“She worked at the Kitten Klub,” Doyle murmured.
Larkin wanted to say,I know.
“I don’t—” Doyle cleared his throat.“I don’t know who my father is.”
Larkin wanted to shout,I know.
“Bridget had a lot of issues, and she attracted the wrong kind of men.When Grandma found out about the last guy and what he—” Doyle pushed out of Larkin’s hold while shaking his head.He was trying so hard to keep his anger tucked away, out of sight, but it’d finally been shown the light after decades of darkness, and it couldn’t escape fast enough.“I wasnine.”
Larkin wanted to scream,I know.
Doyle wiped a few more tears from his face—a product not of sadness, but of liberated rage—and said, “It’s been thirty years and she’s never reached out, never once asked how I was doing.She knows my name—she gave it to me.It’sIra Doyle.”He finally looked at Larkin, and the brightness in Doyle’s eyes was like the spark on a long, long fuse having finally reached a bundle of dynamite.“Despite everything, I have two degrees.I have a home, a career.I was a dad.”Doyle flinched at his own words before amending with a quiet intensity, “I was agooddad.I did everything no one in my family could, and I—I just want someone to be proud of me.”
Larkin didn’t hate most people.He fervently disliked them and rarely kept that truth to himself, but to loathe, abhor, utterly detest another human being?He saved such sentiments for the truly evil among us.But to see Doyle, who was so kind and so tender, who rivaled the holiness of those saints of yore, reduced to such crippling heartache—there was no other way for Larkin to describe how he felt toward Bridget Cohen.
He hated her.
Doyle shook his head and expelled a painful sigh.“All my life, I’ve felt like a falling tree.”
Larkin narrowed his eyes and said, “Berkeley’s philosophy is garbage.He argues that only the mind exists.If what we perceive is only an idea—and we perceive with our physical senses—then aren’t our senses only an idea.And if our physical self is an idea, then that would imply our ideas are only ideas.It’sreductio ad absurdum.Ihear you.”
Doyle met Larkin’s steady stare.
Larkin got to his feet.He held out both hands and pulled Doyle to stand in one smooth motion.“Isee you,” he continued, seeking out the familiar callus on Doyle’s ring finger—years of holding not a pistol, but a pencil—and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the spot.“AndIam so proud of you, Ira.”
Doyle’s chin quivered.He didn’t say anything.
Larkin kissed the back of Doyle’s hand before letting go.He stepped away just long enough to collect a box of ULINE tissues from the shelf behind the drafting desk.Doyle was setting the now-wrinkled coat aside and leaning back against the table, arms tightly crossed.Larkin offered the box.
Doyle took a few tissues—they tore, of course, but that was to be expected from the money-saving brand the department opted for.He wadded the one-ply mess into a ball and wiped his eyes and nose.He drew in a breath—the steadiest so far—and crossed his arms again, not quite hugging himself, but almost.“Are you going to speak with Bridget?”
“Yes,” Larkin answered, intently watching Doyle for a reaction.
But all that hurt and all that sadness and all that anger—it’d whipped through Doyle like a tornado without a warning, and he looked absolutely spent.“Cohen isn’t her real name” was all he said before shrugging a little.“I mean, it is, but she didn’t marry.”
“Ghosting was a form of identity theft, back in the day.”
Larkin did his best to soften his tone, to speak not as a cop, but as a partner.“Why did she change it.”
“I don’t know.If she wanted to distance herself from the neighborhood, or from Grandma, maybe, that could’ve been why.”He spared Larkin a sideways glance before adding, “They didn’t have a great relationship.”
“What about Detective Noonan.”
“What about him?”
“Noonan knew her—named her in his report.”
Doyle did a sort of shoulder-shrug-headshake.
“Bridget’s arrests prior to October of ’82 were made by Vice.Noonan worked Homicide.”
“Maybe he transferred departments,” Doyle suggested.“Like Charlie Stolle did.”
Larkin had his doubts, but he said nothing as he crossed in front of Doyle, scooped up the discarded folder from the floor, and made his way around the far side of the table—providing a sort of buffer between Doyle and the explosive contents therein.
“They could’ve known each other,” Doyle said.He turned and set his hands on the tabletop before leaning forward a little.“They would’ve known each other,” he corrected.“Bridget and Barbara.”
“That’s what I hope,” Larkin agreed.He set the folder beside the unopened evidence box.“If we factor in location—the Hudson—and historical context—the toothpick representative of Hell’s Kitchen longshoremen—then Wagner’s homicide very much has the trappings of a mob killing.We might be looking for a former Westie, or perhaps an old associate.And the mourning jewelry has led us all the way back to Barbara again, who worked at the same club as your mother—who was also from Hell’s Kitchen, yes.”
