“I’ll get dressed.”
Larkin shook his head and said, “No, that’s not necessary.”
“Evie—”
“I’m neck-deep in paperwork.There’s no reason to forgo sleep just so you can watch me cross t’s and dot i’s.I felt it was necessary to tell you now because of out-in-the-field rule five.That’s all.”
Doyle’s smoky baritone was like a balm as he said, “I appreciate that.”
Larkin studied his shoes for one, two, three seconds, then raised his gaze to the murky black sky.There weren’t any stars visible in Manhattan.“Did you lock the door.”
“Yeah.”
“Including the chain lock.”
“How’re you supposed to get back in?”
Larkin knew he wouldn’t be seeing a bed tonight.“Ira.”
Doyle sighed.“Sometimes investigations are marathons, not sprints.”
“I know….”Larkin lingered a moment longer, then said into the quiet, “I’ll let you go.”
“Be safe.”
“Sleep well.”Larkin ended the call.He pocketed the phone and started to turn, but something—movement?—from within a double-parked blue Honda caught his eye.For a split-second, Larkin thought it was Doyle’s car.But of course not.His boyfriend was in a bed over fifty blocks south of there, falling asleep this very minute with his face pressed into his pillow, like he always did.As far as associations went, this one was harmless.But as Larkin studied the vehicle, tried to determine in the dirty glow of surrounding streetlights if the model was indeed a Civic or perhaps an Accord, he considered: had it been there this whole time or had it parked during his call?
Larkin couldn’t be sure.
He’d been a little distracted, a little worked up when he’d exited the building.
It was an odd place, though, to perform a traffic violation—in front of a police precinct.
Larkin took the steps down to the sidewalk, but as he approached the car, the Honda’s engine suddenly turned over and the headlights flashed the high beam.He instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, and from between the black spots in his vision, watched as the Honda sped off.
It was 3:48 a.m.and Larkin stood at the breakroom counter, his hands resting on its laminated top as he waited for a fresh pot of coffee to finish brewing.He tapped his bare ring finger to the steadydrip,drip,drip, and when the water reservoir gurgled and the machine beeped, Larkin took the carafe by the handle and refilled his mug.
He took a sip.It tasted like the coffee maker needed to be cleaned.
The printer in the bullpen had been left unsupervised to spit out the preliminary crime scene report and accompanying photographs, and all those moving components had a way of sounding louder during the witching hour, as if the spirit bound to that particular case were trying to break free of where the veil was most thin.So when Larkin heard quiet footsteps intermingled with the tired buzzes and whirrs of inkjet and paper, for a heartbeat he imagined Matilde Wagner pacing the rows of unoccupied desks, still bleeding from the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.
Larkin stepped out of the breakroom, rounded the corner, and was both relieved and confused by the sight of— “Ira.”
Doyle turned around from where he stood at Larkin’s desk, and his smile breathed a sense of life into the empty space.“There you are.”He pulled the strap of his portfolio bag over his head before resting the bag against the side of the desk.Doyle’s chocolate-brown hair had that usual appearance of having been finger-combed before leaving the house, and while Larkin gave him a hard time about the ever-present stubble, he’d also become so accustomed to Doyle’s whiskers, their grit and rasp against his own skin, that Larkin found pictures of his partner when younger and clean-shaven to be like looking at a doppelganger—almost, but notquiteright.
Doyle was wearing a light-gray suit—a shade he didn’t typically favor—but in Larkin’s opinion, as a card-carrying gay man, the color really complemented Doyle’s physical blessings.He’d paired it with a powder-blue button-down and a navy tie with the knot just the slightest bit askew.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Larkin stated before crossing the bullpen.“Why’re you here.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Doyle answered as he shrugged out of his suit coat.“It didn’t seem fair—not when you’re here working on the same case I’ll inevitably be a part of by midmorning.”
“Who said I had any intention of having you assigned.”
Doyle paused as he made to drape his coat over one of the many molded plastic chairs that migrated around the bullpen.He looked at Larkin in blatant confusion—thick eyebrows raised, mouth slightly ajar.
“I’m joking,” Larkin said, cracking a smile.
Doyle’s laugh was tinged with relief.“I thought we were about to have it out.”
