“Larkin’s a plant dad,” Doyle interjected.
“Ah.Congratulations,” Millett answered.“Boy or girl?”
“Watermelon peperomias are self-pollinating.Have you checked her pockets for an ID.”
Millett turned his attention back to the body and carefully patted down the stained overalls.Maggotsplopped and the bodysquelched.He reached into the right pocket, retrieved a leather wallet, and passed it to Larkin.
Larkin wiped dark viscous fluid with his gloved thumb, revealing a custom monogram in the corner that readbitch.He opened it.A New York driver’s license, debit card, and health insurance card were all in the name of….“Kathleen Gardner.Not the homeowner.”Larkin checked the pocket for cash, but there were only soggy and discolored business cards all stuck together.He removed the mushy cardstock and could just make out three words.“Fur and Feather.”
“My money’s on either taxidermy or kink,” Millett said off-handedly.
“It’s an animal service,” Hackett said suddenly.
Larkin looked up.“What kind of service.”
“Dog walking and cat sitting, I think,” Hackett replied.“I’ve seen her flyers in the neighborhood for years.The business name always stuck out to me, since I don’t think she takes care of birds….That and she prints them on neon orange paper.”Hackett stared at Kathleen’s body for a long minute before asking, “Do you think she was here to take care of the owner’s cat?”
“What cat?”Doyle asked.
—orange tabby stretched out on the bedroom throw rug—
“Well, there’s that cat stand in the living room,” Hackett explained.“And I noticed one of those light-up balls under the dining table.Mine goes nuts for those.His name’s Murphy—my cat.”
“Doyle,” Larkin hastily said.“It’s an orange tabby.”
Doyle was already moving to the doorway as he said over his shoulder, “I’ll take a look.”
Larkin redirected his stare to Hackett, who, after a moment, shifted under its intensity.“Did you know the victim.”
“No way.But I live in Cobble Hill, and there’re nice bars here in Carroll Gardens.I’m in the area a lot.”
“I see.”Larkin paused, then added, “Thank you.”
Even with the mask on, Hackett beamed like a kindergartener who’d just gotten his first gold star sticker in class.
Larkin dropped the wallet into the evidence bag Millett held out before yanking his gloves off, turning them inside out as he did.He moved away from the body, closer to the easel, and studied the half-finished painting still propped and awaiting further work.Last month, Doyle had described Stephanie Sato as having a great sense of motion in her work, but all Larkin saw was art trying tobeart.He didn’t see technical skill or storytelling or those little flaws that were the foundation of an artist’s signature style.He saw slapdash work devoid of meaning.He saw a pretentious concept with no soul.He saw an angry green woman fingering herself and was unable to understand who would desire to hang it over their dining table.Perhaps Stephanie’s target market was not the collectors themselves, but those who chose their partner’s art habits over their own sense of taste.Gift giving, in the language of love.
Perhaps a similar mindset would also explain the one-sided décor of the Clark-Sato home—something Larkin thought of as fauxhemian: the incorporation of bold colors and textures, layered elements, mismatching kitsch, but all curated in a very socially conventional manner.The interior design was loud, garish, and without personality, exactly like this painting.
Oh, there was personality, Larkin course-corrected—it just wasn’t sincere.It wasn’t a free-thinking nonconformist who lived and breathed their art, no matter how tacky Larkin thought it was.It was someone who wished to beseenas a free-thinking nonconformist who likely did art because it brought considerable satisfaction to their inflated self-worth.
The character seen in the upstairs didn’t match who he knew Phyllis Clark to be: a no-nonsense woman of masculine tendencies who’d long-ago stripped those inclinations of their strict association tomalenessby publicly wearing tube socks and cargo shorts, maintaining a short hairstyle, and riding a motorcycle for no other reason than she wanted to.Phyllis had also presented herself to be a rather pragmatic individual, quick to credit the home’s aesthetic to Stephanie—almost like she didn’t so much enjoy it as she did put up with it.So perhaps, then, Phyllis’s gift to her wife was the compromise of shared space, the allowance of Stephanie’s palette preferences and assertive style to dominate the home.Except the command of décor was so overwhelming that there was no discernable indicator of where Stephanie ended and Phyllis began.
On June 12, Larkin’s sophisticated skepticism and refined understanding of the importance of place had been outfoxed by Phyllis’s well-placed confidence, distracted by Doyle’s personal shame, and now he had to contend with the consequences of that small but outrageous overlook.
He swore under his breath before asking, while still staring at the painting, “Do you live alone, Detective Hackett.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever lived with someone else—someone you were romantically involved with.”
“A few years ago.”
“What did your home look like.”
“What do you mean?”
Larkin turned.“I live with someone.He was at that apartment for six years before I came along.Six years is a long time to accumulate belongings and refine one’s sense of style.For example, he had a very nice linen throw—I despised it for no reason other than its texture—but six days after I’d moved in, he replaced it with a cotton blanket.I’m certain I made no overt signs of discomfort around that throw, but he’s quite adept at picking up on my nonverbal cues, and when given the choice to keep an item he’d purchased based on his home’s long-established aesthetic or see to my personal comfort, he chose me.It was the first of many compromises in sharing his space, and now, despite having lived together for only three and a half months, my presence cannot be overlooked.
