Connor held up a big freckled hand. “I know you’re working when you’re not at your desk. This isn’t about that.”

Larkin crossed his legs and set his hands in his lap. “Okay.”

Connor picked up a piece of paper from his desk and passed it over. “This fax came in shortly before you did.”

Larkin accepted and studied the handwritten facsimile: UMOS sexual misconduct. Everett Larkin, 19th Precinct. Ira Doyle, 1PP.

That was it. No information as to its origin, as was the relative anonymity of faxes, and it wasn’t addressed to anyone specific, nor had it been signed by the sender.

“What’s this about, Grim?” Connor asked, his tone unusually subdued.

Larkin frowned slightly and shook his head. He was still studying the handwriting. “I’m not certain.”

“Are you and da Vinci knocking boots or what?”

Larkin glanced up, raising one eyebrow. “No, we are not.”

Connor waited.

“Detective Doyle and myself are… testing the waters, romantically, but this is an extremely new development. One I don’t believe anyone could have proper notice of, which makes this fax hearsay and an obvious attempt at defamation of character. I like to entertain the notion that you know me well enough to believe I would never engage in inappropriate behavior such as this.”

Connor leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy breath, like he’d been holding it. “I do know you well enough.”

“The facts are,” Larkin continued, “Detective Doyle and I do not have a supervisor-and-subordinate relationship on the force, which makes our decision to date within regulations.”

“You’re the first grade detective, not him,” Connor pointed out.

“That might be true, but I’m still not his commanding officer. We don’t work in the same squads, or even the same precincts. He’s flown uptown due to the special circumstances regarding my caseload and that’s all.”

Connor chewed on his thumbnail a moment before pointing to the memo. “Who’d be responsible for sending that?”

“I couldn’t say without fear of false accusations.”

“Grim.”

“I don’t know,” Larkin repeated, a bit firmer. He looked at the paper once again. “UMOS—uniformed members of service—that’s not an acronym well-known outside of the NYPD.”

“You piss off another cop recently?”

“It’s never my intention, but entirely within the realm of possibilities.” Larkin studied the slant, the distinct tremor especially visible in the lowercase e’s and promptly stood from his chair. “I know this handwriting.”

“What’s—Grim, get your ass back in here!”