“It means when the detective originally assigned to the homicide has retired, been transferred, or has otherwise concluded they are unable to solve the case, due to either an influx of new cases or lack of evidence and leads, it’s handed over to me.”

“And you figure it out.”

“Sometimes.”

Mable sucked on the Marlboro. “The cases are old?”

“They can be.”

“Like Robert-Stack-in-a-trench-coat old? You might be too young for that reference.”

Larkin wrinkled his nose. He kept his gaze pinned to Mable and did his best to block out the visual noise of the office around him. “My oldest case dates back to 1919.”

Mable started coughing on her cigarette.

“The cost of healthcare directly related to smoking in the state of New York is ten billion dollars annually,” Larkin stated. “And among the LGBT population, which the CDC estimates makes up approximately three percent of the U.S. population, smoking prevalence is twenty percent, as compared to fifteen percent among heterosexual people.”

“Larkin—” Doyle began.

“There’s some interesting reading on the influence of tobacco marketing,” Larkin continued, still staring at Mable. “Advertising at gay pride festivals, donations to community organizations, etcetera, but the CDC has also suggested factors related to being LGBT—stress, social stigma, daily prejudice—directly impact the decision to smoke.”

Mable coughed once more, for good measure, then said, “What does this have to do—?”

“It doesn’t,” Larkin answered. “I just thought you’d appreciate knowing you’re being scammed out of money and good health.” He could hear Doyle rubbing his face, whiskers scraping against the palm of his hand.

Mable stamped out the cigarette in the ashtray, then pushed back and rolled across the floor to her desk once again. “That jab about being LGBT.”

“A statement of fact.”

“Do I look dykey to you?”

“You don’t look any way to me. One of the community’s growing problems, in my opinion, is the tendency to judge our own’s worthiness to be included, based on nothing more than physical appearance, an already widespread issue when set out among the heterosexual population.” Larkin finally raised his finger and pointed at the disaster of a desktop, although he didn’t look away from Mable. “Your wedding photo is highly visible.”

Mable’s brows furrowed. She looked at the 5x8 frame on the desk—herself in a white suit, arms wrapped around the waist of a black woman with dreads to the middle of her back who wore a hip-hugging white dress, both looking about a decade younger. Her defenses came down and Mable started laughing. “Monica’s been begging me to ditch the Marlboros. Wait ’til I tell her a pretty boy gay cop rode my ass about ’em too.” She shoved aside some junk and adjusted the frame. “We got married back in 2011, the day the Marriage Equality Act took effect in New York.” Mable looked at Larkin. Glanced at his ring. “How long you been married, detective?”