He snapped his gum loudly, studied the credentials, then directed his gaze to Doyle as the latter sidled up to the counter, shoulder brushing Larkin’s as he displayed his own badge. The receptionist snapped his gum again, then said, “I watched a porno that started out just like this—Butt Police Volume Four. The guy in it, he broke his conditions of bail, so two cops show up, right? And they’re gonna bring him to jail, of course, but he’s like, What can I do to change your minds? He’s so hot, too. Total gym bunny. So he goes down on both cops—I swear there’s, like, sixteen… eighteen inches of meat between the two—then they get out their nightsticks—oh my God.” He stood and leaned over the desk to look. “Do you guys have nightsticks?”

“If you don’t call Mable McClennan in the next five seconds and tell her that Detective Larkin is here for their eleven o’clock appointment, I’m arresting you for obstruction of justice.”

Letting out a huff, the receptionist plopped down in his chair. “Rude,” he mumbled, picking up the phone and dialing an extension.

“You know,” Doyle said, his tone conversational as he tucked his badge away, “it makes you wonder.”

“What does.”

“The events of the previous three Butt Police and why they warranted a fourth storyline.”

“—I mean, they have badges, so—” The receptionist popped a bubble and glanced at the two. He whispered into the receiver, “Kind of a jerk, to be honest—”

“That must be you,” Doyle said to Larkin.

“—super cute, though,” the receptionist concluded, drawing out the super to emphasize his point.

“That’d be me,” Doyle continued.

Larkin glanced toward a staircase to the left before he said to Doyle, “You were right.”

“About what, being cute?”

“No. I’ll take the dead. You can have the living.” Larkin moved past and started for the steps.

“Sir,” the receptionist protested, but it came off as a sort of melodramatic whine. “Hey, detective!”

“What floor is she,” Larkin asked over his shoulder.

“Third, but—”

Larkin disappeared around the corner to hike the steep set of stairs indicative of the building’s age. By the time he was crossing the second-floor hallway and starting up the next flight, Doyle had caught up with him.

“Larkin,” he called. “Hang on. I think we need to set some out-in-the-field ground rules.”

Larkin turned on the step and was eye-level with Doyle. “I would like to take this moment to remind you I didn’t ask you to join me. If you don’t like how I work, that’s your own fault.”

“Listen,” Doyle said, ignoring the jab. “Rule one: don’t leave me to handle a DP aficionado who’s making googly eyes at your ass and trying to give me his number in a singsong voice like he’s auditioning for Meryl Streep’s character in Mamma Mia.”