The man she’d called Creepy Dicky appeared to be in his fifties, but looked exceptionally rough around the edges, like life had not been kind. He was white, with a large, sort of bulbous nose and gaunt face, a pinched expression around his eyes, with skin tags near his right eye, under his right ear, and down along the side of his neck. His hair was unkempt and sparse along the front, and Doyle had drawn his mouth partially open to reveal a missing incisor.

“I scanned and emailed you a copy last night, before I came home,” Doyle said, glancing up at Larkin.

“Thank you,” Larkin murmured, still staring at the drawing. “On the surface, he appears to match John Doe’s characteristics.”

“Did the ME mention John Doe having any drugs in his system? Megan was pretty insistent he was a habitual user, and Reynold claimed he was a heroin addict, right?”

“ME would have to run a test on hair follicles,” Larkin answered. “He was found long after the window in which heroin would be detectable in urine or blood. But I’ll call the OCME.” He took out his phone, opened his calendar, and created a new list of to-dos for the case. “I’ll check on the fingerprint status too. We only have a partial name and alias, but that’s better than nothing. If he’s got a long history of homelessness and drug use, someone on the force knows him.”

“Someone at the MTA might too,” Doyle pointed out. “Especially if he lives in the tunnels like the alleged kids at Fifty-Seventh.”

Larkin nodded, still typing. “We’ll be sure to ask Ms. Crowley and Mr. Armstrong at our appointment later today.”

Doyle slid his index finger underneath the hair tie on Larkin’s left wrist, not giving it a tug, but instead rubbing the pulse point.

Larkin glanced up from his phone screen.

A knock sounded from the partially opened door.

Doyle pulled his hand free and looked around Larkin. “Morning, Craig,” he said as Senior Artist Bailey poked his head in.

Bailey hadn’t changed from the last time Larkin had seen him in March. He was still thin, sporting that Tom Selleck mustache, wearing trousers that fit him like they’d been bought off the discount rack, and a tie more suitable for a school teacher than a detective—but Larkin decided, because Bailey was Doyle’s immediate supervisor, he wouldn’t say anything about the silliness of the Rubik’s Cube pattern.

“Doyle, I’m so glad you’re in. Larkin, it’s been a minute!”

“Fifty-two days.”

“I’m glad one of us is watching the calendar for more than just retirement,” Bailey said.

“I have a minimum of twelve more years before retirement is even a consideration,” Larkin answered. “Besides, to view my career as a means to a cushy end would be counterproductive and an insult to taxpayers.”