“I’ve adopted a case involving a young man who was murdered during the after-hours at the OK Astor.However, the city’s documentation is a bit conflicting in regard to the actual year of their closure, and investigating a murder does, in fact, require a certain level of accuracy.”—
“You still there?”Noah asked for a second time that afternoon.
Larkin blinked and shook his head.“Sorry.Thursday, July 2, 3:30 p.m.And the third.”
“Last Sunday.”
“July 5.”
“Hm-hm.That one stuck out to me because it wasn’t like, hey, maybe there’re just a lot of blue Honda Civics around home or work.I went out for brunch with Lacy and Steph—from school, right?—and hand to God, Everett, that same car was parked outside the restaurant when we left.”
“What’s the name of the restaurant.”
“It’s a new place in Midtown—Sully’s Bistro.”
“What time.”
“I had a lot of mimosas… maybe around two o’clock?”
—Walking in the park, the air warm, vegetation in full bloom, their skin heavy with the perfume of summer sunshine, and Larkin had stopped to say, “Ira, hang on.”
“What?”
He’d raised his phone, turned the camera on, and said, “Smile.”—
“Anything else,” Larkin asked.
“I think that’s it.”
“There is a possibility that these incidents are related to a case I’m working,” Larkin began.
“Great,” Noah muttered.
“But if by some chance that’s not what’s happening, I need you to understand how difficult it is to prove stalking behavior in a legal context.The Bureau of Justice Statistics reported 3.4 million victims of stalking in 2019, and of the sixteen percent that sought help, seventy-four percent received it, but of that, only twenty-four percent was in the form of restraining or no-contact orders, or protection services.That’s 96,000 people out of 3.4 million.In the meantime, I want you to document everything.And if you feel unsafe, don’t waste time calling me—call 911.”
“All right.Everett?”
“What.”
“Thank you for taking this seriously.”
Larkin said, “Change your routine.Leave earlier, walk a different route to the subway, don’t go anywhere after dark.Understand.”
Noah’s voice was small as he said simply, “Yeah.”
“I’ve got to go.”
They had a late lunch delivered from a restaurant on nearby Mulberry Street: steamed rice rolls with shrimp, soup dumplings, and a complimentary salted egg yolk bun that Larkin was certain was due to Doyle’s uncanny ability to befriend just about anyone, including whoever had taken his lunch order over the phone.
“Try a bite,” Doyle said, holding the white bun out.
Larkin hesitated.
“It’s good, I promise.When have I ever steered you wrong with food?”
Promptly, Larkin answered, “The quinoa meatloaf you made last week.”
“I apologized for that, like, three times.”
