Larkin rolled his eyes, clasped the evidence bag between his chest and arm, pulled shut his umbrella, and stepped through the door flanked on either side by the green lanterns marking the occupancy of police. Larkin moved through reception, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. He took the stairs to the second floor, where the Cold Case detectives shared a bullpen fashioned with drab, mass-produced furniture that could have belonged in any office across America. The overheads were bank fluorescents that hadn’t been replaced since the ’90s, and someone had brewed engine oil for coffee in the breakroom, the smell mingling with the damp air and concocting a miasma that could only be described as Monday. On the far left were several offices, including Lieutenant Connor’s, two interview rooms, and a third that once might have been for interviews but was now full of media, both current and obsolete, the shitty desk with a wobbly leg that no amount of Post-it pads seemed to level, and computer chairs with no support left due to a decade of asses flattening the cushions. Detectives fondly referred to this room as the Fuck It.

Sitting at Larkin’s desk—in his chair, no less—was a stranger. Larkin’s memory—like a Rolodex he could flip through to find any subject, any conversation, any name—began automatically searching for this man’s face. Not a cop who worked at Precinct 19, not a CI, nor was he any lawyer or administrator from a past case. Of this, Larkin was quite certain, because he wouldn’t—couldn’t—forget. The stranger had the lean build of someone who took care of himself, with height that was all arms and legs. He was slouched in the chair, arms crossed behind his head, long legs stretched out, and feet anchored to the floor as he idly spun side to side. Brown tweed trousers, shirt sleeves rolled back, tie loosened, with a matching rumpled suit coat and a large, flat bag on the floor beside the casters. His dark brown hair, like a Hershey bar (there’s that food again, Larkin noted), was messy in a way Larkin suspected was done on purpose, and it was apparent, judging by the man’s five o’clock shadow at—Larkin checked his watch—9:44, he wasn’t one for adhering to dress code.

Larkin placed his umbrella in a stand near the stairs, walked across the bullpen, then said, “Excuse me.”

The man swiveled, looked up, then straightened his posture in an easygoing manner. “Everett Larkin?”

“That’s correct. Who’re you.” Then Larkin snapped his mouth shut, spun the mental Rolodex again, and replayed that deep purr from the voicemail earlier. “Detective Doyle,” he answered himself.