Larkin hesitated a fraction of a second, then left the room. He strode quickly through the bullpen, conversations, ringing phones, shuffling paper, all of it falling back, further and further until it registered like static found in between radio stations. Larkin ignored Doyle standing to one side and speaking into the desk phone receiver, and opened the top drawer where he kept his office supplies. He reached for an unassuming 2x3 envelope, the sort used for evidence collection at crime scenes, but also for hiding Xanax from his too-vigilant—partner? friend? romantically interested party? Boyfriend?

The envelope was empty.

Larkin watched Ulmer sit down at his desk with his coffee, meet Larkin’s stare from across the room, and then begin typing on his computer.

Larkin quietly shut the drawer and put his hands on the desktop.

“Grim!” Connor shouted through his open door.

“What.”

“December 27, 2006.”

“Wednesday,” Larkin answered automatically.

“Thank you,” Connor called back.

“Larkin.”

“What.” Larkin looked up.

Doyle had a hand over the speaker of the phone. “The ME has an ID for John Doe.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

John Doe’s identity hadn’t been that of Creepy Dicky.

Dr. Baxter had been insistent on the matter. “I understand that this composite sketch matches the general description I provided, Detective, but do you know how many white males between the ages of fifty and sixty live in Manhattan?”

“The 2016 census estimates that specific demographic to be a population of a little over 170,000.”

“Cool,” Baxter remarked, in a tone that suggested he felt Larkin’s answer held no particular merit to the conversation. “But of those 170,000 old white guys, this isn’t the one you’re hoping for. For starters, he’s not missing an incisor. And secondly, even with the level of decomp we were dealing with, there’d be evidence of a habitual user. I’m telling you—this guy wasn’t homeless, he wasn’t an addict, and he took decent care of himself.”

“My mood has been steadily going downhill this morning,” Larkin warned.

“Yeah? Well, I’m about to turn that frown upside down. Your vic is Alfred Niederman of 189 Elizabeth Street. His prints came back—he did some time in ’84 for abusing a corpse in a funeral home.”

Larkin had glanced up at Doyle at that point, asking warily into the phone, “What exactly did he do to the corpse.”

“He was caught undressing and posing the body.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re welcome,” Baxter had answered in a singsong voice before hanging up.

And that was how Larkin and Doyle found themselves on the corner of Elizabeth and Grand at exactly 11:40 a.m. Larkin slapped his permit on the dash. He’d made a clear “no parking zone” a parking spot, as the streets of Chinatown were much smaller and more heavily congested than what was north of Fourteenth Street, and he wasn’t in the business of circling the neighborhood until a spot opened up.