Upstairs, Larkin followed winding halls lit with the same fluorescent overheads as his own precinct. The punch-out-style windows appeared to be relegated to inner offices for the most part. The air smelled like toner, like carpet cleaner, like the ever-present hours-old coffee that was the base note of most colognes and perfumes for police officers. A closed door on the west end of the floor had the nameplate Ira Doyle, Forensic Artists Unit, and Larkin stopped outside it. He could hear murmured voices inside, but wasn’t able to decipher individual words. Then he picked up the hesitant laugh of a child, Doyle’s patent smoky response, and the laughter grew more confident—if only briefly—reminiscent of the innocence lost.

He was still with the child victims. Had been all afternoon, in fact.

Larkin turned, backtracked to another office, and knocked on the partially open door. He poked his head in as a middle-aged man glanced up from a computer screen. He was skinny—not Larkin-skinny, who was toned because every effort was made to hit the gym several times a week, if for nothing else but the peace and quiet that accompanied cardio workouts—but skinny in the sense that this man hadn’t much cared for his physique beyond being able to pass departmental endurance requirements. He had a Tom Selleck Chevron mustache, which, when paired with a tie covered in colorful macarons, gave him nerdy homeroom teacher vibes and not that of a forensic artist.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a deep, pleasant voice that absolutely did not fit the aesthetic of someone who would write you up for being late to class.

Larkin pushed the door open the rest of the way. “My apologies for the intrusion. My name’s Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.”

A knowing smile broke out across the artist’s face. “You must be lead detective on that case Doyle was called to this morning.”

“That’s correct.”

“Craig Bailey,” he said, standing and leaning over his desk to offer a hand. “Senior Artist.”

Larkin stepped forward, shook, then raised his box in both hands. “I was dropping off a skull cast for Doyle. He was going to be assisting with a facial reconstruction of my John Doe.”

“Yeah, I heard all about that. I got the rundown on his new assignment from our lieutenant this afternoon,” Bailey answered as he took a seat again. “Starts tomorrow, though. He’s doing composite sketches with SVU right now, and I’m not going to interrupt—”

“I’m not asking you to.”

Bailey pursed his lips a bit, and his bushy mustache moved like a caterpillar. “I’ll see he gets the package, then.”

Larkin moved deeper into the office and handed over the box. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” Bailey drummed his fingertips against the lid.