Connor eyed the sketch a long moment before he said, “Do that. Submit it to public relations tonight. I want his mug on that app before sunup tomorrow. Grim, I want you to excavate whatever bug’s crawled up your ass.”

“Yes, sir,” Larkin said stiffly.

“You really couldn’t get Ricky to roll?”

“No. But then again, threats of jailtime wouldn’t work, would they. It’ll be a matter of dismantling his claim by proving he’s lacking knowledge only the real perpetrator would have.”

“Then you better fucking do that,” Connor concluded. “Put names—real names—to those women.”

“Of course.”

“Loop Ulmer back in on this. Have him work his connection with Missing Persons.”

Larkin’s gut plummeted like the first drop on a roller-coaster. “Sir—”

“Check Homicide’s stacks for any cold cases. Find those women. Names, remains, forensics—everything we’ve got floating around. The DA’s going to want every i dotted and t crossed on this one.”

Larkin stood. Doyle gathered his bag and moved to the office door.

“Grim.”

“Yes.”

Connor raised his pen and pointed at Larkin with it. “Not a whisper. One news article is already one too many. I don’t want this guy spooked. And if word gets out before we’ve got our ducks lined up that Homicide brushed off victims of a serial killer, there’s going to be an interdepartmental war. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Connor pointed the pen at Doyle next. “You too, van Gogh. One word and there’s gonna be a Help Wanted sign where your nameplate used to be.”

“Understood,” Doyle answered. He opened the door, allowed Larkin to pass through first, then shut it behind himself. He said to Larkin, “I better get going.”

Larkin looked over his shoulder toward his desk and the one just to the left, currently unoccupied. He turned back to Doyle. “Detective Baker is on sick leave until the end of next week. Her desk is beside mine.”

“Yeah?”

“I may need to consult you.”

Doyle’s eyes twinkled like sunshine glittering atop raw pyrite. “Probably not.” He smiled, moved for Larkin’s arm, then stopped short—for a man whose love language was physical touch, the necessity to second-guess his nature was seeming to prove exceedingly difficult. Doyle dropped his hand to his side. “But thank you.” He walked across the bullpen and sat down at Baker’s desk.

Larkin closed his eyes, rewound the day in his mind, returned to that morning—the men’s restroom downstairs. The flood of emotion was immediate, a sucker punch that stole his breath.

—Boom. Squish. Crack.—