Larkin spun on his heel, strode across the room, and collected the plastic evidence bag.He returned to the table, removed the brooch, and handed it over.
Doyle accepted it and, while squinting, tried fitting the pearl back into place.One setting was too big, the second too small, but the third— “Bingo.”
“This jewelry belonged to Barbara.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s the cold case link that’ll solve Wagner’s murder.”
“Yeah.”
“We have to interview Bridget.”
And Doyle said, very quietly, “Yeah.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The corner bodega on 172nd and Broadway had sun-faded posters in the windows, complete with clipart images of household staples, proclaiming: EMBUTIDOS Y MAS!FRUTAS Y VEGETALES!JUGOS, AGUA Y MAS!ACEPTAMOS EBT Y CREDIT CARD!The front door was propped open with a brick, and a Spanish radio station—baseball commentary, Larkin was fairly certain—played loud enough for passersby to get the latest updates.Overhead were four stories of apartments, units whirring away in some of the windows, while others were open, curtains limp, tenants hoping for the same breeze the bodega owner seemed to be waiting on to cool the baking neighborhood a few degrees.Halfway down the block, a dozen people waited at a bus stop, shading their eyes or fanning themselves, and right underneath FRUTAS Y VEGETALES!a middle-aged man with a potbelly had set up a folding card table and appeared to be selling area rugs—ten dollars each or two for fifteen.
Larkin checked his watch.
5:41 p.m.
“Evie.”
Larkin turned around.
Doyle was a few feet away, leaning against the passenger side of the Audi and hugging himself.“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Larkin quickly returned to the car.He took Doyle’s forearm and pulled him away, enough to open the door, then said, “Sit down.”He put a hand on Doyle’s head, gently guiding him into the seat, and once his partner had one leg in the footwell and the other on the curb, Larkin reached over him, opened the center console, and collected a water bottle from within.He cracked the top off and handed it to Doyle, and even though it wasn’t cold—in fact, was probably a little too warm—he downed half of it in one long swallow.
Larkin tugged his trousers at the knees before crouching.He took Doyle’s free hand, gave him a reassuring squeeze, and even though it was too hot for skin-on-skin—Doyle’s hand was uncomfortably clammy—Larkin didn’t let go.
“I can’t do this.”Doyle tucked the bottle between his legs before pulling his sunglasses back to rest on his head.His eyes were dry, but he brushed his cheeks anyway.“I’m sorry.”
Larkin moved into a stoop so that he could press his forehead to Doyle’s.He asked, voice low, “Do you remember what you said, when you were the one standing here, in the rain, pacifying a heartbroken drug addict who just wanted to feel alive again.You said, ‘I don’t want you to be sorry.I want you to be okay.’”Larkin crouched again so he could look at Doyle properly.“You’re so good with the living.You’re able to read their hearts when I have to read their faces.I have to empathize in a way that leaves me vulnerable to negative associations—something I think you know, because you’ve been shielding me from outrageous fortune since we began working together.But a partnership means we both carry those burdens.”
Doyle tightened his hold on Larkin’s hand.
“I promised you, when you were ready, that I would listen.And now I hear you telling me you’re at your limit, so I want you to stay in the car—”
“What?”Doyle interjected.
Larkin arched one eyebrow.
“I can’t let you do the interview alone,” Doyle said, but there wasn’t any fight in his voice.
“Why.”
“She’smymother.”
“I hesitate to credit her with anything beyond birthing you, Ira.”Larkin fished his keys from his pocket and pushed them into Doyle’s hand.“Your selflessness is beautiful, dear, but I need you to put yourself first.Just this once.”
Doyle tightened his hold on the set of keys.
“Please.”
He finally nodded once and whispered, “All right.”
