—and then nothing.
—waves churning, twisting, crashing upward, throwing Larkin up and out of the lake onto the dock.His palms covered in splinters, like quills from a porcupine, blood drip, drip, dripping onto Joe Sinclair’s forehead, drilling a hole through his skull, into his brain, his lips moving, repeating, “Everyone wants you, Mr.Larkin.”—
Larkin jerked awake, instinctually grabbing either side of the chair to catch himself amid the sensation of the falling dream.
“Larkin?”
“You okay there, Grim?”
Larkin looked up.Doyle was still seated on his left and Lieutenant Connor stood opposite them, his hands planted on the tabletop, leaning over the composite sketch in front of him.“Sorry,” Larkin whispered.He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.“Just a dream.”
Connor grunted.He spun the sketch pad around and pushed it toward Larkin.
Larkin checked his watch—10:46 p.m.—then leaned forward.“Is this the finished composite.”
Doyle asked, “What do you think?”
There were plenty on the force who thought the forensic artists having detective status was a joke, but what they failed to understand was just how good of an investigator Doyle had to be in order to pluck a monster from the mind of another person and prove, armed with nothing but a pencil, that the things bumping around in the night werereal.Doyle had drawn a man in his midsixties, once-strong features softened by the natural lessening of skin elasticity, a large nose, a notable dimple in his cheek caused by an old scar, wearing a Yankees ball cap and ugly aviators.Most impressive—or disconcerting, Larkin considered—was how Doyle had absolutelynailedthose deep-set eyes with the thousand-yard stare.
Larkin said, “That’s the shooter.”
“How’s the scar placement?”Doyle inquired.
“Yes.I mean—it’s correct.”
“Ever seen this SOB, Grim?”Connor asked.
Larkin gave his mental Rolodex a hard spin, studied the blur of faces—of coworkers, of criminals, neighbors, strangers.“I don’t think so.”
“You don’tthink?”Connor repeated.He straightened his posture.“You must be dead on your feet to not be a hundred and ten percent certain.”
Doyle said as he stood, “I’m going to scan and upload this sketch before packing it in.”
Larkin watched Doyle exit, walk through a now-empty bullpen, and turn the corner to the copier room opposite the breakroom.
“I spoke with Detective Hackett out in Brooklyn.”
Larkin returned his attention to Connor.
“What an excitable tyke he is.”
“That’s one way to describe him.”
“Hackett’s agreed to liaison with you in regard to whatever you need from the Sinclair and Gardner investigations.He’ll be handling the warrants, so give him a ring when you’re ready.”
“I understand.”
Connor looked like he had more he wanted to discuss—about Phyllis, about Esther, about the shooter, about this entire shitshow Larkin was caught up in—but he only tapped the tabletop and said, “Go home, Grim.Go to bed.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Larkin unlocked the door to 4A at 11:19 p.m.
The apartment was an uninviting black hole that demanded a routine he was too tired to see through, so Larkin simply ignored the sequence of events that’d been established for his own problematic short-term memory, and walked through the darkness, his path lit only by the orange halos put off by streetlights below, their murky glow bleeding in between the slats of the window blinds.He dropped his keys on the coffee table, phone, wallet—I’ll forget where I put these—unbuckled his shoulder holster and dumped the weapon carelessly onto the couch.
At his back, the front door quietly shut and then the fairy lights clicked on.Their warm yellow twinkle washed away the dinginess of the city, fortified the walls, and welcomed them home.Doyle twisted the dead bolt on the door before letting out a long breath.Larkin heard him prop his portfolio bag against the bare brick wall before turning the window unit in the kitchen on.
The low, monotonous hum filled the shared space, marking their presence.
