“I do.She never will, and you didn’t deserve that.”
“Thank you.”
Larkin tossed the paper towel in the trash and opened the door.
“What about Noah?”
Larkin turned.
“I swear, I didn’t—”
“I know.I’ll find out what’s going on.”Larkin ushered Doyle out of the bathroom.
They were halfway across the lounge when Doyle slowed and took out his phone, but this time he swiped to accept an incoming call.“Hey, Craig.”
Larkin stopped and waited.
“We’re heading that way, actually.All right, see you soon.”Doyle lowered the cell.“The courier from Queens just dropped off the brooch.”
“Good.”Larkin led the way back to the table still occupied by Jacqueline.The spilled champagne and broken glass had been cleaned up in their absence.
Jacqueline glanced up from her phone and said in a loud whisper, as if someone might be eavesdropping, “Everett, you’ve been in the bathroom nearly twenty minutes.”Her eyes flicked to Doyle and she added, “Have some self-control.”
Larkin replied, the flat effect of his speech now like gasoline meeting a lit match, “There was a thunderstorm.”
“Oh, darling, are you still doing that?”She sighed, and somehow such a small action read as monumental.“I wish you wouldn’t do it in public.”
“Evie, will you wait outside?”Doyle’s voice was its usual smooth and smoky top-shelf quality, but the expression on his face—Larkin had seen that unmasked outrage only once before.
—Doyle grabbing Gary Reynold like he were a ragdoll, screaming in his face, “She’s a child.A fuckingchild, you disgusting pig!”—
But then his partner’s face relaxed, and Doyle offered Larkin a smile that reminded him of quiet Sunday afternoons, thechinkof melting ice in a glass of water, pencil lead scratching fresh paper.
Larkin said to his mother, “We have to get back to work.”He leaned down and bussed her cheek.“Please stop talking to Noah.I don’t want you or Dad involved in my divorce proceedings.”And despite Jacqueline’s protest, he turned and headed for the exit.Ignoring the maître d’ at the front, Larkin pushed open the door and was met with a wall of overly warm and damp post-storm air.He suppressed a grunt of discomfort and looked over his shoulder.
Doyle still stood at the table, speaking far too quietly to be overheard at that distance, but when he finished, he didn’t linger—didn’t allow Jacqueline an opportunity to say her piece—instead strode across the café at a laidback pace while slipping his sunglasses on.Reaching Larkin, Doyle made a very conscious broadcast of their relationship by moving into the threshold and putting a hand on the back of Larkin’s head.
Larkin didn’t stop him.
Doyle kissed his forehead before asking, “How about I drive?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Larkin had, unsurprisingly, fallen asleep on the drive downtown—his nap forty-eight minutes long, if the clock on the Audi’s dash was to be believed.Taking the FDR should have saved them time, despite its additional two miles, so Larkin couldn’t explain the discrepancy.That was, until Doyle said that a notification on Local4Locals had warned of a southbound accident on the parkway causing significant delays, so he’d opted to take Second Avenue instead.Doyle had insisted, in that usual, easygoing breeziness, that it hadn’t been a big deal.Any excuse to relax behind the wheel of the Audi, even if it meant an hour of brake-tapping through midday, stop-and-go traffic on surface streets.
It was 1:02 p.m.when they stepped through the front doors of One Police Plaza.The official headquarters of the NYPD since 1973, the thirteen-story, god-awful Brutalist structure looked more like a prison than it did a suitable place to squirrel away the three-man Forensic Artists Unit, never mind a more heavy-hitting team like Major Cases or the actual police commissioner, whose offices were located on the top floor.
“I swear,” Doyle was saying, but there was barely suppressed laughter in his words.
“You should never lie to the police.”
“It’s the truth, officer.”
“Then why don’t I see that traffic notification on Local4Locals,” Larkin asked, coming to a stop in the middle of reception and holding his cell phone up.
Doyle leaned in, squinted at the screen, and then said with feigned thoughtfulness, “So strange….”
“Did you intentionally take the long way.”
