“To hell with him.” Larkin pulled his key from the ignition and climbed out of the black Audi. He tapped the alarm button, the chirp bouncing off the brick facades, and turned as Doyle came back from the corner. He held a paper bag in one arm and dug his keys out from his trouser pocket with his other hand. “Let me hold that.” Larkin took the takeout.

“Thanks. Hope you don’t mind hoofing it,” Doyle said as he unlocked the front door and held it open. “I’m on the fourth floor.”

“I live in a walk-up too,” Larkin answered, following Doyle through the vestibule and to the stairs. After rounding the corner on the third floor and starting up the final flight, Larkin asked, “Have you lived here long.”

“Hmm… about six years.” Doyle stopped at 4A, unlocked it, and stepped inside. He flipped a switch on the wall, held the door with his foot, and took the bag back. “Come in.”

Larkin entered the apartment, and the first description he had was: cozy. It was small, although clearly not an issue for someone who lived alone and who worked a lot. The left wall was exposed brick, with a small entertainment stand pushed up against it. Across from that was a couch, coffee table, and bookshelf—nothing particular about the brands or styles of furniture other than comfortable, Larkin thought. The kitchen was toward the end of the one room, fridge, counter, and sink all along the brick wall and a table for two in front of the big windows overlooking the street, although the curtains were drawn. Larkin turned around, and behind him and to the right were a pair of french doors that closed off a very small bedroom, visible through the glass, from the rest of the house. A final door not far from the bookshelf was probably the bathroom. It took an extra second for Larkin to acknowledge the almost fantastical sepia glow wasn’t coming from the overhead light, but from all the fairy lights strung throughout the apartment.

“Sorry about the lights,” Doyle was saying as if reading Larkin’s mind. He put the bag on the kitchen counter, propped his portfolio case against the table, then said, “I can turn them off.”

“No. It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

Larkin nodded. He took off his suit coat and glanced around for a place to set it. Beside the french doors was a wooden ladder—clearly it came with the apartment and provided access to the storage closet overhead of the bedroom entrance, but Doyle appeared to be using it as a coatrack instead. Larkin added to the pile.

Doyle was opening cupboards and taking out plates in the kitchen.