Larkin walked down the hall toward the Fuck It, turned when he reached the door, then returned to the bullpen. He studied Doyle from across the room—he was still standing, now speaking on Baker’s phone and gesturing absently with one hand throughout the conversation. Doyle smiled at something said, laughed, and that smoky baritone had a way of seeping into every nook and cranny of the second floor.

By the time Larkin returned to his desk, Doyle was hanging up the phone. “Your flirting is palpable, Doyle.”

“I needed a favor.”

Larkin grunted.

Doyle motioned him closer. “Public relations bumped us from the slush pile, so these should be on the app by tomorrow morning.” He pointed to the sketches on the desk.

Larkin stared at the images. The unknown person of interest was handsome in his youth, but the aged interpretation suggested a wiser, more dignified man. “He’d be forty-five, right?”

Doyle murmured agreement. “I know he has a daddy vibe going on here, but Jessica had been adamant that he looked older, which of course can, in part, be how an individual acts or presents themselves, but I did want to make some of that physical.”

Larkin looked up. “How old are you.”

“I say daddy and you immediately ask how old I am?”

“What? No. I didn’t mean—”

Doyle crossed his arms. He was grinning so hard, his face looked about ready to split in two. “Thirty-nine.”

Larkin nodded. His cheeks were burning. He looked at the sketch a second time.

Doyle shifted, got closer, and whispered, “Is that a good age?”

“Jesus Christ.” Larkin returned to his own desk as Doyle laughed again.

It was 10:41 p.m. when the bullpen emptied for the night. Ulmer had dropped a printout on Larkin’s desk as he passed by it on the way to the stairs. A request had been submitted to Missing Persons to search their archives for any women that fit the dates or known aliases Larkin had, which they’d acknowledged but provided no timeline on the turnaround. A similar request had been sent to Homicide, with the added notation of these women being dumped in Tompkins Square Park. Homicide had not yet acknowledged the inquiry.

Thugs, Larkin thought as he finished scanning the document.

“Hey.”

Larkin looked to his left.

Doyle was pulling his suit coat on, obscuring his shoulder holster. He picked up his portfolio bag while asking, “Want to grab something to eat?”

Larkin glanced at his watch. Yes. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and still had a headache thumping behind his left eye.

“There’s some great Chinese about a block from my place,” Doyle continued. “Best egg rolls you’ve ever had.”