O’Halloran picked up his umbrella. “A hundred-year-old fucking skeleton in a fucking box buried in the fucking park? Yeah, it’s yours, Grim. With blessings from all of us in Homicide. Fuck both you homos.”

“Drive safe,” Larkin said before O’Halloran stomped across the park, making for the yellow crime scene tape. He glanced up at Millett, whose cheekbones were still bright with color. “I’d like to be updated on the situation,” he prompted.

Millett met Larkin’s unblinking gaze, and then the flush on his face deepened. He quickly about-faced and returned to the hole, saying over his shoulder, “O’Halloran’s blowing smoke up your ass about the hundred-year-old thing. No way of knowing that with just a cursory once-over.”

Larkin had stopped fiddling with his cuff link at some point and realized he had begun worrying the silver band on his finger. He dropped his hand. Released a breath. “John or Jane.”

Millett had retrieved his camera before looking back. “I’m not the ME.”

“Bear with me,” Larkin said. “I’m used to having the pertinent details already established by the time I take over.”

That made Millett—well, he didn’t smile, but his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Between us?”

Larkin agreed.

“Assuming the pelvis belongs to the skull—John Doe.”

“Narrow pubic arch, then.”

“That’s right,” Millett answered. “I’d even venture a step further and guess he was at least in his twenties at time of death, but the ME will have the final say on that.”

“Based on.”

“Wisdom teeth were erupted.” Millett motioned Larkin forward, and when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down at the partially visible skeleton through the wooden crate’s broken lid, Millett said, “I’ve seen a lot of bizarre deaths in this city… but a body in a box, cracked open like a time capsule, is a first. What about you?”

“What about me.”

“Seen anything like this in your workload?”

“There is nothing comparable in Cold Cases, no.” Larkin felt Millett staring and looked up at the other detective.

“That’s some seriously resounding absolution.”

“Yes.”

Millett narrowed his eyes. “An ex of mine liked to remind me: New York is nearly four hundred years old. That’s a lot of murder.”

9,022 cases, Larkin wanted to correct. He was only concerned with the recorded murders that had gone unsolved. The everyday victims. The ones whose names never made the newsprint. The ones people didn’t want to know about. And that number was 9,022. Their dreams, their fears, first loves and first heartbreaks—everything that had once made them human, all now consolidated into a tidy pile of DD5 forms with the same notation made year after year until the lead Homicide detective officially deemed the case a loser: No progress to report.