Larkin’s ability to cope day-to-day came from a strict sense of routine. Even with long hours and the curveballs thrown at career detectives, whether that was a line of questioning taking a sudden one-eighty or getting called into the precinct at two in the morning, Larkin had always been able to keep a sense of order among that chaos. And part was due to how he managed the stimulation around him—or lack thereof, if he were extremely lucky. Absolutely anything unessential was moved out of his space, and what was left was clean, organized, and arranged in such a way as to not be a distraction or association to a past event.

Mable’s office looked as if they were testing military-grade bombs on the premises. There was so much to look at, to catalogue, to memorize, that Larkin very briefly considered walking out and conducting his line of questioning over the phone. But phone calls were never preferable. He needed to see the other person’s posture, expression, mannerisms. Sometimes the nonverbal cues were enough to prompt Larkin to keep digging—deeper and deeper, until he uncovered evidence that would later stand in court.

Another win for Grim.

“Take a seat,” Mable said, motioning to the single chair in front of her desk.

Larkin found himself looking toward Doyle, who in turn made the same gesture to the chair. He took a breath, picked up a manila folder from the seat, and set it on the leaning pile of crap atop Mable’s desk before sitting.

“Aren’t you chivalrous,” Mable said to Doyle before glancing at her computer screen and jabbing her cigarette at it. “This shit never ends. I’ve got donators demanding answers like I’m the cops, subway rags begging for juicy details like I’m the killer, and this department is helping me about as well as to be expected from a bloated nonprofit.”

“Why did you say ‘killer,’” Larkin asked.

Reining in the start of her tirade, Mable said, “Whoever’s in that box didn’t bury themselves, right?”

“And how was it you came to be informed of the situation,” Larkin continued.

“You kidding me? I hadn’t been in the office five minutes before the New York Beast, some bullshit blog specializing in city politics and drama, was on the phone saying they’d seen detectives and crime scene personnel on that app, Local4Locals? They wanted the scoop. Got my number from a simple internet search.” Mable pushed away from the desk, the wheels of her chair squeaking as she inched toward the window. “What’d you say you did? Cold Crimes?”

“Cold Cases.”

Mable picked up a BIC lighter from beside the ashtray, lit the cigarette, and leaned close to blow smoke out the window. “Uh-huh. And what’s that mean?”