“Yes. She passed one week after Matthew had been charged, posthumously. The point of this story,” Larkin said in conclusion, “is that sometimes I get very lucky. Not usually. But sometimes there’s a memento mori beyond a case number, and I’m not the only one mourning.”

Andrew Gorman had shared an apartment with Jessica Lopez in Alphabet City—East Sixth, between Avenues C and D. It was a neighborhood that’d lived through a lot of drugs, a lot of murder, a lot of crime. The façades of walk-ups lining either side of East Sixth looked tired in a way that only brick and mortar could: awnings of ground-floor businesses were discolored from the sun; exterior stonework around apartment windows dirty from maybe mold, maybe soot, or maybe just a long and hard life; oxidized fire escapes; and one front door had recently been tagged with the declaration that John smokes cock.

Despite the wear and tear of the past, Alphabet City was alive and thriving. An elementary school on the block was clean and bright, the trees old but greenery well underway with the return of spring. A young couple was unloading a moving van double-parked with its hazards on, and folks of all ages walked up and down the sidewalks, going about their Tuesday morning.

Larkin parked in front of a church, denomination unknown, and turned off the engine. He watched a six-story walk-up on the north side of the street, and when a man in jeans and a sweatshirt stepped out of the front entrance, Larkin opened the driver side door and climbed out. He heard Doyle follow, and by the time Larkin had reached the other side of the street, Doyle was at his side, the strap of his black portfolio bag slung across his chest.

“Excuse me,” Larkin called to the man, now busily tugging full trash bags from the building’s bins and knotting them closed. Larkin removed his badge and flashed it. “My name is Everett Larkin, and I’m a detective with the Cold Case Squad. Do you have a moment to speak.”

The man had a face and hands that’d been weathered and worked hard. He was big, but not gym big or overweight big—there was just a lot of him. He moved like he was middle-aged, despite looking older, and smelled like sweat and pot. The man glanced up from the trash and flashed a pair of dark, dead eyes. “Yeah?” He drew the word out oddly before offering a crooked smile.

“Do you live here.” Larkin jutted a thumb at the door.

“I’m the super,” he said by way of an answer.

“For how long.”

Super hummed, staring straight at Larkin. He hadn’t blinked. “A long time,” he finally said.

Larkin tucked his badge away. “How well do you know your tenants.”