Poking his head around the corner, Larkin took in a very quick assessment of the dim interior. A hall led to what he suspected was a living room on the right. Directly ahead was an empty kitchen. The hall continued on the left side with two closed doors—bedroom and bathroom, most likely. Looking at Doyle, Larkin nodded, raised his SIG P226, and slipped inside.

The living room wasn’t exactly tidy—a shared space that’d been haphazardly converted into a bedroom. A balled-up blanket and pile of pillows lay on the couch, an overflowing laundry basket of men’s clothing sat on the floor, and a few empty plates and beer bottles were on the coffee table beside a stack of what looked like dubious-consent skin magazines. The curtains were drawn on the right window, the faint shadow of security bars visible in the setting sun. The left was partially drawn back, the lock undone, but no obvious sign it’d been opened to utilize the fire escape. Larkin shot the walls a quick look, and in the dimness, was able to count one… two… eleven… thirteen total picture hanging hooks. No prize for correctly guessing what had been so blatantly displayed prior to their arrival.

Motioning to the hall, Larkin left Doyle so as to clear the rest of the apartment. The first door was unlocked and opened onto the bedroom. The bed was unmade, blankets and sheets yanked to the floor like someone had gotten tangled and struggled to free themselves. Nearby was a walker, and the nightstand held a number of prescription bottles, as well as a discarded mask attached to a portable oxygen tank. The room had the vague appearance of a nursing home suite. Had Harry taken in an elderly family member? No, Larkin thought. That wasn’t right. This had been the parent’s home and Harry was the one crashing, hence the impromptu setup in the living room.

Larkin cleared the corners before backing out. He moved to the last door, the stench even stronger now, and he knew this wouldn’t bode well for whoever usually laid their head down in the master bedroom. Trying the doorknob, he found it locked. “Harry Regmore,” he called loudly. “NYPD. Open the door.”

Stillness. Silence.

Larkin glanced down the hall. Doyle stood there, weapon raised and waiting. So he took a step back, elevated his leg, and slammed the heel of his shoe against the lock plate. The flimsy interior door immediately shattered and crashed inward. He trained his weapon on the empty room, but was nearly bowled over by the rancid stink of decay. Larkin put the bend of his elbow to his nose and mouth, took a deep breath, then held it as he stepped inside. No one behind the door. He yanked back the shower curtain.