Larkin picked up her business card from the cup holder he’d set it in and recited the address, which Mable confirmed before hanging up. He immediately added the appointment to his phone’s calendar, set a reminder, then glanced at the evidence bag on the passenger seat—the bronze of the mask dull and unremarkable in the gray morning light. Larkin wanted to know whether the artwork intentionally lacked any dazzle, in the way that counterfeiters would dye paper with black tea to look weathered and aged, or if it really was old. And how old was old, exactly? Millett hadn’t known anything beyond his claim that it was a death mask—a tradition that had found a resurgence during the Victorian era, apparently. But that in no way meant it was actually from a previous century. If it were, did it match the cranial features of John Doe, or was it an item simply buried with him? Had it been tradition to leave the mask with the deceased? Were they always made of bronze? If it were a replica—that is, modern—for God’s sake, why was it there at all?

Larkin specialized in death and worked in the medium of murder, but this? This was a ritual of death that was unknown to him, and if he wanted something he could chase while waiting on the ME to provide him tangible evidence, Larkin needed an artist to answer his questions. He made a call to One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the NYPD and colloquially known as 1PP, and requested Detective Doyle, per Millett’s suggestion. More often than not, Larkin worked alone. His squad consisted of only ten detectives, and they had to spread as much of the 9,022 cases between them as humanly possible. Nonetheless, he was accustomed to requesting aid when necessary, and accepting it in whichever form it came: confidential informants, local authorities when cases required he travel out-of-state—Larkin even had a few connections at the FBI, despite the animosity between the feds and the city. So Larkin figured working with a fellow detective, and one thankfully unassociated with the brutes in Homicide, would be a relatively painless experience.

After several rings, voicemail picked up. A deep, smoky, and unhurried voice said, “Detective Ira Doyle, Forensic Artists. Please leave a message.”

Beep.

Larkin checked his watch. “This is Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad. The time is 9:07. I’ve taken on a case where I find myself in need of an expert on the subject of bronze face masks—what might possibly be a death mask, although this is speculation—and your name was suggested to me.” The sky flashed a brilliant white before thunder cracked so loud, it was as if the Earth were splitting in two. Larkin jumped, swallowed a lump that might have been his heart in his throat, and hastily added, “I can be reached at this cell number, or my desk at Precinct 19.”