He wanted to cry. And it wasn’t because of how Ulmer had spoken to him, how Ulmer had scared him. Ulmer was irrelevant, had only been the association, the catalyst, the reminder. The panic and fear and heartache was from August 2, 2002, and the near-twenty years that’d since transpired had done nothing to soften those reactions in Larkin. It was as fresh as if it had been yesterday. Today. Five minutes ago.

He fast forwarded.

Plunk, plunk, plunk of the water.

The twist of the deadbolt.

But I do.

The memory of Doyle’s hug—heat and strength and acceptance—there was his positive association for today. March 31 would be remembered by the embrace he’d received from… God, practically a stranger, but he’d liked it.

Loved it, in fact, that Doyle had struggled with the desire to touch him again but was clearly respecting Larkin’s personal boundaries. No. Desire wasn’t the right word. He didn’t like the sexual connotation it held. Because despite Doyle’s flirty personality, that hug hadn’t been physically suggestive. It’d been genuine. Doyle had a wish… an inclination… an impulse. That was it. An impulse to touch Larkin again. Something so essential to his personal makeup that a man of lesser intelligence or understanding would have violated Larkin in order to fulfill that need.

But not Doyle.

Because those eyes weren’t fool’s gold.

They were the real deal. Twenty-four karat.

Larkin strode across the bullpen, stopped in front of Baker’s desk, and put his hands on top.

Doyle looked up from his sketch pad.

“You’re an extremely competent detective,” Larkin said. “And my poor attempts at past compliments have been a disservice to you.”

Doyle set down his pencil and sharpener.

Larkin reached across the desktop, pulled back like he wasn’t quite certain, then went ahead and took Doyle’s hand. He brought it up to the hair tie still around his own wrist, and smartly, Doyle understood and gave it a tug. Larkin let go of Doyle, who was smiling again and swallowing up all of the oxygen in the room. “Thank you,” Larkin said. Then he turned and marched to Ulmer’s desk in the opposite direction.

“Fuck off,” Ulmer murmured, clearly having seen Larkin’s approach from the corner of his eye despite not looking away from his computer screen.

“I require your assistance.”

“The hell you do.”

“I like it as much as you do.”

Ulmer growled and kept typing.

“I have three murdered women from 1991 and 1992—Simone, Baby, and Nadia.”

“Prostitutes.”

“Sex workers,” Larkin corrected. “I believe their deaths are precursors to Andrew Gorman’s.”

Ulmer stopped and looked up.

“But due in great part to both the decade in question as well as their careers, I worry that if they were reported as missing, the case might have stagnated within Missing Persons or never been connected to a case established at Homicide.”