“You called my mother—”
“No, no.I only told her what an old Irish grandmother would’ve made of the situation.”
Larkin smiled wryly and took a sip of coffee.
Doyle stretched his legs out under the table and recited rote, “‘Lord, our God, you graciously chose St.Dymphna as patroness of those afflicted with mental and nervous disorders.Please grant, Lord, through the prayers of this pure youthful martyr, relief and consolation to all suffering such trials, and especially those for whom we pray.’Heard that one a lot growing up.”
“About you,” Larkin asked.
Doyle shook his head.“My mom.A lot of prayers to St.Monica too.”He straightened in his seat, picked up his fork, and added, “But did you know thereisa patron saint of juvenile delinquents?”
“I still struggle to picture you being a little hellraiser.”
Doyle grinned like the Cheshire Cat.
“Oh, no, never mind,” Larkin corrected.
They both laughed, and Doyle asked, “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No.In fact, I wish I were also capable of telling my mother her behavior is bad enough to require the intervention of Catholicism.”
“Sometimes there’s no bettering people,” Doyle said simply.“No matter how many saints you throw at them.”
Larkin broached the next question with caution.“When was the last time you saw your mother.”
Doyle’s thick brows rose a little, but after a moment of reflection, he said, “My grandmother was awarded custody when I was nine.That was the last time.”
It was 11:13 a.m.when Larkin and Doyle hiked the front steps of Precinct 19.They would have arrived at eleven o’clock exactly, had Larkin not been so indecisive about what to wear.He’d gone back and forth for quite some time between the gray glen plaid and navy windowpane before ultimately settling on the latter suit with a white button-down.The pattern popped when paired with a solid purple taupe tie, a polka dotted pocket square of black and gold, and, of course, his gold wingtips.
“You look like a million bucks,” Doyle murmured.
“Is it obvious I dressed to match you.”
Doyle paused midstep and leaned back to take in Larkin’s full attire.“Nah.That’ll be our little secret.”
“It’s about time you showed up,” a third voice interjected.
Larkin and Doyle both turned to the front doors as Neil Millett exited the precinct, grimacing as he left the air-conditioned interior behind.He looked fantastic, though, wearing an olive-green suit—linen, not a cotton blend—with a striped, baby blue button-down and a plaid tie of forest green, red, white, and a bit of navy.
Larkin stated, “I like this suit.Olive is a good color on you.”
Millett looked down at himself.“Thanks.I, uh, I like this power couple thing you’ve got going on.”He motioned between Larkin’s shoes and Doyle’s tie.
Larkin shot Doyle a look, which Doyle pointedly didn’t meet as he fought to control a self-satisfied grin.To the point, he asked, “Why’re you hanging around my precinct.”
“Remember how you asked me to check the bathroom at the Carroll Street house?It lit up like the Fourth of July under luminol.Tub, sink, walls—everywhere.Whoever it was, they tried to clean up the bloodbath with bleach, but they missed enough for me to get samples.”
“Have it tested against Wagner’s remains,” Larkin said, and at the incredulous expression Millett shot him, he continued, “Dismemberments are most often performed in tubs.Texas, 2005, Ohio, 2012, Montana, 2018—”
“Larkin,” Doyle murmured.
Larkin shook his head and redirected himself.“While the missing knives can only be considered circumstantial evidence, the fridge Wagner was found in unquestionably originated from the home.Whether or not she was murdered and then dismembered in that tub will go a long way in establishing who all was involved.”
“All right,” Millett answered without further facial criticism.“I also wanted to talk to you about yesterday’s DB.”
“Which one,” Larkin asked.
“The gunshot vic—Sinclair, was it?”
