Larkin leveled his gaze on Doyle.“Why did you lie.”
He shrugged one shoulder.“People like Stephanie—people with a superiority complex—they thrive on validation that they’re better than you.If you give them proof, they tend to be more agreeable and less combative.Claremont doesn’t really mean much outside of the art world, so when her first comment was to challenge me… I kinda knew the type of person she was.”
“Is it really a three percent acceptance rate.”
“Yeah.”
“And portfolio-based.”
Doyle agreed a second time.
“As a student, your body of work would have been significantly smaller than Stephanie’s is as an established full-time artist,” Larkin said.“Whoever oversaw the selection process, they saw something special in you.”
“It was a long time ago,” Doyle concluded, but he had the sliver of a smile on his face.He looked at Larkin and asked, “Why don’t you bring your chair around here?”
Larkin did as requested.He stifled a yawn with one hand as Doyle began to make nonleading inquiries regarding the blocked-out proportions on the paper: How is the shape and size of the sunglasses compared to the head mass?How is the width of the nose?Was it wider at the nostril flare, at the bridge, or overall?Doyle continued along that vein for a while, making changes where Larkin insisted it necessary, until the mess of rough lines began to look more and more like a distinct subject.
“Are the proportions on the paper within the realm of possibility?”Doyle asked.
“That really is such an oddly worded question,” Larkin said, studying the sketch.
“We say that because most people can’t recall like you can.”
“It’s acceptable at this current stage.”
Doyle started on the characteristics next.He was quiet for, by Larkin’s count, thirteen minutes, reworking previously established features to be anatomically correct.The slight adjustments took the composite from “drawing of man” to “interpretation of suspect” almost instantaneously.
Larkin leaned back in his chair again, far enough this time that his lower back no longer had support.He crossed his arms over his chest, crossed his legs at the ankle, and watched Doyle work from under a half-lidded gaze.“It’s recognizable.”
“Is it?”Doyle turned to him, his look of concentration momentarily broken as he gave Larkin an indulgent, sweet,heart-meltingonce-over.“Which aspects are similar to the shooter?”
“I got a better look at the lower portion of his face,” Larkin said, his monotone notedly sleepy.“The chin and jawline.But the cheeks aren’t right.”
“Are you able to tell me why?”
“There’s not enough age in them.”
“I’ll add lines and wrinkles—”
“And the scar.”
“—And the scar, yes, I’ll add those in the rendering stage.Is there anything else?”
Larkin shifted a little.“Anatomically, the eyes are correct.”
“But?”
“Are you familiar with Stanley Kubrick.”
“Sure.”
“He’s known for what some critics refer to as the Kubrick Stare.The shooter had that kind of soullessness in his eyes, despite smiling at me.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Larkin listened to the scratch of pencil on paper—fought against the weight of his eyelids—listened to Doyle hum a distinct but unfamiliar melody under his breath—just a brief rest—listened to the HVAC system kick on—
“You said you’d been in love since we met.I think I was too.”
