“You can’t just—”
“I’ve seen this car too,” Larkin said over Noah.
“Wh-what?”
“Last night, a little after one in the morning.”
“Where?”
“Outside my precinct.”
“And where wasIra?”Noah asked pointedly.
“At home.”
“Maybe he wasn’t.”
“He was,” Larkin confirmed with unwavering finality.
“Then you tell me—what the fuck’s going on?”
“I need to know the dates and times and where you’ve seen this car.”
“I’d have to think.”
“I need you to be exact.”
Noah blew out a breath, and its shakiness could be heard even as it distorted over the line.“Can I call you back?”
“About this, yes.Are you posting on social media at all.”
“Just on Facebook.”
“Stop immediately.”
“Everett?”Noah sounded scared now.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Larkin concluded.He ended the call with a terse goodbye before swearing under his breath.Larkin pocketed the phone, rubbed his tired eyes, then headed for the elevators.
Doyle’s office was on the fifth floor, on the most western end of the building, and to get there, Larkin had to proceed through an obstacle course of sensory overload: a breakroom that smelled like half a dozen different lunches all recently reheated in the microwave—the clear winner was someone’s leftover salmon and broccoli—two maintenance men, one on an open ladder and the other holding the side rail for safety, who were replacing an overhead tube light that flickered like an impromptu rave, and then a dozen private offices, some doors closed, conversations muffled, others wide open, offering a peek into the lives of the elite squads that called 1PP home.
Larkin came to a stop outside the partially closed door with the nameplate: Ira Doyle, Forensic Artists Unit.He patted his suit coat, reached inside, and retrieved the travel-sized tube of Tylenol that had recently become a permanent fixture in his life—his very own Clancy’s Candy Counter lemon drops.Larkin popped two pills, hoping to dissuade his headache from becoming a full-blown stress migraine, then pushed open the office door.
Doyle had this kind of touch, a presence, amagicwhen it came to making a space feel lived-in, Larkin decided.He couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, because the room was a standard office with its drafting desk to the left, flanked by shelves cluttered with tools and supplies, the bulletin board with its drawings from child victims, and the large worktable to the right, but every time Larkin stepped in here, he could feel the tension ease in his neck, his shoulders.
It felt… safe.
Doyle’s back was to the door as he stood at the worktable, snapping on a pair of latex gloves while staring at the contents of the evidence package open before him.
Larkin strode across the room, thetap,tap,tapof his derbies causing Doyle to turn.But before Doyle could speak, could ask how the call went, Larkin grabbed his tie, gave it a yank, and Doyle willingly moved forward with the action.With the distance closed, Larkin wrapped his arms around Doyle’s neck, hugging him hard.
Doyle returned the embrace tenfold.
“I love you,” Larkin murmured, pulling back after a moment.“I didn’t tell you that today.”
Almost immediately, Doyle looked like he was about to cry.
It’d been like this since June 12.Nearly every time, because growing up, Doyle had been so fucking starved for affection that his emotional response to receiving unconditional love in adulthood was all off.He literally couldn’t maintain an appropriate intensity—the scale tipping past joy, past wonder, somewhere beyond ecstasy—and that overwhelm usually resulted in tears.
