A diploma was hung crookedly on the wall behind Bailey’s desk—Parsons School of Design—with a massive corkboard taking up the rest of the available real estate.Unlike Doyle’s, which displayed drawings given by the child victims he worked with, Bailey’s board was burdened with newspaper clippings going back a decade, if not more, praising the successful arrests based on the work of the Forensic Artists Unit.
Looking at Bailey again, Larkin concluded simply, “Doyle is a very good man.”
“He sure sets the standard, doesn’t he?”Bailey pointed at the box in Larkin’s arms.“That your refrigerated lady case?”
“No.”But then Larkin added more tactfully, “It’s related.”
“Did you want to leave it here?”
“I’d rather drop it off with Doyle.I won’t stay.”
Bailey waved a hand.“He’s been at it nearly… what… three hours?I’m sure he’s close to finishing.But hey, thanks for sending him back downtown for this.I know it’s not ideal—”
“Crime never is.”
Bailey chuckled.He shifted forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk, papers crinkling under the weight.He said, voice low, “Try not to get him killed, hmm?I still plan to be livingla vida locawhen I hit sixty, and Doyle’s going to be promoted to Senior Artist when I tap out.”
Larkin raised both brows.“Does he know.”
“Not yet.Let’s keep it that way for a while longer, okay?”
“I understand.”
Bailey winked and gave Larkin a finger-gun salute.
Larkin took a step backward, more than ready to make himself scarce before Bailey could meander on to another topic, but his eye caught the corkboard a second time, and he stared at a muddy photograph of a young skinny cop with a familiar mustache, who smiled awkwardly for the camera while holding up a piece of paper—its details lost in the poor quality of the newsprint.Larkin inclined his head and asked, “Is that you.”
Bailey spun in his chair.He pointed and said, “Oh, that?What gave it away?”He grinned at Larkin while stroking his mustache.“Yeah, that was about a thousand years ago.Look at me.I was still in uniform.”
“What’re you displaying.”
“My very first composite sketch.Back then, the detectives, they’d just ask around, ‘Hey!Can any of you guys draw?’Well, I was fresh outta art school, dead broke—go figure—and joined the ranks for the steady paycheck.One night, they came around saying, ‘We need a composite!’and drawing a suspect was a hell of a lot more up my alley than responding to domestics at 2:00 a.m., so I said, ‘Yeah, I’ll do it.’Next thing you know, my fate’s been sealed.”
“Are you wearing a hip holster.”
Bailey laughed.“Sure am.My trusty six-shooter.”
Larkin’s gaze darted to Bailey with renewed interest.“You used a revolver.”
“Standard issue back then.When did we transition to 9mm… ’93?’94?Something like that.All us old-timers had to go to the range and get recertified.”Bailey waved a hand and concluded, “I don’t miss it.I mean, I’ve got a service weapon, but I prefer not having to wear it, thank you very much.”
“Doyle too,” Larkin commented, almost automatically.
“Smart man.”
Larkin looked down at his box, offered Bailey a curt goodbye, and left the threshold.He went to Doyle’s office, the last door on the left, and opened it.He stepped partially inside and looked toward the worktable.
Doyle sat perched on a stool with his back to the door, his left hand raised up and balled into a fist, temple leaning against it.His laptop was open, tablet out, and stylus working in his right hand.Loud and angry music bled from his cheap earbuds.
Larkin slipped inside, crossed the room, and approached Doyle from the left side.He noted several discarded candy wrappers on the tabletop and a Post-it stuck to a section of the computer screen, which didn’t make sense for about three seconds, and then Larkin realized what Doyle was doing—understood that he was offering a modicum of respect for the underage victim by covering their young body while he worked on identifying the adult who had violated them in this image they shared.
Doyle must have sensed he was no longer alone.He raised his head, glanced to his left, then quickly tugged his earbuds free.“Evie?”
“Sorry.”Larkin watched Doyle instinctively close the laptop, the viewing of such abuse an atonement he’d been conditioned to believe—like so many victims were—was his alone to make.Larkin slid the box onto the table.“I didn’t intend to drop in unannounced, but I was just downstairs.”
Doyle nudged the box to one side, revealing an ancient case number.He asked, “Were you harassing the property clerk?”
“I called in advance,” Larkin clarified.
