Would have.
Should have.
“Stupid sonofabitch,” Larkin murmured.
“I’m still here, detective,” Roz croaked, and Larkin startled at the unexpected response.
“I thought I was on hold.”
Roz harrumphed.
Larkin added, “I wasn’t referring to you.”
“Your request is in-progress.”
“Thank—”
“You can pick up after three and before five.”
“What.No, that won’t work.I need it now.”
Roz drawled, “Do you think you’ve been my only call today?”
“Of course not,” Larkin answered.“But as a first grade with triple the average closure rate, I do feel my request shouldn’t languish in the first come, first served queue.”
“How very humble of you, detective.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t care if you’re here in five and call me pretty,” Roz said, and somehow, a voice that sounded as if she gargled sharp rocks every morning came off as utterly flippant.“You can pick up after—”
As far as Hail Marys went, this was worse than when Larkin told Dr.Baxter he had eyes like the moon and Doyle had overheard that face-planting attempt at flirtation, not least of all because Larkin was openly gay and Roz—in fact, he didn’t even know her real name—was a woman of nearly sixty who he’d compared to a slug monster from a Pixar movie, but desperation made a dedicated man do funny things, and he blurted out, “You’re very pretty.”
There was a prolonged pause, then Roz sighed, said, “Your evidence will be available after three,” and hung up.
Larkin set the receiver down.Under his breath, he said, “I will never understand how Ira does it.”
He added a reminder to his phone before returning to the content of Barbara’s homicide.Detective Noonan claimed to have tried questioning women who’d been working Forty-Third Street the night of the murder.He’d been armed with a Polaroid snapshot of Esther on her deathbed, asking if anyone could identify the victim, but all he’d gotten from walking the beat were cold shoulders and zipped lips.The lack of cooperation from sex workers wasn’t at all surprising to Larkin.To demonstrate an association with Barbara—a woman who’d been soliciting sex—would have meant they’d face possible arrest for prostitution as well.Women on the street were exceptionally vulnerable and profoundly mistreated, be it by their pimp, johns, or the system, and staying quiet meant staying alive.
Larkin didn’t blame them one bit.
He did blame Noonan, though.
Because while the man had patrolled the street Hotel Cavalier once stood on, at the end of the block was the Kitten Klub, where Barbara had worked, where Earl would have watched her perform, and Noonan never thought to pop his head in and ask questions.
He’d beenright there.
This murder could have been solved before the sun had risen the morning of October 3.
But instead, Barbara had been restless for thirty-eight agonizing years.
Noonan had, at least, thought to jot down basic descriptions of the sex workers he’d spoken with.Most didn’t come with names, since they didn’t offer and he didn’t seem to know any of the women, but there were two he must have beenacquaintedwith through past arrests, because he’d not only recorded their names, but he’d attached their current, as of 1982, rap sheets to the report as well.
Sharon King, twenty-nine at the time of Noonan’s report, had been deceased since 1991 of a drug overdose, according to Larkin’s research.Bridget Cohen, however, then twenty-three, was still alive and living uptown in Washington Heights.
His desk phone rang.
Larkin glanced at it before leaning forward to check the ID—he wouldn’t answer if it was Roz.He accepted the call when he saw it was the downstairs front desk.“Detective Larkin.”
