Doyle got to his feet, his movements like a ballet in the way his casualness still managed to be graceful. He stood a head taller than Larkin and offered a big smile when Larkin took a step back in order to meet his gaze. “Ira Doyle. It’s a pleasure.” He offered a hand.

Larkin shook it, cataloguing the size of Doyle’s hand in his own, his grip, temperature, the callus on Doyle’s ring finger that confirmed he held a pencil quite often in a dynamic quadrupod stance. “Why the house call.”

Doyle had crow’s feet around his brown eyes. “I was in the area, actually.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Doyle raised one thick eyebrow and asked with a tone that suggested nothing but amusement, “Oh?”

“No. There’s no practical reason for you to be on the Upper East Side,” Larkin explained. “So how’d you get here… I see no umbrella. Your hair has product in it that appears undisturbed. You’re also wearing a white shirt that’s dry.”

“I have a coat.”

“Yes, it’s on the floor. If it had gotten wet, you’d have draped it over the back of the chair.” Larkin continued, “The Uptown 6 is a straight shot from 1PP, but during the morning rush, you’d be lucky to arrive in under thirty minutes, and I only phoned thirty-eight minutes ago. It is unlikely, given the attitude you display in your posture, that you raced out the door the moment you listened to my message. This means you didn’t take the subway because, one, you’re not wet from the walk, two, your hand wasn’t cold when we shook, and three, you simply wouldn’t have had the time.”

Doyle slid his hands into his trouser pockets. His entire face lit up—and Larkin wasn’t particularly fond of this idiom, but it would work for the moment—like a Christmas tree.

“So you drove,” Larkin concluded without missing a beat. “Taking the FDR could get you here in twenty minutes. And this option would avail you additional time to get your act together. I didn’t recognize the blue Honda Civic parked on the street, but I assume it’s yours because the seat was pushed back quite far, enough that I took notice of it, and you are tall.”

“Six four,” Doyle confirmed. “And you’ve called me lazy twice when we’ve only just met.”

“No. You’re projecting. Based on your need to shave, disheveled appearance, and overall posture, which combined suggests a disinterest in the job, I have logically deduced you would need additional time to gather your belongings before making your way uptown.”

Still smiling with his entire face—no, his entire body—Doyle asked, “Are you aware you don’t speak with an intonation when asking questions?”

“Yes.”

Doyle chuckled, and the sound settled around them like smoke on water. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Watercooler talk.”