Stumbling back, the officer put a hand on the door to keep it from closing.“Something wrong, sir?”
As Larkin drew close, he took in and promptly filed away the usual details: a big guy who was a little soft around the waist, shaved head, dark eyes, name tag reading: Rodriguez.“Detective Everett Larkin with the Cold Case Squad,” he said.“Do you know the perpetrator of this crime.”
“Of…?”He pointed toward the autopsy suite before saying, “We caught Anthony Vargas in the act.”
“How long have you known Vargas.”
He shrugged.“Few years, I guess.”
“What is he serving time for.”
The elevator beeped loudly.
Rodriguez said, “I don’t make it a habit of reading inmates’ paperwork.Makes the job easier, not knowing who might’ve murdered a grandmother.”
“But you can find out.”
The elevator beeped again.
Larkin reached into his pocket, retrieved his wallet, and removed a business card.He held it out.“As soon as possible.”
Rodriguez looked at the card.He looked at Larkin.Then he halfheartedly plucked it from between Larkin’s fingers and boarded the elevator without a word.
Larkin narrowed his eyes, frowning as the elevator doors slid shut.There typically wasn’t much, if any, serious discourse between their two departments—not in the way Larkin had heard such animosity could exist in smaller towns, with prison guards reporting that patrol treated them like mall cops who couldn’t handle the “real job.”Larkin had a more complicated relationship with Vice, Homicide—hell, his own team—than he ever had with Corrections.
Maybe Rodrigeuz had been nearing the end of a grueling twelve-hour shift when the attack happened.
Maybe Rodriguez resented having to do any kind of paperwork for outside departments.
Maybe Rodriguez just hated his job.
But still, Larkin took a step forward, reached for the call panel on the wall—
“Larkin?”Doyle had moved into the hall.He held one of the swinging doors open with his foot and had his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed but not at ease.“Everything okay?”he called.
Larkin gave the elevator one final consideration before slowly walking back the way he’d come.The heels of his mint-green derbies echoed loudly against the concrete floor.“Costa was our only other connection to Adam Worth,” he said, just loud enough to be heard by Doyle.
“There’s no chance in hell his murder was a coincidence—not when his sister’s remains were found less than twelve hours ago.”
Larkin opened his mouth to remind Doyle of Anthony Vargas, a story he had shared in this very hallway only twenty-nine days ago, but then Baxter stepped out of the open suite and looked between them expectantly.
Prompted by his appearance, Doyle smiled politely and said, “Dr.Baxter’s offered to give us an overview of Wagner’s autopsy.”
“Since you’re already here,” Baxter added with a shrug.“I’ll email you the report later this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Larkin said, hoping it didn’t sound as stressed as it’d felt to him.He called to O’Halloran, still inside and standing at the table, likely in Marsha’s way as she took photographs of their dead man, “We have to speak with Vargas.”Larkin waited for an acknowledgment, then said, louder, “Ray.”
“I heard you,” O’Halloran answered, not looking away from Costa.He shook his head, slapped the notepad against his open palm a few times, then repeated, sounding a little defeated, “I heard you.”
Baxter ushered Larkin and Doyle deeper into the bowels of the OCME, saying over his shoulder, “I take it this whole fiasco isn’t good for one of your investigations?”
“Sal Costa was Matilde Wagner’s brother,” Larkin reluctantly explained, walking behind the doctor with Doyle taking up the rear.
“Angel of Death, Matilde Wagner?”
“Yes.”
Baxter glanced at Larkin a second time.“Didn’t she have something to do with last month’s mummy, too?”
