Connor eased back in his chair. After a pregnant pause, he said, “Last chance.”

Larkin just stared at Connor. Because nothing good ever came from being a tattletale.

A smile slowly spread across Connor’s face. “Tell me what’s happening with that Madison case—the one O’Halloran phoned about this morning.”

So Larkin did. He told Connor about the rudimentary knowledge gleaned from the crime scene. About Ira Doyle’s analysis of the death mask and promise of a skull reconstruction. About the interview with Mable McClennan at Parks & Recreation. About the potential for information in the dated OSHA reports.

Connor grunted. “You need more for a judge.”

“I know.”

“So what’s your next step?”

“Pending, until I get a call from the ME.”

“I assume you’ve got other work that needs attention?”

The question was a setup, but Larkin nonetheless answered truthfully, “Thirty-seven open cases.”

“And which of those thirty-seven were you working on, prior to putting Ulmer in an early grave?”

“I was doing research on death masks.”

Connor straightened. “Is it relevant to the case?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then save that artsy-fartsy crap for—what’d you say his name was? Doyle.”

“Doyle isn’t working this case in an official capacity. I’m not even certain who his supervisor is. I can’t pony off the necessary homework simply because he already has an elementary understanding of the subject matter.”

Connor picked up the receiver of his desk phone. “I know his supervisor.”

“If you’re going to have some kind of, I don’t know, fit….”

“I’d prefer you not do that, sir.”

“You’ve never had a problem asking for help in the past,” Connor answered, holding the hook with an index finger while he removed a directory printout from a desk drawer with his other hand.

“That’s because I don’t need help reading a book.”

“Your time is better used elsewhere. The artist can read up on any relevant information and provide the CliffsNotes edition.” Connor tapped a few numbers on the phone before leaning back to get comfortable for the conversation. “What’s the latest on that Garcia case?” he asked Larkin.

“The mother has refused all attempts I’ve made at communic—”

“Darryl? Hey, it’s Mikey Connor in Cold Cases,” Connor interrupted, speaking into the receiver. “How’s shit down at 1PP?” He glanced at Larkin and motioned to the door.

Larkin stood, walked to the door, and opened it.

“Yeah, hey, hang on one second…. Larkin!”

Larkin turned.

“June 2.”

He let out a small breath. “What year?”

“2005,” Connor said.

“That was a Thursday,” Larkin answered. Then he shut the door.

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX