Lieutenant Connor’s door was closed—indicative of an in-progress meeting or subject-sensitive phone call, as he otherwise kept it open to keep an eye and ear on all the proceedings of his squad. Aiko Miyamoto sat at her desk across the bullpen, spinning back and forth in her chair while tossing a stress ball in the air and catching it as she spoke on the phone. Byron Ulmer was in the midst of ushering a middle-aged white woman into one of the interview rooms. She had short hair, upturned in the back and spiky from excessive hairspray no doubt, and she carried a massive purple purse on one shoulder that she kept adjusting. Her perfume was so persistent that Larkin could still smell it in her wake—cheap roses and baby powder.

Larkin began working: an email to the medical examiner, followed by a phone call with one of the former officers of the defunct New York Youth Empowerment Center, who claimed to not remember a part-time student mentor from twenty-three years ago, and my gosh, the boy was murdered? She had absolutely no recollection of this, and of course her thoughts and prayers were with the boy’s family. Yes, of course, she’d be happy to give Larkin the telephone numbers of the other officers, although she doubted any of them would remember a Marco Garcia either, since their job did not often cross paths with those actually working inside the YEC. No, of course, they hadn’t kept records about the students who attended the YEC—it would have been a breach of the trust they were building with street kids. And of course she wanted to assist the police in their investigation of these terrible tragedies, but for legal purposes, would absolutely require a warrant before dredging up employment records of former mentors.

“I have one more question,” Larkin said.

“Yes, of course.”

Larkin swore he could feel a new headache beginning to throb behind his left eye. “Can you recall—officer, mentor, anyone working under contract—who might have used the nickname Archie.”

“I can’t say I do.”

“A second question, then. Anyone who was fired for misconduct.”

“Oh my gosh, no.”

Tapping his pen against the desktop in annoyance, Larkin said, “All right. Thank you for your time.”

“Of course, Detective.”