“Larkin?”
“What.”
“They have a fridge.”
Larkin stopped walking as he reached the threshold of the bedroom he’d been inside of a month prior.He flicked on the overhead light.The walls were still that not-quite-orange-almost-pink color.The bedspread still lavender, the shag rug still white.Larkin turned around.Doyle stood behind him, tugging on a fresh pair of gloves.Sweat made the latex stick and pull over the backs of his hands.The house was still unbearably hot, and it showed in the kiss of pink across Doyle’s cheekbones.
“Of course they have a fridge,” Larkin agreed, cocking his head slightly.
“But the reason we came out here was because of the address on the repair order.”
“The fridge was in the basement,” Larkin clarified before stepping into the bedroom and around the corner to the left.This far into the home, away from the crackle of police radios and chatter of uniformed officers stationed at the open front door, it was notedly quiet.
“How do you know that?”Doyle asked.
The frame of the closet was swollen from the humidity and the bi-fold door squeaked obnoxiously as Larkin opened it.He leaned around the wall and explained, “There was an empty spot in the studio downstairs, roughly two feet wide by two feet deep.It was positioned directly in front of an electrical outlet, and there were discarded fridge shelves, cases of soda, and what appeared to be a prepper’s worth of salad dressing—Wish-Bone by the branding, creamy French by the color.”
Doyle stepped into the room.He loosened the knot of his tie while asking, “Is there a collective noun for maggots?”
Larkin arched one eyebrow.“Maggot isn’t a technical term.But as far as I’m aware, the larval stage of a blowfly doesn’t have a collective noun, no.Although, in common vernacular, I suppose ‘mass of maggots’ would be acceptable.Why.”
“I was going to make a joke that compared the number of maggots downstairs to your ‘prepper’s worth of salad dressing’ comment.”
“I see.Did you still want to tell it.”
“It won’t be funny since I’ve had to explain it.”
“I’ll laugh,” Larkin promised.
“Will it be a fake laugh?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll bide my time until the next one.”
Larkin returned his attention to the contents of the closet, slid hangers across the rod, and studied what amounted to a thrifter’s paradise of ’90s wolf T-shirts, rayon blouses in cheetah and floral prints, grungy plaid, jeans with rhinestones, fur-lined satin robes, and countless other atrocities inflicted against the general population in the name of fashion.But the lack of any one style was, in fact, a style all its own, and the clothing vibes matched the mental image Larkin had constructed of Stephanie Sato, the artsy, sixty-something lesbian wife who’d painted the loud and brash, sexually explicit piece hanging in the living room, and who’d decorated the house in such a way that it resembled a painter’s palette on an acid trip.And that was all well and fine, except where were the plain T-shirts, utilitarian cargo shorts, and tube socks of her more stereotypically butch wife Phyllis Clark?
Larkin took a step back and turned to face the room a second time.Jutting a thumb over his shoulder, he said absently, “The vacuum-sealed bag of Esther’s belongings is gone.”
“Oh,come on…,” Doyle protested.He moved around Larkin, reached overhead, and began shuffling folded blankets and bedding around to confirm for himself.
Larkin got down on his hands and knees and checked under the bed.He mused, “Matilde Wagner, a confirmed killer—responsible for the death of Esther—was discovered dismembered inside a refrigerator that can be traced through financial records tothishome, where the ex-girlfriend of Esther lives with her current wife.
“My initial interpretation of the facts was that of Phyllis having been responsible for Wagner’s murder.A revenge killing.It wouldn’t be difficult—especially after our interview with her—for Phyllis to have made the connection between Esther and Matilde Wagner.The media was all over that case like flies on shit.But even though that is a reasonable conclusion to come to, she would have had to have found Wagner before the police, which I find significantly less likely, given the manhunt that’d gone into tracking Wagner right up until last night’s discovery.”Larkin sat back up.
“Worth’s involvement would never allow for such a simple and straightforward conclusion,” Doyle added, turning to address Larkin.
“Certainly not,” Larkin agreed.“There’s a relationship between Wagner’s body dump, this home, and Joe Sinclair’s sudden and unexpected murder.I just can’t… figure out how the pieces fit together.”
Larkin blew out a breath, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.An adrenaline rush was the body’s way of preparing for a fight-or-flight situation.Blood vessels contracted in order to keep blood pumping to major muscle groups necessary for attacking or defending.The heartrate increased to allow for more oxygen to the lungs.The liver burned off stored glucose for a quick source of much-needed energy.
Intellectually, Larkin knew all this.He’d had time to come down from the rush, to decompress, to grapple with a near-death experience.The waning high was why his muscles were a little shaky—he needed some sugar.It was why his headache had returned—he was still dehydrated.But Larkin knew, deep down and more than anything, what was catching up with him was the fact that he hadn’t slept in weeks.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
“Hey.”
