Larkin climbed down from the ladder, watching as Doyle dragged a barrel from one of the gated units, studied the spray-painted information, then worked the top off. He immediately made a gagging sound, dropped the lid, and stumbled away. “Doyle?” Larkin jogged toward him. “What’s wrong?”

Doyle held the back of his gloved hand against his mouth and pointed with the other. “Maggots.”

Larkin slowed to a walk. “You were pulling plaster of Paris out of the hair of a decomposing body this morning.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a certain detachment to that.”

“It’s just some larvae.”

Doyle lowered his hand. “No. That’s not just some. That evidence is infested.”

Larkin raised an eyebrow. His partner looked a little green. “You don’t like bugs.”

“Nothing that wiggles, squirms, or has an unnecessary number of legs.”

“Maggots won’t hurt you.”

Doyle put his hand to his mouth again and honestly looked about ready to vomit.

“Okay, okay,” Larkin said quickly. “I’ll look through it.” He approached the barrel and noted the back side appeared to have water damage that’d caused a tear in the heavy-duty cardboard. A trail of wriggling maggots led the way back to the unit, like breadcrumbs. Larkin peered inside and, yeah, it was infested. Whoever had collected hard evidence from Natasha’s murder scene twenty-eight years ago hadn’t properly bagged the items, and something in there, something likely with blood evidence, had attracted a fly. Larkin hastily removed his cuff links, pocketed them, and rolled his sleeves back before reaching into the barrel.

“Don’t touch—oh my God.” Doyle took a few steps back as Larkin removed what looked to be a skimpier, sexier version of a cocktail dress. Maggots fell from the folds of material and he made another sound close to blowing chunks.

Larkin set the dress on the floor and reached inside again. “Take my phone,” he instructed, removing a stiletto with a broken heel next.

“What?”

Larkin angled himself and said, “Left pocket.”

Doyle took a few hesitant steps, got just close enough to tug the cell from Larkin’s trouser pocket, then quickly backed away.

“Call O’Halloran.”

“Why?”

Larkin raised a gloved hand covered in squirming maggots and shook them back into the barrel. He reached inside again, saying, “He doesn’t have control over Natasha’s case file—otherwise this would be easy. Ask him to get a look at the autopsy report. I don’t care what he has to do to accomplish that. Find out if the ME had any specific notes about the weapon used to kill her.” Larkin found the other shoe. “His contact information is my most recent text.”

Doyle swiped on the screen, tapped, and put the cell to his ear. He met Larkin’s look and said, “Thanks.”