“I looked, and behold a pale horse,” called Detective Ray O’Halloran over the silver-and-slate-colored rain drowning Madison Square Park and the uniformed officers unlucky enough to be tasked with cordoning off the lawn north of Shake Shack. “And his name that sat on him was Death.”

Larkin released a breath, the wispy plume of air immediately lost to the same wind and rain that had uprooted the crabapple tree he stood beside, its gnarled roots reaching in vain toward the sky and thousands of pink blossoms carpeting the sodden ground like a flower girl at a wedding had gone buck wild. A makeshift tent had been erected over the hole and unearthed wooden box tangled in the tree’s remaining embedded roots. A lone detective with the Crime Scene Unit, his white PPE bodysuit soaking wet and muddy, was taking photographs.

“Hear that, Grim?” O’Halloran asked as he stepped up beside Larkin.

“I drive a black Audi,” Larkin answered in a modulated tone. It was an old joke. He wasn’t flustered by it anymore. He hadn’t taken his gaze off the unusual crime scene before him.

O’Halloran snorted and slapped Larkin on the back like a frat boy with something to prove.

Larkin stumbled forward. The current of rain pouring off his umbrella went down the back of his suit jacket, and one wingtip oxford in a two-tone green skidded along the grass before he stepped into a puddle past his ankle.

O’Halloran, the Irish fuck, started laughing.

Larkin raised his soaking wet foot. He glanced at O’Halloran—big in all the ways that lent bullies the self-assurance of it being perfectly fine to pick fights with someone shorter, more slender in build, even if Larkin was a thirty-five-year-old man with ten years on the force, and O’Halloran with even more. Some boys never grow up, Larkin thought as he briefly studied the older man’s ruddy complexion, mussed strawberry-blond hair, and shit-eating grin.

“Why am I here,” Larkin asked, his voice still calm, flat, and lacking the upward inflection found in English when asking a question.

Cupping a meaty hand around his mouth, O’Halloran barked over the storm, “Millett!”

The CSU detective turned, and Larkin involuntarily began cataloguing details. He was tall—six feet at least—though his shapeless PPE offered little else by way of physical details. His brown hair—honey, caramel—why were subcategories of hair color always the names of foods? Larkin wondered—was plastered across his forehead. He was classically handsome, sort of like a hardboiled PI brought to life from the pages of an old pulp novel. And like those gritty investigators, this CSU detective was about as disgruntled and didn’t bother hiding it.

Millett put his camera in a case, secured the lid, yanked off his glove with a quick snap, and approached the edge of the tent. He offered a hand to Larkin and said, “Neil Millett, CSU.”