It was a studio, three hundred square feet at best, with two windows overlooking the avenue.The right window, near the foot of the twin-size bed, was open.A sad-looking cardboard box with a Home Depot decal sat in front of it, an off-white box fan propped on top and turned on.It sucked in the hot air from outside, circulating it around the room.The distant sound of the Spanish sports station from the bodega below grew distorted as it filtered through the plastic blades of the fan.To the left of the bed stood a wooden five-drawer dresser that’d seen a tough life.It was covered in scratches and dings, and the top was cluttered with what looked mostly like unfolded laundry—Larkin was uncertain if it was clean or dirty—but there was also a loose pile of drugstore brand makeups, a hairbrush, several black hair ties, a hand mirror, and a few perfume bottles.
He took a brief look at the kitchen nestled into a small alcove just big enough for a sink, about six inches of usable countertop, and a compact stove.A mini fridge sat just outside the nook, a plastic shelving unit precariously balanced on top.It was packed with dry goods—canned beans and vegetables, rice, store-brand cereals.Larkin guessed the one cupboard above the sink was probably for cups and dishes.A short hallway ended with a closed door to what was likely the bathroom, and all of the available wall space along the way was packed with…stuff.Not junk, just everyday items and belongings that had no practical home or storage: a jug of laundry detergent, a pair of sneakers, a pair of winter boots, a metal folding chair, an old plug-in vacuum, a plastic take-out bag full of empty Sprite bottles destined for the recycling bin.
“Did you want to sit?”Bridget asked, barely audible over the drone of the fan while motioning to the love seat on Larkin’s right.It was a checkered white-and-green monstrosity right out ofCountry Living, and the side closer to the window was faded from years of direct sunlight.
“Thank you.”Larkin unbuttoned his suit coat and sat.He watched Bridget resume her position before the dresser, crouched to see her face in the small mirror as she began applying eyeliner again.“Tell me how you knew Barbara.”
“It’s like you said—she worked at the Kitten Klub.”
Although Larkin had Doyle’s confirmation that his mother had worked at the club, the fact was, Doyle would have only been a baby, and the statement could be viewed as hearsay.He needed that evidence to come from Bridget’s own mouth.“Did you work there as well.”
Bridget set the eyeliner pencil aside.She opened the mascara tube and viciously shoved the wand in and out, creating a suction-like sound.“So what?”
“It’s not a character judgment, merely a request for clarity.”
Bridget stopped and looked over her shoulder.Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth pinched.“Lemme see that badge again.”
Larkin stood, removed his wallet a second time, and took a few steps forward, shield extended.Unprompted, he said, “I’ve been an officer for ten years.”
“I’ve known a lot of cops in my life,” she began, pointing the wand at Larkin.“None of ’em look like you or talk like you.”
“And I assure you, none ever will.”
“You a fag?”Bridget asked next, her tone not exactly cruel, but a sort of critical curiosity, suggesting she’d not experienced any sort of societal enlightenment since the ’80s, when that kind of vocabulary was tossed around like no other adjectives were available for use.
In response, Larkin merely snapped his wallet shut and tucked it back into his pocket.
“Just because you’re like that don’t mean you can’t be corrupt like all those other dirt bags.”
“May I sit back down.”
Bridget huffed, shrugged, and opened the mascara again.
Larkin returned to the love seat.“What were the dates of your employment at the Kitten Klub.”
“Let me check my diary,” Bridget said sardonically, making a face in the mirror as she brushed the wand over her lashes.
“I understand this was nearly forty years ago, but please be as precise as possible.”
“Where wereyouforty years ago?”she countered.“Sucking on a silver spoon and shitting your diaper?”
“I was still in the planning stage.”
Bridget set the mascara aside before turning around.“So daddy wasn’t even humping mommy when Babs died, but the best cop for the case—” She gestured at Larkin, as if explaining her circumstances to an onlooking and sympathetic audience.“—is a fucking fetus.”
Bridget Cohen’s rap sheet had been a paint-by-numbers portrait of a time when women turned to the streets in search of freedom, only to find out too late that Times Square was just a prison with bright lights.The neighborhood’s boundaries forced its inmates to work live sex shows to survive, to seek drugs to cope, and to turn tricks when rent money was spent on that newly found addiction.Bridget had been chewed up, spit out, and there’d been no system, however flawed, in place to help.She’d carried some kind of childhood trauma into adulthood—feelings and thoughts she avoided at all cost by engaging in increasingly risky, self-harming behaviors—and she’d become so hardened, so deadened over time, that being presented with Barbara Fuller’s name and memory was triggering fear, and having to confront such an uncomfortable emotion was making Bridgetangry.
It was distressing to be able to draw parallels between Bridget and Doyle, but Larkin could see, with naked clarity, the same avoidant behavior, the same unresolved anger.The difference, however, was in their response to emotional vulnerability.Doyle gave.He gave his entire heart and then more.He’d stepped in front of his own generational trauma to protect his daughter, had taken those knives in the back while undoubtably meeting her innocent little smile with one of his own, and even though Abigail was gone now, Doyle didn’t know anything but being gentle.
Because vulnerability meant understanding.
Understanding meant acceptance.
And Doyle needed, more than anything, to be wanted.
But Bridget….She’d lost custody of her child after nine tumultuous years of motherhood, and had never sought him out in the aftermath.Not an inquiry into his well-being, his education,nothing.Larkin was confident, even without the proof seen in her bachelor pad living conditions, that Bridget had no healthy relationships.She wasn’t intimate with anyone, she likely had no close friends, didn’t interact with neighbors, and was probablythatperson on her shift—the one other employees dreaded working with.
Because for Bridget, vulnerability meant danger.
