Larkin wasn’t riding that hazy high he got from Xanax because one pill wasn’t enough for that “don’t give a shit” euphoria, but he was calm. Well, calmer. When the antianxiety meds wore off, he was going to need another dose just to deal with the fact that Doyle knew he required pharmaceuticals to function, let alone that Doyle had had front-row seats to a memory meltdown, and that, if Doyle were smart, he would run for the fucking hills after this case was closed.

But later. Larkin would worry about all of that later.

In the meantime, Ray O’Halloran had come through with a case number to present to the Property Clerk in order to obtain any physical evidence taken during Natasha’s nonexistent investigation. He’d also followed up with employment records for Danielle and had sent Larkin a text:

Strippers fill out W-2s these days. Who knew? Danielle Moreno worked at Full-Flavored. E. 2nd & Ave. A.

“Full-Flavored is Manhattan’s premiere club for adult entertainment. Hosted by mature women with skills and experience,” Doyle read from his phone. “We offer two stages, a full bar, and a dozen big-screen TVs playing all the latest sports—” He put a hand over his mouth to stifle a very uncop-like giggle.

Larkin, hands in his trouser pockets, turned to stare.

“Sorry. It’s just so aggressively straight.” In an announcer-like style, and dropping his already deep voice another octave, Doyle exclaimed, “Have a beer, eat some meat, catch the game, see some tits.”

“Never say tits again.”

“That wasn’t me. That was my heterosexual, alpha-male persona.”

“Jesus Christ.” Larkin sighed loudly and directed his exasperation and stare toward the clerk at the front desk who’d been patently ignoring him for twenty minutes now. Manhattan’s Property Clerk was located in the basement of 1PP, and this woman, who Larkin felt vaguely resembled and even sounded a bit like Roz from Monsters, Inc., had been “searching” for their case number in her computer system the entire time. “We were the first ones in line.”

“It’s always like this,” Doyle murmured.

Larkin glanced at him again. Doyle was still staring at his phone. “She’s purposefully going slow.”

“It is a case from the ’90s. You know what a nightmare these offices were back then.”

“Malarkey.”

Doyle smiled at his phone. “It’s cute when you use dated lingo, especially since I’ve heard plenty of shits, damns, and fucks from you. Listen to this: Full-Flavored offers VIP business packages, bachelor parties, couples parties—which is interesting, I guess—and divorce parties—which I didn’t even know was a thing.”

“I’ll save my money for the contested divorce Noah’s undoubtedly going to drag to court.”

Doyle pocketed his cell and looked at Larkin.

Roz’s gravelly voice called from the other side of the plexiglass window, “Larkin.”

“Thank God.” Larkin strode to the window. “What’d you find.”

“Nothing.”