“Why.” Larkin’s questions were rarely, if ever, delivered with the necessary inflection found in English. He knew it bothered people—bothered Noah—but to control it required a more conscious effort at slowing the perpetual spinning of his Rolodex brain. It required him to be wholly present to current conversations and events, and that came with a host of problems Larkin worked to actively avoid. So the end result was a deadened and uninterested tone taken with most people, even if Larkin didn’t mean to come across as such.

“Because art is his forte,” Millett was saying, pointing at the bag, “and, I wish this wasn’t something I knew, but that is a death mask.”

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Larkin sat in his sedan on the corner of Twenty-Third and Madison, his left foot still wet, windshield wipers set to high, and an outgoing call ringing in his ear. Thunder crashed overhead, and Larkin squeezed his eyes shut. A shudder coursed through his body and he gripped the steering wheel with one hand, so tight that the material audibly protested. As the thunder’s rumble dragged on like some ancient God had awoken from slumber and was now starving for sacrifices, Larkin focused his hearing on the wipers, breathing on their beats.

Gerr-zzk, gerr-zzk, gerr-zzk.

“This is Mable. Hello? Hello?”

Larkin jerked to attention and said into his cell, “Ms. McClennan, my name is Everett Larkin. I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Cold Case Squad.”

“I’m about to run into a meeting.”

“I’m calling specifically—”

“Shit. About the body in the box over at Madison?”

“That’s correct. I’d like to schedule a time to meet with you.”

“Detective, my inbox is blowing up, my phone won’t stop ringing. I don’t know how the body ended up buried in the park, and frankly, it’s not my job to figure it out—it’s yours,” Mable explained in a gravelly, smoker’s voice. “That’s why you folks get the big bucks from the city, anyway. I’m in full damage control right now, and I don’t have time to say ‘I don’t know’ six ways to Sunday.”

Larkin said coolly, as if he’d not been snapped at by an administrator clearly jonesing for a nicotine break, “I have a few questions about the crabapple tree that was uprooted.”

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “Fine. Eleven.”