“The only online presence for an Alfred Niederman that I can find is an obit for a ninety-four-year-old in Colorado,” Doyle began, shutting the passenger door and following Larkin to the sidewalk, all while still scrolling on his phone. “There’s also an HVAC repair company owned and operated by an Alfonso Niederman in Jersey City, and a single Facebook profile under that name, but no photos or family details. He began studying photography at Parsons School of Design in 1983 and is a fan of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. No posting history.”

“Photography,” Larkin echoed, hands in his pockets as he skirted an overflowing trash can on the corner. Someone had piled household garbage beside it: a CD/cassette boombox missing one detachable speaker, the brush nozzle attachment to a handheld vacuum, and a window AC unit with a note taped to it: I’m fucked, don’t take me home. “I do not make assumptions, nor jump to conclusions that are unfounded, but what the hell.”

“And you know what else,” Doyle began, “Niederman working even a brief stint at a funeral parlor could have been enough to obtain some of the education shown in the postmortem photographs. A good mortician knows their mourning history.”

“So he went from posing bodies for wakes to posing bodies for pornography. Fantastic.”

“Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three time’s a pattern,” Doyle answered.

Larkin glanced up. “It’s funny. Sometimes I think you read my mind.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? I’ll bet it’s full of daydreams not suitable for all ages. Me, naked, with a pocket square on my crotch—for propriety’s sake—lying on a bed of DD5 forms with a sultry, come-hither expression.”

Larkin stopped walking.

Doyle stopped too and turned to look back.

“Have you worn my pocket squares on your crotch. Because these are silk.” Larkin put a hand to his breast pocket in emphasis.

“No,” Doyle said, a mischievous smile growing to encompass his entire face. “But now you can’t stop thinking about it, can you?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Evie, you don’t know the half of it.”

Larkin was absolutely not blushing as he bullied past Doyle and took point once again. They crossed the street, passing lost tourists traveling in packs three across, produce vendors lined along the sidewalks with handwritten signs in Chinese and piles of fresh lychee, dragon fruit, cherries, apples, and longan set out on makeshift tables, and one poor bastard fighting to get the only available Citi Bike, clearly stuck, released from the dock. They walked by a tea museum, two local pharmacies, a bakery, and one hole-in-the-wall shop still selling knickknacks from Chinese New Year, before coming to a stop outside the unassuming front door of 189.