“That’s good, because you’ve called me Jesus a few times, and if you were God, that’d make everything a bit awkward.”

“I’ll tell them. Okay, bye.” Brian drew out the bye as if it had four or five extra e’s. He stood from the table and unzipped the shimmery gold fanny pack he wore. He removed a business card and offered it to Doyle.

Doyle passed it to Larkin without looking at it.

Larkin stared at it, turned it over, then looked up. “Forges. Beauteous. Distinction. R. Hunt.”

“He said he can spare you a few minutes if you show up before three o’clock today. After that is impossible—he’ll be crazy with final preparations for the show.”

“What show?” Doyle asked.

Brian gave Doyle a pouty face, like he just felt so terrible for how utterly naïve this poor cop was. “Roger is one of the world’s premiere designers of men’s jewelry. It’s an untapped market, you know. Jewelry enhances beauty, symbolizes power, wealth, status….” He tucked a bit of curl behind one ear while looking both detectives up and down. “You boys would certainly benefit.”

Larkin met Doyle’s look, and he was certain his own expression mirrored that of Doyle’s skepticism. He held up the business card and said to Brian, “There’s no telephone number. No email. No physical address. Does Mr. Hunt conduct his business via telepathy.”

“Oh my God,” Brian answered with another one of those scoffs, like these police didn’t understand anything, up to and including fancy business cards. He snatched the card, dug a pen out of his pack, and scribbled on the back.

“Hubris syndrome,” Doyle said quietly.

Larkin made a sound of agreement, then took the card when Brian held it out a second time. The studio space Roger Hunt could be found at was located in Williamsburg. “Of course,” he muttered.

Larkin stood at the banister that ran behind his and out-of-office Baker’s desks in the bullpen, adding his appointment with Roger Hunt to his phone’s calendar, then leaning over to watch Brian reach the ground floor and see himself out the precinct door.

“Jewelry designer,” Doyle was saying. “At least we can be certain, beyond a reasonable doubt, this Roger Hunt is the right guy.”

Larkin’s desk phone rang. He turned, picked up the receiver, and said, “Detective Larkin.”

“Everett Larkin?”

“Speaking.”

“Holly Cooper with The City,” she said in a rush, the way all journalists introduced themselves and kept talking, perhaps out of a well-founded fear they’d be hung up on. “I’ll get right to the point: last October you were involved in a cold case investigation of a dozen sex workers found dead in the Ramble during the late ’90s and later again in—”