“Okay!” Kelly said brightly, eagerly, with stars in her eyes.

Larkin spoke on the exhale of a quiet sigh. “I want to know about the renovation crew at Madison Square Park in 1998. Although, if we can have 1997 to 1999, that would be more ideal.”

Kelly snorted, then covered her mouth. “Sorry. No, I mean—” She struggled not to laugh. “My God. 1998? I wasn’t even born.”

“Yes, the neo-grunge on top and suburban mom acid wash on bottom was my first clue,” Larkin answered.

Kelly furrowed her brows and glanced down at herself.

“Don’t mind my partner,” Doyle said, putting his hand on the back of Larkin’s neck and giving a firm squeeze.

“Don’t touch—”

“He’s only had half a donut today,” he continued, squeezing again. “Blood sugar is a little low. I promise I’ll feed him after we’re done here.”

Kelly giggled as Doyle smoothed the conversation over, sounding very much the age waitstaffs likely mistook her for. She babbled something about how this was just like TV, clicked the computer mouse, and studied the screen in front of her.

With the reception-like desk tall enough to block the movement, Larkin jabbed his elbow hard into Doyle’s side. Doyle grunted and released his hold. “Don’t touch me,” Larkin whispered.

“Noted.”

Shaking her head and looking up at them, Kelly said, “Yeah, sorry, but we don’t keep records organized like that. I really can’t find anyone without knowing their name. And if they’ve quit or were terminated… I mean, we only need to keep personnel files for, like, a year or so or whatever.”

“What about OSHA records?” Doyle tried.

Larkin gave him curious side-eye.

“What about them?” Kelly asked.

“Legally, those have to be kept a lot longer,” Doyle said. “Five to thirty years, in some cases.”

“Oh… sure, yeah, we have some really old ones.”

“From the ’90s?”

Kelly concurred.

Doyle looked down at Larkin.

“Do you… need a warrant for that?” Kelly asked into the brief quiet.

“Yes,” Larkin answered.

She offered Doyle a dramatic wince and mouthed, “Sorry.”

The front door of the Arsenal fell shut at 11:44. Larkin and Doyle stood side by side on the top landing. Sunshine cut through swatches of heavy gray clouds like a puncture from a dull knife, and light seeped like blood from a bandaged wound. Wind blew like the shudders of a man trying to hold back tears and breathe at the same time. Blossoms whipped across the bottom steps in a furious little cyclone. Eventually the air would still, and the petals would sprinkle the ground like confetti, then be trampled. They’d become muddy, torn, and then, forgotten.

“It’s turning out to be a pretty day,” Doyle said quietly.

Larkin crouched and collected a white petal from the shoestrings of his derby. He straightened.

“You want to tell me what happened back there?”

“We need a warrant.”

Doyle sighed.