Larkin leaned in, kissed Doyle, then straightened and moved onto the sidewalk.He headed toward the apartment entrance on the street side and only looked back once to confirm Doyle was still in the car.Larkin stepped through the unlocked front door and into the vestibule.He considered the intercom beside the wall of mailboxes.He had Bridget’s apartment number, thanks to DMV records, but experience had taught him that when dealing with a witness who had a long (and legitimate) history of distrust when it came to law enforcement, it was ideal to introduce yourself face-to-face.You only had one chance at that first impression.
The vestibule door was suddenly wrenched open, and a little girl, no older than five or six, wearing a cartoonishly pink princess dress and complete with a plastic crown atop her head, didn’t even spare Larkin a glance as she ran past and out onto the sidewalk.He automatically put a hand on the heavy vestibule door, holding it as the girl’s mother maneuvered a stroller through the tight threshold while calling after her in Spanish.The mother gave Larkin one of those subtle New York nods that indicated appreciation without the need to exchange words, then went out the front door, which her daughter thankfully came back to hold open.
Larkin slipped inside after that.
The building felt a bit like Doyle’s—a little worn, a little frayed, but well lived-in.A century of memories, of experiences, of people, all coming and going, hoping and dreaming, existing and loving right up until Death rang the bell and told them it was time but not to worry—he’d be there to see them off.Larkin took the stairs that dipped a little in the middle all the way up to the top floor, the still air markedly warmer.He approached the door to 4D and listened.
Someone was home.
He could hear the squeak of swollen wood—a dresser drawer being yanked open, maybe—followed by the loud ping of something being dropped on the hardwood floor.
“I want you to choose me over this case, but I know you won’t.”
Larkin winced and jerked his head to one side, like he’d been slapped.
He could walk away.
Right now.
He could turn around, go downstairs, get in the car, and however their investigation played out, Bridget Cohen would not be a central figure.
Except when hehadchosen Doyle, Doyle told him no, and Larkin’s keen insight into the inner mechanics of neurotypical individuals had failed to identify which request was therealone.
Maybe it was both.
Or neither.
Larkin put a hand to his stomach as it gave a nauseous flutter.
Time and again, Doyle reminded him that he didn’t exist in a binary, that Larkin was as complex and human as the rest of the population, but even if that were true, he seemed to have no idea how to navigate such gray nuance without making Doyle’s hurt even more unbearable.
The dead bolt turned, a chain lock disengaged, and the door suddenly swung open, catching Larkin off guard.
She looked to be about sixty hard years, was petite in both build and height, and had to look up at Larkin.She wore a pair of navy slacks and a light blue top with a USPS emblem on the breast.She had a small beauty mark above her lip and thick, dark brown hair with a streak of steel gray along one side, pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail that showed off split ends in need of trimming.She smelled of one too many spritzes of cheap floral perfume and wore eyeliner on only one eye.She held the pencil and a tube of mascara in her hand.Her brown eyes were devastatingly pretty, but her stare was sharp, dangerous, that of an individual who’d lived through New York’s darkest chapter and still bore its scars.
“I knew I heard someone out here.Who’re you?”she asked, reaching into the collar of the top and snapping a bra strap into place.
“Are you Bridget Cohen,” Larkin asked.
“Yes.Who’re you?”
He reached for his badge and held it up.“My name is Everett Larkin.I’m a detective with the NYPD—”
Bridget slammed the door.
Larkin tucked the badge away, considered for a long minute, then knocked.He called through the door, “Ms.Cohen, I’m a detective with the Cold Case Squad.I’m investigating a murder from 1982, and I’m here because you’re the only lead I have.”Larkin waited.He could sense Bridget still standing at the door, listening, and continued.“She worked at the Kitten Klub on Broadway, and on the night of October 2, 1982, she was murdered at the Hotel Cavalier.You might have known her by the name of Esther Haycox.”
She was watching him through the peephole now, Larkin knew it.He was quiet, still, his face a carefully composed neutral belying the anxiety swelling inside.He didn’t want to come back here, wait in this boiling hallway, knock on this door.Larkin couldn’t bear having to tell Doyle his attempt to speak with Bridget was mirroring the difficult experience he’d had with Camila Garcia and would require he return again and again and again.
The door opened a crack.
Bridget studied Larkin critically.“Esther wasn’t her name.”
“Was it Barbara Fuller.”
Bridget stepped back.She held the door open, took Larkin in from head to toe, then inclined her head to one side.
Larkin entered the apartment.
