And it wasn’t the forensic evidence the murderer couldn’t chance leading back to them, but John himself.

They hadn’t been strangers.

“I need employment records,” Larkin said. “The renovation crew working at Madison Square Park during the ’90s.”

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

“But you’re not dressed like cops,” the petite blonde whined.

Larkin’s request for employment records had seemingly broken the fragile spell of patience he’d cast on Mable via their personal connection at the start of the interview. Her desk phone rang a second time, and she claimed he had exactly the information requested, she needed to get back to putting out fires, and anyway, did she goddamn look like HR? So Larkin and Doyle were directed to an office on the second floor, where they now stood in front of the desk of a young woman who undoubtably got carded every time she ordered a nine-dollar glass of wine at a restaurant.

A nameplate suggested the blonde’s name was Kelly. Kelly wore her hair in a messy bun piled atop her head like an afterthought. She had big brown eyes, a button nose, wore a frumpy striped sweater that Larkin was about seventy percent certain was supposed to be frumpy in a cool way, along with a pair of mom jeans, which hadn’t been cool when he was a child and still weren’t cool, despite fashion’s attempt to bring them back.

Before Larkin could reply to Kelly’s absurd comment, Doyle took the lead with the ease of a man who was paid to shoot the shit for a living. “We’re detectives, ma’am.”

“So no uniforms?”

“Ties and slacks, I’m afraid.”

Kelly brightened, waved her hands, then said, “Oh! Like Detectives Stabler and Benson!”

Larkin narrowed his eyes. “Law & Order is a fictional—”

“Exactly like Stabler and Benson,” Doyle agreed. He nudged Larkin. “You’re pretty like Benson.”

Larkin couldn’t help it. He flushed.

Kelly’s stare bounced between them like a cartoon character.

Doyle, the bastard, was grinning. He said to Kelly, “We need employment confirmation.”

At Doyle’s request, she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips like she was seriously contemplating his words, but mostly, she just looked like she had gas. “Don’t you need a warrant?” She added in a loud whisper, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

Larkin pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to spend an hour—no, two hours—in a sensory deprivation tank, and it wasn’t even noon. Not that he pulled in the sort of income that warranted being a member of a Manhattan spa that offered hour-long floats in Epsom salts. Not when he was married to a public-school teacher who was saddled with student loan debt for at least another decade.

A bottle of ZzzQuil was cheaper.

Doyle was saying, “We’re looking to confirm dates. You don’t need a warrant for that.”