“Let’s just serve the warrant, Larkin.”
They headed up the driveway.Larkin retrieved the paperwork—his second request for Esther Haycox’s belongings having been approved upon the discovery of the refrigerator’s origin—from the inside pocket of his suit coat before knocking on the door.“NYPD,” he called loudly.
No movement sounded from within the home.
Doyle stood at an angle beside Larkin, able to watch both the street and front door with ease.“That’s weird,” he murmured.
“What is.”
Doyle pointed over Larkin’s shoulder.
Larkin turned to his left.A wall-mounted mailbox stood open and stuffed to absolute capacity.He distractedly passed Doyle the warrant and then tugged free a handful of mail.The envelopes and catalogues had the texture of paper that’d been left in the elements—soaked from rain, dried by sunshine, rinse and repeat.Larkin quickly sorted through the contents.The mail was a usual collection of preapproved credit cards, flyers from representatives running for local office, monthly account statements, even a few catalogues advertising upcoming exhibits at city museums and galleries.The oldest were postmarked from June 13 and, Larkin noted, every single one was in Stephanie Sato’s name.
“Nothing here is addressed to Phyllis Clark,” Larkin said.
Doyle said, “Istillget mail addressed to previous tenants, and it’s been six years.”
Larkin returned the mail to the box.“I saw the Metropolitan Opera brochure on the kitchen table the other day.”
“Dorothy Wallace,” Doyle said by way of agreement.“I also get her quarterly catalogues from Ethan Allen.”
“Ethan Allen isn’t your style.”
“Nor my tax bracket.”
Larkin gave the front door another, louder knock.He put his hand on the knob and gave it a try.
The door opened, and stale, stagnant air carrying the unmistakable stink of death wafted out.
“Jesus Christ,” Larkin swore.He unholstered his SIG P226, checked Doyle, who already had his Glock 17 out, then pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe.“NYPD,” he called again from the vestibule.“Ms.Clark, Ms.Sato, if you can, please make yourself known.”
The silence was ear-piercingly loud.
Larkin warily stepped through the threshold.A set of stairs directly ahead went down to what he suspected was a basement studio, if Stephanie was indeed the artist Phyllis claimed her to be.But Larkin turned right and entered the bubblegum pink and mint-green living room, weapon raised in both hands.The house was a sauna, hot and humid, like there’d been no circulating air for weeks.Several houseplants were yellowed and limp.Larkin felt pricks of perspiration forming under his arms, at his hairline, beads of sweat already rolling down his lower back as he cleared the open layout and moved through the dimly lit home toward the bathroom.He glanced inside, but there was nothing more incriminating than a discarded bath towel on the floor.
Larkin reentered the hallway just as Doyle exited the bedroom.
“Bedroom’s clear,” Doyle said.
“The smell was stronger in the vestibule,” Larkin replied.He motioned for Doyle, and with his pistol held at low ready, he returned to the front door before slowly descending the steps to the basement, following the smell of decay like a bloodhound.At the landing stood a door partially ajar, the interior within completely dark.Larkin nudged the door open farther with his shoulder.Behind him, Doyle sucked in a breath of air as the stench intensified.Larkin reached inside, felt along the wall, and switched on a light.
The space appeared to double as both a studio and storage.There was a wooden easel—a larger version of the exact one Doyle kept stored at home—and easily a dozen vertically stacked canvases along the left wall.There was a drop cloth on the floor, a table strewn with containers of well-loved brushes and palettes of paint, but also stacked boxes labeled as seasonal décor, a stationary bike, deflated yoga ball, industrial floor fan, an Igloo cooler that had the color trappings of the early ’90s, and two cases of Pepsi Zero stacked beside a discarded pile of what looked to be salad dressing bottles and removeable refrigerator shelves.Right smack in the middle of the room was a decomposing body slumped in a foldable camping chair.
The remains were in the stage of active decay, with blackish liquid seeping from skin breaks caused by the bloating and putrefaction of internal organs.Skin sloughed from the hands hanging limp over the armrests, and long dark hair had slipped free from the scalp.The victim’s head was tilted far back with their jaw hanging wide open.They wore a pair of stained and soiled overalls and were covered in so many wriggling maggots that the body gave off the illusion of movement.
“Sonofabitch…,” Larkin whispered.
Doyle took a step closer, reaching over Larkin’s shoulder to push the door back enough so that he could peer inside.“Holy—hang on,Larkin.”
But Larkin stepped into the room so Doyle didn’t have to.He cleared the corners, made certain there was no one lurking behind the New Year’s resolutions and impulse buys, then approached the rotting corpse.Adult flies buzzed erratically around the body.Larkin put his free hand to his face, covering his mouth and nose while leaning in to inspect what remained of any defining characteristics.“It’s not Phyllis,” he announced around his cupped hand.
“How can you even tell?”
“The long hair,” Larkin said, pointing his weapon at the goopy clumps of hair littering the floor.
“Could it be Stephanie Sato?”Doyle suggested, still hovering in the doorway.
“I don’t know what she looks like.”A writhing mass of maggots plopped to the floor like a splatter of paint, and Larkin took a few steps backward.“But it looks as if this woman was struck on the back of the head.There’s an open gash on the scalp.”
