The street was busy with the usual foot traffic seen on weekends: Two young guys in their twenties schlepping a love seat down the block like they were trying to save a few bucks on the cost of a moving company, a mom in designer leggings and a matching top—a color Larkin could only describe as Millennial Beige—was pushing a stroller while talking animatedly on the phone, a middle-aged mail carrier sat on a nearby stoop, scrolling on her phone and holding a rechargeable fan that blew dyed black hair crunchy with hairspray away from her face, and a well-dressed, middle-aged man was busy shouting, “Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you too,” to every individual he passed on the sidewalk.
Larkin looked away from the mail carrier and watched the man for a moment, making certain the vitriol wouldn’t escalate into some form of physical violence, before he followed Hackett.They came to a stop outside of a six-story, prewar walk-up of white terra cotta and opulent ornamentation in need of a good scrubbing.A man of roughly forty, of medium complexion, with thick black hair, and who probably had a five o’clock shadow at 9:00 a.m., stood on the stoop with a phone to his ear, talking loud and fast.
“—apartment won’t be here tomorrow.Hm-hm … Yeah … Yeah, for sure, but listen, I got a guy ready to dropcash moneyright now.Yeah, but look, I told him you were first in line and I gotta honor—” He moved the phone away from his mouth and asked Larkin and Hackett, “Are you the couple here to see 4F?”
Hackett looked all parts delighted with having been mistaken as Larkin’s romantic partner.But still, he removed his wallet, flashed his badge, and said with perfect professionalism, “Detective Val Hackett, Brooklyn Homicide.Would you be Marcus Holland?”
Marcus said into the phone, “Think about those high ceilings and the fireplace mantel, and I’ll give you a call back in twenty, okay?”He hung up and shook Hackett’s hand.“That’s me.”
Hackett introduced Larkin next and then handed Marcus the search warrant.
“Everything looks to be in order,” Marcus concluded after scanning the paperwork.“Come with me.”He tapped a code on the panel beside the front door and the locks disengaged with a loud buzz.
Hackett motioned Larkin to go ahead while he took up the rear.They followed Marcus through the vestibule and up the stairs, their steps echoing off the bare walls as they crisscrossed the halls from one staircase to the next, and Larkin noted that even in an upscale neighborhood like Lenox Hill, if you weren’t living in a recently built luxury condo, complete with a doorman and concierge, a private Pilates studio, rooftop bar, and whatever the fuck a resident’s lounge was, there were going to be missing tiles in floor mosaics and the grout was going to be a little grungy and there wasn’t going to be an elevator in this grandfathered building and their dead journalist was going to live on the top floor because the rent was cheaper.
Larkin’s thighs were on fire by the time he reached the sixth-floor landing, but the physical exertions that were to blame for his discomfort—
—knees clasped against his flanks, arms wound around his back, those chest-heaving cries formoreas he fucked Doyle into the mattress and relished in the shared delight all night long—
—that was a haptic memory that could cause some inappropriate scenarios if Larkin wasn’t careful with the association relay.
Marcus was winded as he said, “Here it is,” approaching the door to 6B.
“Thank God,” Hackett murmured at Larkin’s back.
Marcus retrieved a ring of keys from his pocket, checking sticker labels on each of them before finding the one he needed.He unlocked the front door, gave it an extra nudge when it resisted in the swollen frame, and then ushered the detectives inside.
Larkin retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, studying the extremely small and oddly shaped studio as he tugged them on.To his right was the kitchen, recently refurbished, as the chrome appliances and solid white cupboards didn’t match the personality of the bathroom just beyond, if the yellow-tiled walls and mint-green pedestal sink were any indicator.To his left was a long and narrow space that curved at the end, lit by one window that looked out over the back of the property.Joe seemed to have been using that area as a living room.A flat-screen television was mounted to the wall and a single armchair, upholstered in a cream color, sat opposite with hardly more than seven feet between.There was a single framed photo on the wall, a black and white of a woman eating spaghetti with a headline reading: Hot Girls Don’t Need No Man.It looked like something that’d been bought at an arts and craft store.
In terms of visible belongings… that was it.
Hackett moved around Larkin and looked toward the living room.“It continues around the corner?”he asked, looking to Marcus.
The manager gave him a quizzical look and said, “No.This is it.Real shame to hear about Joe.He was a nice guy.”
“How was he as a tenant,” Larkin asked, turning to Marcus.
“He was fine,” Marcus said with a shrug.“Paid first of the month, every month.”
“Have there been any complaints filed against him.”
“Nah.Ideal neighbor from what I can tell.So, was he shot or…?”
“We’re not at liberty to say,” Hackett answered.
“Hope it wasn’t a hate crime,” Marcus said, but when neither detective went for the dangling bait, he clarified, “Joe was gay, you know.”
“We understand,” Hackett answered.“How much was he paying for this apartment?”
“Thirty-five a month.”
“Forthis?”Hackett squawked, all pretense of professionalism cast aside.“There’s not even room for a bed!”
Marcus frowned and pointed to a set of double doors beside the chair.“That’s a Murphy bed.”
“And this,” Larkin asked, more coolly, motioning to the single door beside the hidden bed.
“That’s a closet,” Marcus answered.The cell in his hand began to ring.He glanced at the caller ID before asking, “Either of you mind if I go downstairs?I’ve got a showing and—”
