“It’s the most logical theory,” Larkin said, watching curiously.

Doyle removed a brown wig—nothing particularly high in quality, but Larkin could only imagine the hoops he’d jumped through to get departmental approval on such a purchase to start with. “Two abominations came out of that decade: frosted tips and middle parts.” Doyle moved around Larkin and took a moment to wiggle the wig into place on the bust. He combed the synthetic hair with his fingers. “But I don’t think John Doe was in a boy band. We’ll go with the Leo DiCaprio look.”

Larkin grunted.

“Not a Leo fan?”

“I was a gay preteen in the ’90s. What do you think.”

Doyle’s smile lit up the room. “Titanic.”

“Romeo + Juliet.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Baz Luhrmann is far more innovative than James Cameron,” Larkin replied. “Luhrmann’s utilization of exaggerated and evocative visuals—”

“I meant the romantic tragedy.”

“Romeo and Juliet is strictly a tragedy. The romance is merely the vehicle that drives the hero, and most of the cast, quite frankly, to the required death at the play’s conclusion. Besides, they were two idiotic teenagers—children, really—and Romeo mistook a boner for love at first sight.”

“Is this the sweet talk that landed you your blond bombshell?”

Larkin pushed his suit coat back and settled his hands on his hips. “I think it was my badge, actually.”

“Authority is hot.”

Larkin raised his eyes.

Doyle adjusted the wig a moment more, then picked up a rag that looked vaguely like terry cloth and began to press it lightly against the bust’s face in various places.

“What’re you doing,” Larkin asked.

“Skin isn’t smooth,” Doyle explained. “We have pores, fine hairs—deerskin on clay leaves a more realistic surface. It cuts down on the artificial aspect and adds an element of life.” He set the skin down. “Facial hair was pretty low-key in the ’90s, short of Kurt Cobain or Bob Vila, so I’m leaving him clean. He was in his early twenties and still had a bit of a baby face.” Doyle glanced down at Larkin. “If he did have something, it probably wasn’t much. Certainly not enough to make a difference in being recognized.”

“You’re very good at this.” Larkin frowned, rewound, tried again. “That is, utilizing facts and statistics to construct something reasonable out of inherent chaos.” He motioned to the bust while adding, “And art. You’re a good artist. Very good.”

“God, I might be a little in love with you.”

“I’d rather you weren’t.”

“It’s too late,” Doyle said with the ease and casualness of a man long-practiced at this sort of interplay. He undid the tie of his apron and removed it. “You’re incredible at dirty talk—”

“Eye color probabilities isn’t bedroom—” Larkin tried to correct.

“And you offer such passionate accolades,” Doyle continued without missing a beat.

Larkin blinked. “I was merely stating an obvious—”