“Your artistic qualifications,” Larkin corrected. “I’ve seen enough objectively bad police sketches to know being accepted into a prominent unit doesn’t necessarily mean it was based on merit.”

That easy smile flirted across Doyle’s face again. He tucked his wallet away. “The same can be said about Cold Cases, don’t you think?”

Larkin’s mouth twitched as he considered one or two of the detectives who’d somehow been promoted to his squad. “I suppose.”

“BFA in illustration from SVA,” Doyle answered. “MA in History of Art and Archeology from NYU.”

“The second degree sounds scholarly.”

“Lofty aspirations of a cushy museum job—but I was led astray by the siren’s song of less pay, long hours, bad coffee, and bureaucratic bullshit. I think it was the uniforms.” That smile again, before Doyle added, “I look good in blue.”

Larkin considered Ira Doyle. It was true that the Forensic Artists Unit consisted of only three detectives and it was a team basically impossible to finagle your way into without considerable skill or considerable connections—hence his curiosity into Doyle’s background so as to deduce which of the two got him the job. Because if Larkin was going to employ the assistance of others on one of his cases, no matter how minor in the grand scheme of things, he wanted only the best. He did not have the time nor patience to second-guess the authority of others in their select fields. And while he didn’t know where on the academics scale those two schools qualified for their respective degrees, the fact that Doyle was a traditionally trained artist with additional schooling in art history….

Spinning in his chair, Larkin picked up the evidence bag and offered it. “This morning’s storm uprooted a crabapple tree at Madison Square Park. An employee of Parks and Recreation phoned 911 at 7:06 to report a wooden crate had been unearthed. Inside was a skeleton.”

“Male?” Doyle asked as he accepted the plastic bag and studied the bronze face.

“Unofficially. And adult, based on erupted wisdom teeth. But we can’t assume the likeness of that mask is of the victim.”

Doyle didn’t answer right away. He set the mask on the desktop, went to what upon third glance appeared to be a portfolio bag, and retrieved a ruler from the outer pocket. Doyle dug out a notepad from his suit coat, flipped to a blank page, then nabbed a pen from the cup on Larkin’s desk. He began measuring various features of the face and jotting down what Larkin could only surmise to be the dimensions. “Why is it that a case not even three hours old has been handed over to you?”