Doyle nodded.
“Who Barbara really was,” Larkin said, “that’s where the final clue lies.And the only person alive, the only person who might have that answer, is Bridget Cohen,” he finished, tapping the folder.
Doyle was quiet again.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking… how terrible it is that you hold me in such high regard,” Doyle answered.He ran his hand over his closed laptop—back and forth, back and forth—not looking up.“Because I don’t care who took out a serial killer—I really don’t.And because I don’t give a fuck what my mother might contribute to the investigation.I don’t want to see her or hear her or—” Doyle’s hand stilled.“I want you to choose me over this case, but I know you won’t and I hate that I’m pitting you against your job.”Doyle finally looked up.“I’m not a good person—”
“You’remyperson,” Larkin interrupted, like the brutal honesty of Doyle’s words hadn’t just hit him so hard in the chest that they could’ve formed a crater.“And that makes you perfect.”He flipped the file open and sifted through the yellowed, curled pages.He found the document associated with Bridget Cohen.“I want to solve this case,” he confirmed.“But I believe my first and most important job is loving you.”
“What’re you—”
Larkin raised the paperwork and promptly tore it in two.
“Evie!”Doyle dashed around the table.
Larkin held the report out of reach and said, “I told you that I would kill for you, Ira.That wasn’t an exaggeration.I willalwayschoose you.”
“You can’t destroy evidence,” Doyle protested, grabbing for it a second time.“Come on—no, no, I’ve changed my mind.I’ve changed my mind, Evie!”
Larkin narrowed his eyes, cocking his head in uncertainty.
Doyle quickly snatched the report on the third try.
He looked at the torn pieces.
He looked back at Larkin.
And maybe Doyle understood then just how much power he had in their relationship, because he wrapped his arms around Larkin’s shoulders and didn’t let go for a very long time.
Bridget Cohen’s rap sheet lay to one side on the worktable, mended together with three strips of Scotch tape.
Doyle lifted the lid on the evidence box before saying without his usual humor, “Smells like Reaganomics and rock ’n’ roll.”
Larkin snapped his latex gloves on.He removed a paper bag, read the tag, and said, “Gym bag.”
Doyle took out the next and read, “Clothes.”He reached inside it and removed a skimpy top that appeared to have been cut from the same crape material they’d seen of the costumes Phyllis had kept in a vacuum-sealed bag.“Fabric is nineteenth century,” Doyle murmured, studying the handiwork closely.“I’d say it’s a visual match to the other upcycled pieces.”He tucked it back into the evidence bag.
Larkin retrieved a handful of crime scene photos next.He sifted through them in quick succession, but even a flipbook of the past couldn’t reanimate the sad, half-naked body on the mattress.He dropped them to the tabletop and reached for the last bag—this a pair of blue satin pumps in size six.Larkin made atsksound.
“Looking for something in particular?”Doyle asked.He reached across the table and pulled free an empty, red nylon duffel from one of the paper bags.
“Something concrete.”Larkin gestured at the evidence before them.“The circumstantial evidence is good: We’ve one hundred percent linked the mourning clothes from Barbara Fuller’s homicide case to Esther Haycox’s missing person report, proving they are, in fact, the same person.”
Doyle leaned to one side, picked up his cell from the tabletop, turned on the flashlight app, and used it to illuminate the inside of the duffel.
Larkin continued.“But the jewelry has only been linked to her via the surname, and there are thousands of people in the United States with the name Fuller.I don’t like such a critical clue standing on unsure ground in a courtroom setting.I want tangible proof that the brooch found on Wagner once belonged—what is that.”
Doyle was pinching something tiny between his thumb and index finger.He set his phone aside and dropped the item into his gloved palm, rolling it this way and that.“It’s a seed pearl.”
Larkin moved to the edge of the table to stand beside Doyle.“That was inside the gym bag.”
“Stuck in the lining,” Doyle confirmed.
“Where’s the brooch.”
“On the shelf—behind my desk,” Doyle said, pointing with his free hand.
