
Larkin’s phone rang.
He leaned to one side and retrieved it from his pocket.The ID flashed Det.Ray O’Halloran.Larkin accepted the call and brought the cell to his ear.“Good morning, O’Halloran.Are you waiting for Costa to finish combing his chest hair before sitting down to your interview.”
But O’Halloran didn’t answer with his usual bluster, and instead said, “Grim, we’ve got a problem.”
“What.”
“Sal Costa is dead.”
CHAPTER FOUR
On East Twenty-Sixth Street was the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, and in the basement of this uninspiring government facility was the autopsy suite where forensic pathologists and their team of unflinching medicolegals, mortuary technicians, toxicologists, anthropologists, and consulting dentists interviewed the dead of New York City.It was the responsibility of this century-old institution to investigate any number of deaths throughout the five boroughs, including, but not limited to: criminal violence, accident, suicide, or suspicious manner.The OCME also held jurisdiction over deaths occurring inside correctional facilities, which was why Larkin and Doyle got off the wobbly elevator that opened onto the lower level and hurried down the stark white hallway heavy with the smell of industrial disinfectant.
Larkin came to a stop outside a set of double doors and paused long enough to peer through the window into the theater beyond, with its low-hanging ceiling, exposed HVAC system, and fluorescent overhead lighting.Of the eight stainless steel autopsy tables, only one was occupied, and all of the room’s living were hovered around the decedent still dressed in an orange jumpsuit.The rest of the layout was more or less unchanged from their previous visit on Thursday, June 11.The right wall was still lined with sinks and tubing, cutting boards and scales, and the left with PPE and evidence collection bags, formalin and sample containers.
Larkin pushed the doors open.
Five people turned around.
The decedent remained spread out on the table like a specimen in a high school lab class.
Larkin asked, “What the hell happened.”
Among the attendees was Dr.Lawrence Baxter, wearing a set of navy scrubs and a white lab coat, his retro glasses pulled back to rest atop his head, and without the frames, he looked younger, and definitely more tired and irritated than was his typical disposition.There was an older woman in a pair of purple scrubs and plastic apron—likely a technician—a uniformed corrections officer, an OCME driver, and Ray O’Halloran, who seemed hastily put together in a brown suit, white button-down shirt, poorly matching striped tie, and with his hair looking a bit flat on one side, likely from having slept on it while damp.
“There aretoo many living peoplein my autopsy suite,” Baxter announced.“Marsha, you stay,” he said to the tech.“Hot artist, you stay too,” he said, turning and pointing at Doyle.“The rest of you, fight among yourselves.”
O’Halloran said a few words to the corrections officer, who nodded and headed for the door without argument.The driver trailed after him, both stepping past Larkin and Doyle, and after the double doors swung shut on their exit, O’Halloran said to Baxter, “Is that better, your majesty?”
“Watch it, Straight and Narrow,” Baxter warned, pointing up at O’Halloran with an accusatory finger.“Because out of the two of you, Detective Larkin will tell me I’m cute if I ask for it.”
“Doctor,” Larkin snapped.“That is an unprofessional and inaccurate assumption.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Baxter said.“I’m an adult.I’ve been trained in mass fatality management.If I want to be called cute, I’ll just order one of the residents to say so.”
Marsha tittered.
Baxter yanked his glasses down and then reached into a box on the counter for latex gloves.“It’s just, I was here all night piecing your Angel of Death jigsaw puzzle back together,” he explained.“Look at my hair.Does it have that sexy, tousled, bedhead thing Doyle’s got going on?”
