“She identified the shooter as Ralph Noonan,” Larkin said by way of agreement.
“Is that who you suspected it was?”
“Yes.I spoke with Bailey just before seeing you, and it came up in conversation that the NYPD used revolvers until the early ’90s,” Larkin explained while busily scrolling on his phone.“That, in and of itself, is not strange, since criminals would have been using similar pistols, but he mentioned the older generation having to get trained in how to use their new 9mms, and that began to suggest—to me, anyway—the shooter’s identity might be that of an old-school cop who never got recertified because he’d retired by the time department policy mandated a change to service weapons.
“When Bridget claimed Noonan’s mob job was that of cleaning up after Vargas and his fellow Westies, my inkling became more than a mere hunch.I think he’s guilty of racketeering, and Worth knows it.He’s hanging it over Noonan’s head, forced him to rid the world of Wagner in the very method once used by the Westies that he protected.It’s rather poetic, in a way.Worth is no hero, but he does seem to be particularly adept at rooting out police corruption.”
Doyle turned right onto the Harlem River Drive, speeding up as they got off the surface streets.“Why’d you tell Bridget she was in danger?”he finally asked, like the question had been simmering on the back burner and it’d finally come to a boil.
Larkin didn’t look up from his phone.“Olfactory memory.”
“What?”
“Bridget smokes Newports.They reminded me of the mail carrier yesterday morning—at the diner.She smelled like Djarum Black, which have a very distinct, clove scent.”
“And?”
“And I smelled the same cigarette smoke wafting out of the Honda Civic, when the shooter rolled down the window and shot Joe.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Larkin huffed and said quickly, almost distractedly, “Because that’s how olfactory memory works.It didn’t occur to mewhatI was smelling, not until the stink of Bridget’s Newports hit me square in the face and I could compare and contrast.Dammit, this isn’t working on my phone.”He tapped a few buttons before putting it to his ear.
“Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘Help, help, a wild buffalo just bit my dick off,’ I don’t have time for you, Grim,” O’Halloran stated.
“Are you still at work—at your desk,” Larkin asked.
“Mentally, I’m sitting on my couch, scratching my nuts, drinking a beer, and watching the game.Physically, I’m sitting in a windowless bullpen, scratching my nuts—”
“Ray, shut up,” Larkin cut in.“Yesterday, I asked CO Rodriguez to forward me Anthony Vargas’s paperwork from his 2013 arrest and he never got back to me.”
“Yeah, I know,” O’Halloran snapped.“I mean, I didn’t know that, but I’ve been trying to schedule a time to chat with Tony the fuckin’ Tiger, and it’s been a whole fiasco with his lawyers and the prison, blah, blah, blah.I got a copy of his file this afternoon—a kinda consolation prize, I guess.What’d you need that has your panties in a twist?”
Larkin said, “Anthony Vargas had a girlfriend at the time of his arrest.She was hiding at the crime scene and later stabbed the OCME driver who was there for the body transport.I never learned her name, and I need to know when she was released from prison.I have less time and even less patience at the moment, so let’s perform our usual song and dance at a later date.I’ll even let you take the first swing.”
“Gosh, my heart’s all a flutter,” O’Halloran replied, but there was a distinctclick,click,clickof a computer keyboard just underneath his words.
Larkin glanced at Doyle.He had one hand on the wheel, both eyes on the road, and all his attention on the one-sided conversation—and yet he never interrupted, always waited to be kept informed.Larkin lowered the phone and tapped Speaker.He caught a ghost of a smile as it flickered across Doyle’s face.
“Her name’s Lisa Murray,” O’Halloran said.“DOB October 23, 1961.In 2013 she was charged with assault with a deadly weapon in the second degree and sentenced to three years.They let her off at two for good behavior.”
“Does she have past charges,” Larkin asked.“From the late ’70s or early ’80s.”
“No,” O’Halloran said ardently.“Squeaky-clean record, just like Vargas—up until that drug bust, anyway.”
Larkin checked his watch a second time.
Twenty-four minutes.
Doyle pressed on the gas and the Audi’s engine let out a deep purr as it ate up the asphalt.
“Need anything else?”O’Halloran inquired.
“Find out why Rodriguez never called me back,” Larkin answered.
“Oh, yeah, lemme just go tattle to his mommy—”
Larkin promptly tapped End.He pulled up the browser on his phone, did a search of “Lisa Murray NYC 2013” and found articles citing hers and Vargas’s arrest, detailed in scummy subway rags as well asTheNew York Timeson the first page of results.TheTimesreported that both convicted criminals were long-term residents of Hell’s Kitchen while displaying their less-than-glamorous mugshots in full color.She was younger here, of course, and wearing hoop earrings, but Lisa Murray was sporting done-up black hair that looked a little crunchy from hairspray, and wore a hideous shade of blue eyeshadow.
