“How the fuck does Doyle put up with you?” Bosman asked.

Larkin glanced at Doyle, who was watching and patiently waiting to be filled in. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

Larkin returned his attention to the Polaroids. Bosman was talking, but Larkin tuned his staticky voice out as he brought the evidence bag up and studied the photos. Brow furrowed, Larkin wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, opened a desk drawer, and removed a magnifying glass. He raised it to the Polaroids and studied the background all three victims seemed to share—to have in common.

The psychology of place. He had explained to Lieutenant Connor this factor’s importance, but then last night, with everything that’d happened…. He’d been admittedly distracted.

Where did the perpetrator hunt and why? What was it about their chosen region that felt safe? He would be familiar with the neighborhood these women came from. He would know where there was ample hiding so he had the time to kill and construct his death mask. No. No that wasn’t correct. He wouldn’t have done this out in the open. His mask-making was art. It required time, patience, a dedicated workspace.

And with those deaths that’d happened in the Ramble at almost the same time, like Miss Holly Cooper of The City said, he’d shy away from Central Park. Those stomping grounds belonged to someone else. Those sex workers belonged to another monster that’d been prowling New York.

Simone, Baby, Nadia.

Larkin had made, at the time, a reasonable assumption that those were street names. But he couldn’t imagine every john wanted to know a girl’s name, fake or not, before getting down to business. And it struck him as even more off that Ricky would have those names. But there was another profession in the ’90s that revolved around false identities being publicly advertised, that was deeply frowned upon by society, and could still prove dangerous to the workers, depending on the venue they found themselves in.

“They’re all stage names—you’re aware of that, right?” That’s what Connor had said.

These women had been working as strippers.

The backdrop of the Polaroids was white. Off-white. No, that was a shadow naturally produced by a concave shape. Like a bowl. And there, near the top right, was a nick. Something small and unforgettable, but as unique as a fingerprint.

“Are you even listening to me?” Bosman asked.

Larkin blinked. “Hold on, Bosman.” He turned and thrust the bag and glass at Doyle. “What are the women lying on?”

Doyle took the offerings and looked at the pictures. “Table? Tiled floor?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

Larkin lowered the phone from his ear and pointed with the receiver. “You’re an artist. Look at the shadow.”