“I do. He held on to Danielle’s body as long as he could, waiting for the police presence to die down, because compulsion wouldn’t let him dump her anywhere but where it mattered to him—the park. But she was beginning to bloat and smell and decompose, and he learned of Ricky’s arrest yesterday and panicked. His panic is good in the sense that it proves Ricky couldn’t have been involved with the dumping, but problematic in that I believe he might try to get rid of other evidence now.”

“The death masks.”

“Yes.”

Larkin made a left on East 165th Street and turned down Walton Avenue. He’d passed a high school and a ninety-nine-cent store when his GPS pinged their arrival. He pulled to the side of the road, parked, and turned off the engine. They both checked their holstered pistols without a word, then climbed out of the car. Larkin moved to the front door of another H-shaped building as Doyle trailed, on his phone again, calling for backup—no lights, no sirens. A posted notice beside the intercom indicated there was to be absolutely no loitering, littering, ball-playing, or sitting on the property. Perhaps ironically, an older black woman sat in a camping chair to the left of the sign, wearing big sunglasses, and reading what Larkin surmised to be a romance novel, based on the dated but nonetheless appealing cover featuring a bare-chested man.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Sir,” she answered, without looking up from her page.

“Do you live in this building.”

“I do.”

Larkin removed his badge and displayed it, despite still not having gained her attention. “Detective Larkin with the NYPD.”

“I didn’t think you were with the LAPD, sir.”

“We’re obligated to identify ourselves regardless.”

She hummed absently in reply, turned the page.

“Will you buzz us inside.” He recalled his earlier conversation with Miyamoto and added, “Please.”

“You got a warrant?” She asked, but was still mostly focused on her book.

Larkin tucked his badge away and then removed his second warrant. “I have an arrest warrant for Harold Regmore.”

“He goes by Harry.”

“Fantastic. Buzz me in, ma’am.”

She finally looked away from her book, lowered the sunglasses, and studied Larkin over the rims. “I know I said his apartment stank, but arresting him for not taking out the trash seems excessive.” She leaned forward in her chair to study Doyle standing a foot or two behind Larkin before saying with obvious appreciation, “Mm… just like Duke Simon.” She bookmarked her page, stood from the chair, and tapped a code on the intercom panel.