Speaking frankly of death had its time and place, and that wasn’t now or here.
Whatwashere was life and love and Ira Doyle.
Larkin placed a hand on the back of Doyle’s head and whispered, “I’m right here.”
Doyle drew Larkin to his feet as he stood, bringing their bodies closer.
“We’re okay,” Larkin said.
Doyle nodded, his posture a bit stooped so as to press his face to the crook of Larkin’s neck and shoulder.
“I love you more than you know.”
Doyle tightened his hold but said nothing.
Because everything had already been said.
Like the sun coming up over the horizon to wake the world for another day, Larkin became aware of his senses, of his surroundings: the flashing lights of a parked ambulance, the voices of uniformed officers directing traffic and civilians around the cordoned-off crime scene, the stink of a corrupted body.
“’Scuse me, sir?”
Larkin let go of Doyle before turning to his right.An EMT stood several feet away, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.“What.”
“Did you want to go to the hospital?”
“No.”And with all honestly, he added, “I’m okay.”Larkin watched as the EMT left, shut the back doors of the bus, then walked around to the driver’s side door.His attention wandered next to the street corner, to the body of Joe Sinclair with a white sheet draped over him.Dried blood stained the pavement.
“Death doesn’t seem to come for one of its own, does it?”
Both Larkin and Doyle looked in the opposite direction of the body and departing ambulance to see Neil Millett approaching.He wore partial PPE—booties over his shoes, gloves on his hands—with a digital camera hanging from his neck and his trusty evidence kit in one hand.
Larkin asked, “Why are you here.”
Millett shrugged.“Ask my supervisor.I don’t dole out the assignments.”He set his kit down, scrutinized Larkin carefully, then said, “It first came over the radio as a 10-13.Someone had reported an officer down.”
Larkin plucked at his bloody shirt.“Not yet.”
Millett looked over Larkin’s shoulder at the covered body, exchanged a knowing look with Doyle, then said with the usual toughness of a seasoned cop, “Glad to hear it.”With that, he proceeded to take photos of Larkin’s clothes, performed a GSR swab of his hands, confirmed the SIG hadn’t been fired, and finished his evidence collection by saying, “I’m gonna need to take your clothes.”
“That leaves me in an interesting predicament,” Larkin answered, but he dutifully shrugged out of his suit coat and dropped it into the paper bag Millett held.
“You don’t have a spare set for emergencies?”
Larkin unbuckled his shoulder holster and passed it to Doyle.“Field work is actually atypical to solving cold cases.”
“What’s your waist size?”
“Twenty-nine,” Larkin answered.
“Wow, really?”
“Did you want my inseam too.”
Doyle failed to entirely suppress a laugh, and Larkin was grateful for its authenticity.
Millett pushed the bag into Larkin’s hands, said, “I’ll be right back,” then jogged toward Clinton Street where the CSU van was parked.
Doyle’s introduction of some levity to the moment was a bit obvious when compared to smoother efforts of the past, but compartmentalizing was a vital tool in law enforcement, and now wasn’t the time for either of them to ponder Larkin’s near brush with death.In that gorgeous baritone, Doyle asked, “You think Millett’s into you?”
