“So there might be evidence she was in Ricky’s tub,” Doyle concluded.

Larkin nodded.

Doyle fetched his wallet and removed a business card. “I’ll give Bosman a call.” He copied the cell number and put his phone to his ear. “We need to ask ourselves: were all the bodies kept for several days, or is this new? And if it’s new, where’s she been in the interim?”

Larkin had just pulled into traffic when his phone rang. “Who is it,” he asked.

Doyle took the cell from the cupholder. “No ID. Local number.”

“Put it on speaker.”

Doyle did and held the phone up.

“Detective Larkin,” Larkin answered as he deftly avoided a taxi who prematurely slammed on their breaks.

“Detective, this is Camila Garcia.”

The panic and embarrassment at having forgotten to make a notation in his calendar for his appointment with Camila was immediate and overwhelming. He gripped the steering wheel tight in both hands, swallowed a string of colorful curses, and managed, “Mrs. Garcia, I’m so sorry.”

“I should have known better.”

“Ma’am, allow me to apologize,” Larkin said again, hastily checking his wristwatch to confirm it was 9:22. “I had every intention of honoring our appointment this morning, but—” Offering an excuse made Larkin want to actually vomit, but he’d been trying to get Marco’s mother to speak with him for over a month. Anything to save face was necessary at this point. “I was called to a scene this morning involving a homicide victim—”

“My son was a victim of homicide too, Detective.”

“Yes, ma’am—”

“I was truly starting to believe you were different from all those other cops. That you actually cared about Marco.”

“I do care. With all my heart.”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes,” Larkin tried.

“No. As I said, I’m flying to California today, and I need to finish getting ready.”

“Mrs. Garcia—”

“Goodbye.” She hung up.

“Fuck,” Larkin whispered as Doyle lowered the phone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” His voice grew with each word until he was shouting inside the car.

“Hey.” Doyle put a hand on Larkin’s forearm. “Jesus, Evie. You’re shaking.”

“I forgot. I forgot. I fucking forgot!”

“Pull over. No—right now.” Doyle was quiet until Larkin double-parked and put his hazards on. He undid his seat belt and shifted so he could look at Larkin.

“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” Larkin said before Doyle could open his mouth. “It’s not. It’s not okay at all.” He had to blink back the burn in his eyes. “Look at my phone. Open the calendar.”

Doyle hesitated before he did as Larkin asked.