Doyle stopped. His umbrella bumped Larkin’s, and the gentle thrum of rain tapped on the plastic overhead. “I only mean, the odds of small, hole-in-the-wall joints existing along the Bowery, East Village, or Alphabet City that are no longer there today are pretty good. They could have very well been the clubs some of these girls moved on to, which would put them in the vicinity of Ricky’s apartment, and by your account, our perpetrator’s hunting grounds.”

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the motherfuckin’ Grim Reaper.” Detective Ray O’Halloran strode toward them from the fountain. “Did you forget a body on your first pass? Don’t worry, it happens. After all, you boys in Cold Cases aren’t used to dealing with homicides in real time, are you?”

“No,” Larkin admitted. “But I am quite adept at cleaning up your messes after the fact.”

O’Halloran’s face colored, and it wasn’t due to the chilly air. But whether he wasn’t looking for a repeat of what happened the last time he’d insulted Larkin to his face, or O’Halloran simply didn’t want a witness, he swallowed his pride and shot Doyle an irritated look. “And who the hell are you?”

“Ira Doyle. I’m with Forensic Artists.”

O’Halloran snorted and laughed. He pointed at Doyle while saying to Larkin, “You brought Bob Ross as your backup, Grim?”

Doyle smiled, but it was calculated, cool—a man who had to fight for his title on the regular, even with Larkin. “Happy accidents aside, I’m a detective too.”

“Maybe you can draw me a picture of your qualifications sometime.”

Doyle’s expression didn’t waver. “I’d be happy to.”

“Detective Doyle was able to put a face to and identify Monday’s skeletal remains in less time it takes you to find your ass with a flashlight, O’Halloran,” Larkin said dully. “Tell me why we’re here.”

That ruddy complexion was back, but O’Halloran only gripped the handle of his umbrella tighter, spit at Larkin’s feet, then said, “I knew the vic. Well, no, I recognized her name: Danielle Moreno. Park employee called the body in when they opened at six this morning. When I got here, I checked the ID she had in her purse and the name niggled at me. I called it in, had it run, and sure enough, she’s got a long history with Vice. Prostitution and drug-dealing at peep shows she worked at back in the ’80s and ’90s.”

Larkin frowned a little. O’Halloran was in his midforties. The math wasn’t adding up. Never mind he worked Homicide, not Vice. “Please expound.”

O’Halloran cracked his jaw and seemed to struggle with an inner demon. “You know Charlie? Charlie Stolle.”

“Homicide detective, yes.”