“Joe Sinclair, yes.What about him.”
Millett slid his hands into his pockets.“I thought you should be made aware that he’s been harassing—well, maybe that’s too strong of a word—irritatinga number of cops over the last few months.Specifically, out cops.”
“Yes, my first interaction with him was on April 1,” Larkin said.“Wherein he exhibited undue interest in my sexuality.”
“Then you heard about last month?”Millett asked.“What happened with the Homicide detective?”
“I do my very best to ignore those apes,” Larkin answered.
Millett laughed—actually laughed—at that.“You and me both.And yet, they still call me.What I mean is, that Joe guy got into some deep shit last month after sticking his nose into a murder investigation.I think he might’ve even been a suspect at one point?”
“Why would he do something so….”
“Stupid?”Doyle suggested.
“I was going to say contradictory to his personal well-being,” Larkin corrected.
“I think the guy was gaga for authority, if you know what I mean,” Millett said, reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his wallet.He poked through the contents and continued, “My best friend’s married to the Homicide detective who was on that case.That’s how I learned about Joe’s ‘undue interests.’”Millett found the business card he’d been looking for and offered it to Larkin.“I don’t know if this bears any relevancy to your case, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it last night—about how the guy’s been schooling around gay cops.That’s Detective Winter’s number, if you want to give him a ring.Can’t hurt, right?Always trust your gut.”
“That might very well be indigestion.”
Doyle accepted the card on Larkin’s behalf, saying, “We’ll give him a call.”
“Thank you, Millett,” Larkin added.
“Sure thing.”Millett turned to start down the opposite set of stairs but stopped, looked back, and said, “Oh, by the way, ballistics came back on Wagner’s third eye.Bullet was a .38 special.”
“A lot of handguns use .38 caliber bullets, do they not,” Larkin asked.
“A lot of revolvers,” Millett corrected.“But when you consider how unlikely it’d be to see revolvers on US streets originating from Spain or France or the Philippines, it was most likely shot by a Colt, Ruger, or Smith & Wesson.”
—summer sun glinting off the blued barrel as it leveled on him and the black abyss of the muzzle swallowed him whole—
“It’s strange to see a revolver on the street at all,” Doyle said thoughtfully.
“Bad guys aren’t singly loading cartridges into their cowboy six-shooters these days,” Millett agreed dryly.
Larkin interrupted.“Can you have the bullet from Joe’s autopsy compared to Wagner’s.”
Millett looked puzzled.
“Yesterday’s shooter used a revolver.”
“I’ll give the doc a call.”
“Thank you.”Larkin watched as Millett started for the street, already putting his phone to his ear.To Doyle, he asked, “What do you know about revolvers.”
“Not that much.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“What about you?”
Larkin shook his head with dissatisfaction.“I know my way around semiautomatics.”He walked up the remaining stairs, pulled open the door, and gestured for Doyle to follow.
In the quiet of last night, Larkin had been able to disregard the overload of stimulation his workspace had presented, but in the bright light of a new day, the stark reminders of the brutality of man couldn’t be brushed aside so easily.It was all right there for him to think about, obsess about, until it’d been properly catalogued, stored, and responded to.Larkin preferred a desk be kept like military barracks—succulent and Lisa Frank aside—and this was more akin to a tweens’ sugar-fueled slumber party.
The light for the phone’s voice mailbox was still blinking.The stack of delivered manila folders hadn’t been moved from where it leaned precariously to one side, threatening to spill across the keyboard and onto the floor in a dramatic interpretation of a publishing house’s slush pile.Loose call receipts looked to have been scattered by the circulating air and the comings and goings of detectives all morning.One lay beside the wheel of his chair.
