“What else would it be? They call you the personification of death.” Doyle bent, collected his suit coat and big bag, and dropped them into a molded plastic chair situated beside the empty neighboring desk, then rested his backside on Larkin’s desk and crossed his arms.

Larkin took a seat. He aggressively avoided eye contact while placing the bronze mask opposite of Doyle and jostling the computer mouse. “The death rate in New York City is 6.4 per 1,000 population.”

“There it is.”

Larkin grunted.

“But now that we’ve met, you strike me as more Holmesian.”

“Please get off my desk.”

Doyle twisted at the waist so he was staring at Larkin, who pointedly refused to look away from his screen. “I really was in the area.”

“A forensic artist leaving his downtown office.” Larkin made certain to not phrase his words into an actual question this time. He was quite aware of his odd speech patterns without complete strangers publicly pointing them out.

“Field sketch,” Doyle confirmed. “I listened to my voicemail afterward. 9:07, wasn’t it? I’d just missed your call. I checked in with the senior artist, then drove over here.”

“This is the Cold Case Squad,” Larkin stated, finally casting Doyle a quick, sideways glance. “I assure you, the rush was unnecessary.”

“But you’ve piqued my interest,” Doyle answered. “A death mask.”

“Conjecture.”

“Maybe. How about you let me see it?”

“How about you get off my desk.”

Doyle slowly pushed off the furniture, turned, and planted his big hand on the desktop. He held his tie against his chest with his other hand and leaned down. Doyle’s cologne penetrated Larkin’s personal bubble like an arrow of masculinity—woodsy, spicy, heady, dangerous. It left him reeling, as if he’d been punched in the head. KO’d by neroli and base notes of sandalwood and cardamon.

Larkin looked up.

Doyle’s eyes were brown with flecks of gold, like those bags of pyrite chips sold to children in tourist shops. He said, without any malice to his tone, “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

A detective seated at the desk in front of Larkin’s snorted and looked over his shoulder, holding a phone to one ear. “No way, kid,” he said, addressing Doyle, who, by Larkin’s estimate, was in his late-thirties and by no means a child. “Grim’s just that fucking welcoming.”

Larkin flicked a stony stare in the direction of Detective Jim Porter, a short, stocky, middle-aged man who had an unfortunate case of extreme receding hairline. Larkin narrowed his eyes, waited until Porter took a fucking hint and minded his own business, then returned his attention to Doyle.

Doyle hadn’t looked away.

“What are your qualifications,” Larkin asked.

Slowly straightening, Doyle reached into his back pocket, retrieved a wallet, then displayed his shield.