“Don’t try to blame me for department shortcomings before either of our times.”

“I wasn’t.”

Ulmer looked like he could grind his molars to dust.

“They were supposedly dumped in Thompson Square Park—very likely while the area was closed for restoration. I’m unable to provide an accurate age bracket beyond the three were between adulthood and middle years. One black, two white—”

Ulmer held a hand up to stop Larkin. “Just give me their fucking photos, since apparently digging up a dead hooker is too much for you.”

“Sex worker,” Larkin corrected a second time. “These women were beaten to death and left to be forgotten. Please show an iota of respect.” Ulmer stood from his chair, towering over Larkin with only the desk between them, but Larkin continued without missing a beat. “As for photos, I have none. Correction, I do, but their faces have been covered by—” He stopped.

Ulmer’s brows rose and he asked shortly, “Covered by what?”

“Masks. Check with OCME too. I need absolutely any report written up or evidence gathered.” Larkin began to walk away.

“Grim.”

He looked over his shoulder.

Ulmer was grooming his goatee with one hand in a self-soothing gesture. After a beat, he pointed and said, “I’m doing this because it’s my job.”

“It sure is.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can drink Clorox.”

Larkin’s mouth twitched. “That’s certainly more creative than simply telling me to fuck myself.” He returned to his desk, took a seat, and looked at Doyle. Earbuds in, right leg bouncing—he probably didn’t notice—busily tracing the composite sketch from earlier to make a second rendition. Considering Doyle’s proven scientific understanding of bone and muscle structures, Larkin had no doubt the aging process would be just as accurate and impressive as the work he’d done so far.

Larkin left Doyle to it.

He picked up his phone, checked his department extensions, then dialed.

“Bosman” came the answer on the first ring. Good to know the newbie wasn’t clocking out at five.

“Detective Bosman, this is Everett Larkin.”

Silence.

In fact, Bosman was so quiet, Larkin could pick up the sounds of his bullpen through the line.

“Evie…. Apologize to him.”

Larkin cleared his throat and said briskly, “I would like to apologize for our last conversation. It was inappropriate of me to point out your personal… business.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“I, of course, don’t have the complete story, nor do I care. You have your reasons.”

“Are you still apologizing, or have we moved on to some sort of vague insult?”

“I’m still apologizing.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“I don’t usually have reason to apologize for my deductions.”

Bosman laughed at that. Not a cruel or angry laugh, but one of honest amusement. “You’re a weird fucking guy.”

“I’ve been told that once or twice.”

“I bet. What did you need?”