Doyle gently pried the phone from Larkin’s hand and said, “Ms.Sato?My name is Ira Doyle.I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Forensic Artists Unit.I understand the prestige that comes with a residency at Adele Claremont, as well as your hesitancy to abandon such an opportunity sooner than anticipated.”
Silence crackled loudly over the speakerphone before Stephanie asked woodenly, “You understand, huh?So haveyouresided at Claremont, Mr.Doyle?”
“Uh, no.They declined my portfolio.”
“I guess we can’t all be the three percent.”
The problem with loving Ira Doyle, Larkin thought, was the unfettered access he had to his heart.It was in realizing how desperate, even as a grown man, Doyle was to be loved, to be accepted, to be validated.It was the gut punch in knowing Doyle’s decades-old wounds had never scabbed over with cynicism, that his need for happiness kept those scrapes and cuts freshly bleeding, that he poured so much empathy into a career that treated him like the butt of a joke—he draws pictures.And in a world of performative cruelty, kindness stood little chance.
Yet, Doyle wasso determinedto never make another person suffer like he had—still did—that he would only ever swallow his anger and be gentle.
So gentle that then the world simply took advantage of him.
As expected, Doyle said, “Ms.Sato, if you can answer a few questions over the phone, my partner and I will be happy to wait until your residency concludes for an in-person conversation.”
Larkin began to protest, but Doyle held a hand up.
“What’re your questions?”
“When did you leave the city?”
“June 9—no, 10.”
“Wednesday,” Larkin murmured.
Doyle nodded in acknowledgment and asked next, “Was Kathy scheduled to visit the home every day?”
“Every morning starting the next day.”
“And you weren’t concerned when she didn’t check in?”
“I don’t have cell service,” Stephanie explained.“We have a landline in the main cabin for emergencies—that’s where I am now.Kathy knew to call that number if she needed to get in touch and someone would fetch me.”
“No news is good news?”
“Exactly.”
Doyle said next, “I’d like to give you a few names.Will you tell me if you recognize any of them?”
“Okay.”
“Matilde Wagner.”
“Hmm… no, I don’t think so.”
“Esther Haycox?”
“No.”
“How about Barbara Fuller?”
“Nope.”
“Phyllis Clark?”
“Sorry,” Stephanie answered.“I’ve no idea who any of those women are.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
