Kelly bobbed her head absently while digging toward the bottom of the folder. “Here it is.” She handed Larkin a printout that was older than her. “He’s been the Parks Department’s official blacksmith since June of 1998. Isn’t that crazy? We have a blacksmith like ye olden times or something.”

“I appreciate you looking into that.” Doyle ended his call before saying, “Harry’s supervisor—if you can call it that, he’s left to his own devices pretty much at all times—confirmed he called out sick this morning. She said there was nothing strange in the request, other than he’s not taken sick leave or a vacation in years. By her account, Harry’s a stellar employee. Hardworking, on-time, personable, talented.”

Larkin pressed down on the gas, and the Audi accelerated north on Grand Concourse in the Bronx. “He had said he was there to remove the crabapple.”

“Let’s not do this while you’re driving. It’s rush hour and school’s out.”

“I meant, if that had been true, he would have had a reflective safety vest on. A hardhat at minimum.”

“Sure, I mean, I’m not a lumberjack—”

“But he didn’t. He had blackened jeans, but the grime abruptly cut off at the knees.”

“What’s that mean?” Doyle asked.

“An apron. Roger wore one. You wear one. Artists wear aprons. He had UV protective glasses. I suppose I didn’t think twice about eye protection. Of course you’d need that when taking a chainsaw to a tree. But you’d also need that if you’re working in front of a forge all day.”

Doyle made a sound of agreement.

“I was so caught up… making myself feel better, after the start of a shit morning, by poking holes in his timeline that I overlooked why those holes really existed. His nerves weren’t because he’d gotten stoned out of his mind and feared being reprimanded by his boss. He was nervous because he had Danielle Moreno’s body in his car and had never come so close to being caught in his entire career.”

Larkin sped past the Franz Sigel Park, a corner bodega with a bright yellow awning and a gaggle of preteen boys on bikes, all drinking sodas and laughing, and a barber shop with an older gentleman sitting outside the front door in a plastic lawn chair. He drove by blocks of hundred-year-old walk-ups in the classic shapes of H’s and E’s, early-evening sunlight gleaming off brick and green fire escapes like they were about to catch fire.

“You think he’s running scared?” Doyle asked into the lull between them.