“Thank you, but it was only statistics and some simple math.”Larkin looked at his phone again and tapped a few buttons.“If you don’t mind, I need to call Marcom Refrigeration Systems about the warrant I forwarded.”He put the cell to his ear, and for a second time that day, Larkin listened to the teeth-grinding free-form jazz music before a familiar voice eventually answered:
“—here’s Ben.How can I help you?”
“Mr.Brooks, this is Detective Everett Larkin with the NYPD.I forwarded a warrant to obtain the 1997 home address we discussed this morning.”
“Oh, right!The fridge that underwent home repair.”
“That’s correct.”
“Lemme see….”Ben trailed off, and theclick-clackof a mechanical keyboard could be heard.“How’s your day going, Detective?”
Larkin figured the small talk was probably Southern hospitality and answered with the expected, “Fine, I suppose.”At length, he asked, “And yourself.”
“Each day’s better than the last, sir.”
“Does that not imply your own death would be the best day of your life.”
“So long as I got no regrets, that sounds about right,” Ben answered matter-of-factly.“Okay, got a message from my supervisor saying everything’s on the up-and-up.Thank goodness I took an early lunch.I’da been real tore up if someone else got your call.You ready to take that address down?”
“Yes.”
“239 Carroll Street.That’s in Brooklyn—”
—red brick, two-story, a motorcycle parked in the tiny driveway, Doyle tapping the passenger window, saying, “That’s it,” and Phyllis Clark opening the front door—
Larkin abruptly lowered his phone, Ben’s tinny voice still gabbing from the ear speaker, and he said to Doyle, “The fridge is from Phyllis Clark’s home.”
CHAPTER NINE
Larkin sped through the mouth of the Battery Tunnel.Formerly the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, its name was changed to the Hugh L.Carey in 2012, although no self-respecting New Yorker actually acknowledged the name changes being made to bridges and tunnels, since the honoring of self-congratulating politicians was, in Larkin’s opinion, a waste of taxpayer money—not to mention getting rather out of hand—when the original location-oriented names made more sense to those who actually drove the city streets.The glow of artificial lights ricocheted off the white tile walls and ghosted over the Audi’s windshield.Taking the tunnel tacked two additional miles onto their journey, but the bridges were already becoming congested with commuter traffic, and driving between boroughs on weekday evenings was all about finding a balance.
Larkin didn’t mind.Because as they drove under the water of the East River, with nothing but that peculiar, bubble-like quality to sound, the glow of the dashboard, and the repetitive nature of the tungsten lights and road barriers to lead the way, it felt a bit like he was being recharged and reset before slamming headfirst into all new stimuli.
Doyle murmured something under his breath.
“What was that.”
“I was trying to check property records,” Doyle answered.“But I lost signal.”
“I’ve already done that.239 Carroll Street was purchased by Stephanie Sato in 1992.She is, presumably, Phyllis Clark’s wife, but I wasn’t able to confirm when Phyllis moved into the house, as further attempts to converse with her last month were met with a dial tone.”Larkin abruptly smacked the wheel with his open palm.“I fucking knew something wasn’t right with Phyllis.”
“That’s your gut speaking.”
Larkin spared Doyle a brief, incredulous glance.
“After our interview,” Doyle began, “you said you didn’t trust her.”
“I didn’t.I don’t.”
Doyle was undeterred.“That’s what us non-geniuses call a hunch.”
“It’s not a matter of intellect.It’s a matter of having limited emotional intelligence.It’s easier for me to deduce and detect if I look at only the facts.”
Doyle tapped his fingers against his thigh.“Why’d you trust me?When we first met?”
Larkin was frowning.“What.”
“What made you trust that I was a decent person?”Doyle reiterated.
