Millett hummed under his breath for a moment. “New York’s Gilded Age Home of Art and Antiquities.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ira Doyle had been a mystery all this time.

That’s what Larkin thought as he stared at the museum’s business page on Google. New York’s Gilded Age Home of Art and Antiquities, the preserved nineteenth-century home of a well-to-do family, now open for educational tours, had a museum next door that specialized in local history, with a particular emphasis on the Gilded Age. Located on East Fourth, between Lafayette Street and Broadway, the museum was open Tuesday through Sunday, 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Tickets could be purchased for the home, museum, or both—at a discount.

Doyle hadn’t ever mentioned how many years he’d been a police officer, but then again, Larkin had never asked. He had assumed it was a career path Doyle chose relatively soon after grad school, when taking his choice of words into consideration.

Had Larkin been wrong?

Again?

It appeared so.

Larkin picked up the phone, dialed the museum’s number, and listened to it ring three times before a snooty-sounding older man answered. On impulse, Larkin lied. “My name is Everett Larkin. I’m a detective with the NYPD’s Cold Case Squad. I’m doing some research in relation to a case and was told I might be able to speak with someone knowledgeable on postmortem photography.”

The man said, “I do believe this is a first for us, here at the Gilded Age Home. We receive inquiries from all over the country about this and that, but in all my years as museum director, I can’t ever remember the police making inquiries about our exhibits.”

“Yes. Well. And your name is.”

“Marcus Webster, sir.”

“Mr. Webster, is there someone I can speak with.”

“You can speak with me,” Webster retorted in a hoity-toity tone of voice. “Although….” He faltered a moment. “I will admit, my knowledge is a bit on the general side. Damn. Of all times for such an inquiry….”

“Meaning,” Larkin asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Webster said automatically, but like someone who was going to explain exactly what they meant, regardless. “It’s only, we had a curator who was fabulous, absolutely fabulous, with regard to some of the more, how shall I say this… taboo subjects in history. I’d suggest you speak with him, to be quite honest. But he’s no longer with us at the museum.”

“Does he have a name.”

Webster laughed condescendingly. “Yes.”

“I’m working a homicide, Mr. Webster,” Larkin reminded. “My time and patience are both limited.”

“Er, well, I don’t have his contact information.”

“I’m certain I can find it.”