Until he saw the man sitting at the table.

“You’re not Roger Hunt,” Larkin said from where he stood in the doorway.

Not-Roger was practically a kid. Twenty, tops, with a mop of curly brown hair, big doe eyes, a few necklaces, rings on nearly each finger, and piercings. Lots of piercings. Like a pin cushion.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he said with an eye roll and attitude that so many of the filthy rich, entitled, just-moved-to-Brooklyn sort possessed.

“Who are you.”

“Brian.”

“Brian. Why did you say you were Roger Hunt.”

That eye roll again. “I told the cop downstairs I worked for Roger Hunt. Great to know my taxes pay the salaries of people with listening problems.”

“You don’t pay taxes. Your parents still claim you as a dependent.”

Brian’s jaw dropped a little, and he made an offended snort that confirmed Larkin was correct. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“It’s a statement of fact—”

“Okay,” Doyle interrupted. He slipped past Larkin and stepped inside the room. “Brian. Detectives Doyle and Larkin. Are you here about the police sketches?”

Brian was quiet, and his snobbish expression softened at Doyle’s friendly tone. He picked up his phone from the tabletop, flicked through some open apps, then held it up to display the home page of Local4Locals. “This is my boss, Roger. He called me this morning—so upset, mind you—because his face is on a wanted poster.”

“It’s a composite sketch of someone who is essentially a missing person,” Larkin corrected. “Nowhere does it say wanted.”

Brian actually raised his hand like he was not going to communicate further with Larkin. “Do you know how embarrassing this is for him? Roger told me to come sort this out. He’s super busy, and this is the last thing he needs before a show.”

“Unfortunately this isn’t something you can handle for him,” Doyle said, polite but insistent. “We need to speak with Mr. Hunt.”

“About what?” Brian asked, indignant tone seeping back into his words. “I’m his personal assistant. His life is my life.”

Doyle smiled and simply reiterated. “We need to speak with Mr. Hunt.”

Brian groaned, loudly. “He’s going to freak out.” But he placed a call and put his cell to his ear.

“Freak out,” Doyle repeated amusedly, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“I’m about to freak out,” Larkin said dryly, resting his shoulder on the doorjamb.

Brian gave them both a look and then said into the phone, “Hey. The cops won’t talk to me. They keep saying… … Yeah, I told them that. They don’t care.” He pointedly ignored Larkin, stared at Doyle, and added to the conversation, “Typical.”

“Your people skills are proving to not be infallible,” Larkin said.

Doyle hummed in agreement. “I never claimed I was God.”