Ricky turned without a word, squeezed between the two detectives, his belly rubbing Larkin’s front in a way that felt entirely indecent, and started down the stairs. He stopped once, looked back at the second-floor landing, then disappeared from view.

“Sorry,” Jessica said over the barking of her dog trying to sneak out of the apartment. “Ricky’s kind of off, but he’s harmless. What’s this about?” Something in her tone suggested to Larkin that she already knew.

He said, “I understand it’s been a long time, and this might not be a subject you wish to revisit, but we’d like to speak with you about Andrew Gorman.”

Jessica licked her lips. Whether or not she actually smoked—Larkin didn’t believe she did—she looked like she needed a cigarette right then. “Yes. God. Finally. Come in.” She opened the door wide, scooped up a black-and-white papillon, and ushered them inside.

Around a sharp corner, the single-file hall opened onto a surprisingly spacious kitchen, big enough for a table to fit three—four if it was pulled away from the wall. The counter, which looked like Jessica’s dump-and-forget spot for junk mail, grocery store receipts, empty Starbucks cups, and a myriad of other typical household items that made Larkin’s skin crawl was also a full six inches wider than his own kitchen counter, and underneath his sensory tick was a touch of jealousy. An open door to the right had sunlight spilling in through two big windows. Inside was an unmade bed, a television mounted to the wall, a diminutive couch, and messy stacks of books and tchotchkes on an unappealing shelf that listed to one side. The bedroom doubled as the living room, it seemed. The open door beside the kitchen table looked into an equally messy, albeit impressive, home office setup.

Jessica shut the front door, twisted the knob lock, turned the deadbolt, slid the chain lock.

The patter of tiny doggy feet echoed on the tile floor, and then the papillon came skidding around the corner, barking and spinning in circles.

“PomPom doesn’t bite,” Jessica called before her slippered feet shuffled after the dog and she entered the now-crowded kitchen. “You can pet him.”

Doyle crouched and did just that, becoming PomPom’s best friend in about three and a half seconds.

Jessica fussed with her hair, but it was still a mess when she finished. “Sorry, I’m not really dressed for company.”

“That’s all right, Ms. Lopez,” Larkin answered.

“Jessica is fine,” she corrected. “I work from home. I only wear a bra when I need to go to the store.” She pointed to the table. “Larkin, was it? Sit down. Either of you hungry?”

“No, ma’am,” Larkin said, taking a seat.

“Thirsty?”

“No,” he repeated.

“I’m thirsty,” she stated. “What time is it?”

Larkin pulled back his right sleeve to check his watch. “11:12.”