Larkin shivered and said into the recorded silence, “I hope you’ll be available for an additional moment once I get there so that I might… apologize for my tone with you earlier. It was unprofessional of me. That’s it. Okay. Goodbye.”

Then he hung up.

One Police Plaza, an ugly-as-fuck love song to Brutalism architecture, had replaced the former headquarters of the NYPD—a gorgeous Renaissance Revival structure from the turn of the century—in the ’70s, a decade where everything once beautiful was left to die. The monochromatic, minimalist structure of thirteen stories sat wedged between Park Row and Pearl Street on the lower end of the island—a turd that the entire neighborhood complained about as if it were an Olympic sport.

The reception area, which Larkin estimated his entire bullpen could have fit into, breakroom included, was bustling with the administrative sort whose careers resembled something closer to the mundane nine-to-five. And seeing that it was—he checked his watch—5:20, they were itching to complete their final task before clocking out for the day. Uniformed cops moved at the pace of those in the midst of the swing shift with several hours to go, and detectives acted like they never got home before midnight anyway, so what was the point in rushing? The ground floor echoed with ringing phones, dinging elevators, doors slamming, toilets flushing, a dozen competing conversations.

Larkin hated it.

Standing near the elevators and doing his best to ignore the shuffle of people coming and going at a consistent rate, Larkin studied the directory bulletin on the wall. He narrowed his eyes, read it a second time, then went to the front desk.

“Your directory doesn’t state which floor the Forensic Artists Unit is located on.”

A uniformed man set a desk phone down and flashed Larkin an irritated look. “What’s that?”

“Forensic Artists Unit.”

“Fifth floor.”

“It should be on the directory.”

“Yeah, well, there’s only three of them.”

“So.”

The officer furrowed his bushy brows. “So there probably wasn’t enough vowels to list a three-man unit, buddy.”

“Those letters are packaged with three or four times the number of vowels to consonants, so it is extremely unlikely they ran out of ‘i’s. I’d like to leave feedback about the directory. Do you have comment cards.”

“Are you serious?”

“If 1PP did, in fact, run short of plastic letters, a replacement package would cost twenty dollars. The NYPD has an annual budget of five billion,” Larkin explained. “This way, myself and others won’t need to interact with you again for simple directions.”

“Hey—”

And in what was most definitely a power move akin to whipping out his dick and measuring it, Larkin said, “In the future, please refrain from calling me or any other plainclothes officer buddy. I’m a first-grade detective.” He returned to the elevator banks as one of the car doors opened, slipped inside, and pressed the fifth floor.