Despite his agreement to see Larkin and Doyle before three o’clock that afternoon, Roger Hunt seemed both surprised and irritated by their appearance. Forges was located in a very unassuming, multimillion-dollar warehouse just east of Bedford Avenue, in a neighborhood where residential and mom-and-pop storefronts were at odds with high-end commercial shopping and entertainment. The grit and grime and character of Brooklyn still managed to shine through, even if the chain grocery stores and upscale gyms made it a bit more difficult to see.

Inside, the framework of Forges still screamed of its industrial ancestry, with its brick walls, high-beamed ceilings, and exposed HVAC system. But what had changed with the times and use, was the color. Everything was completely white. From the cement floor to the open staircase leading to the second floor, to the in-process-of-being-set-up art displays and pop-up bars for Roger’s “party”….

White, white, white.

“An artist’s nightmare,” Doyle had whispered after Brian the PA had answered the door, groaned dramatically, and ushered them inside before running off to fetch his boss.

Larkin shrugged. “I like minimalism.”

“This isn’t minimalism—this is the Twilight Zone. Sneeze on the wall, tack a frame around it, and it’d sell for a million dollars.”

Larkin put his hand to his mouth to hide his growing smile. “That’s probably true. I prefer cityscapes. There’s an organized beauty to them that’s pleasing on the eye.”

Doyle made a sound under his breath.

“I enjoyed the ones you had hanging in your apartment.”

Doyle looked down. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

For some reason, Doyle had blushed, and Larkin was going to inquire as to why, but then Roger came down the stairs, with Brian on his heels. Roger Hunt was a well-built man who, as he approached from across the warehouse, stood taller than Larkin. His black hair was going steel-colored, from what was visible under a backward baseball cap, and the powerful cut of his jaw had a well-manicured beard. Per Jessica’s description, he certainly looked older than his supposed age. But besides that, if Roger intended to host some sort of cosmopolitan jewelry show that evening, he seemed to be the only one who hadn’t gotten the memo. He wore a pair of skinny jeans that were stained below the knees and had clearly seen better days. An apron was still over his front, and a simple, ratty sweatshirt was worn underneath. His hands were stained black. But despite his appearance, Roger spoke like he was born and raised on the Upper East Side.

“Detectives, I had hoped you understood the implication that I simply don’t have time for… well, whatever it is that caused you to display my likeness as if I were a common criminal,” Roger said before either of them could speak.

“This moment would make for a good argument in favor of frankness, Mr. Hunt,” Larkin answered.