Webster made a sort of harumph sound, then said, “Mr. Ira Doyle. That’s I-R-A. Like I said, he did remarkable work over the years. Some of our most visited exhibits: Homosexuality in Gilded Age New York, Victorian sex and pornography—that was a very popular ticket as you might well imagine—and nineteenth-century death culture, which is why his name immediately sprang to mind.” Webster sighed before adding, with what sounded to be authenticity, “We do miss him.”

Before Larkin could even feel the question out, consider whether he wanted to know, should know, he asked, “Why is Mr. Doyle no longer an employee.”

“Ah… he had a death in the family. The rest is… personal, I’m afraid.”

“But you didn’t hire him back.”

“Pardon?”

Larkin’s grip on the receiver tightened. He said in a clipped tone, “Mr. Doyle experienced a tragedy that is simply unfathomable to most in today’s society, and your response to his needing time to cope with loss and subsequent grief was to fire him.”

Webster blustered, “E-excuse me, sir, but we did not fire Mr. Doyle.”

“No. Perhaps it all came down to your unwillingness to provide a paid leave of absence. Is that it. Maybe you firmly suggested he resign so that you might save face. You would not speak of your most skilled curator in the past tense otherwise.” Larkin could feel his anger growing, unfurling, blossoming. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Webster.” He slammed the phone down, turned away from his desktop in the computer chair, and leaned over on his knees. Larkin closed his eyes, pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, and allowed himself to release pent-up rage through chest-heaving breaths.

They had told Larkin to shut up because people didn’t want to know.

But Doyle?

They hadn’t ever even listened to begin with.

“Larkin?”

Larkin raised his head and spun around. Doyle stood at the second-floor landing, the strap of his portfolio bag across his chest, a hesitant smile on his face. Larkin got to his feet, collected his suit coat from the back of his chair, and said, his voice almost steady, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

It was 10:14 a.m. and Larkin sat in a café named Coffee two blocks from his precinct. Technically, the business’s official name was Sue’s Coffee, but the “Sue” portion of the sign had apparently been damaged by scaffolding and the owner never replaced it, leading to the neighborhood’s gentle shift from “Want to go to Sue’s?” to “Want to go to Coffee?” over the decade that followed.