Super finally, methodically, lowered his gaze to the bag before him. He finished knotting it, dragged it to the curb, then returned, saying, “I fix all sorts of things for them.”

Doyle asked, “Have any of the tenants lived here since the mid-1990s?”

“Ms. Lopez.”

“Is that Jessica Lopez,” Larkin asked, for clarification.

“That’s right,” Super drew out again in that strange, almost singsong sort of speech.

“Which apartment is she.”

Super directed his dead stare back at Larkin. “It’s about the body in the park?”

“Why would you ask that,” Larkin asked.

Super slowly reached into the pocket of his ratty jeans. He retrieved a newspaper clipping folded over about half a dozen times, spent several excruciatingly long seconds opening the article, then held it up for the two detectives. He read the memorized title aloud: “Cold Case Squad investigates found body in Midtown. Fear City is back!”

Larkin said nothing as Super methodically folded the clipping back up. He was well aware that both sides of the law had a tendency for attracting a cast of characters that touched on the entire gamut of humanity, but crime groupies made his skin crawl. There was no other way to put it. He felt gross.

Doyle came to the rescue. “Is Ms. Lopez home?”

“She’s always home.” Super tottered toward the walk-up, ushering them to follow. He unlocked the front door, then the vestibule door, and led the way up the first set of stairs. Super stopped outside of 2C and knocked like he meant “Shave and a Haircut” but missed a beat. “Ms. Lopez?” he drew out. “It’s Ricky.”

A dog—a small dog—started yipping and yapping as movement drew closer to the door. A chain lock was undone with a shiiick, a deadbolt twisted, the knob lock clicked. Jessica Lopez was middle-aged, dyed-blonde hair pulled up into one of those “I woke up like this” style buns, showing where her roots needed touch-ups. And maybe she had just woken up, because she wore pink zebra-striped pajama pants, a tank top, and an oversized, unbuttoned flannel shirt.

She looked at Ricky. She looked at Larkin and Doyle standing behind the super. Her eyes were sharp—someone born and raised in New York, someone who’d seen enough shit for a few lifetimes. “Ricky, why’ve you brought cops to my door?”

Larkin raised his identification and spoke before Ricky had the chance to creep him out a second time. “Ms. Lopez, I’m Everett Larkin. I’m a detective with the Cold Case Squad. This is my partner, Ira Doyle.”

That sharp edge in her eyes softened suddenly, like a knife dulled from years of use and abandoned to the back of a kitchen drawer. She said to Ricky, “Thanks. You can go—it’s fine.”