Emotion was present in a situation Larkin had expected it to be devoid.

And he’d caught it.

“Do you know Alfred Niederman.”

Hernandez wiped his mouth and shook his head. “No. I—I don’t know the name.”

“Mr. Hernandez,” Larkin said, “Marco Garcia has never gotten justice. Jay Gibson has never gotten justice. Six more victims, and these consist only of those whose photographic evidence we’ve obtained, have never gotten justice. Do not lie to me. Not now. Not about this.”

“I’m not lying,” Hernandez protested. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a kitchen to run and people to take care of. If you’re trying to find out what happened to that Niederman guy, look at Dicky.” He pushed between Larkin and Doyle and started for the door.

Larkin turned. “Who said anything about Niederman being dead.”

Hernandez stopped, looking over his shoulder. “I assumed. You were asking about Dicky’s whereabouts and you’re trying to solve old murders.”

“I don’t believe you,” Larkin said simply.

“That’s on you, Detective. If you want anything else from me, you’ll need a warrant, and I’ll be asking for a lawyer.” Hernandez stepped through the kitchen door, and it banged shut behind him.

A warm breeze picked up, scattering loose white petals into the manicured lawn.

“He’s lying,” Larkin said.

“Yeah,” Doyle answered.

“He was smoking in the janitor’s closet,” Larkin continued. “Logically, the windbreaker belonged to the janitor.”

“Archie Bunker worked at the YEC the same time as Marco,” Doyle said, picking up the train of thought. “Archie is Niederman.”

“And Niederman worked for a custodial service,” Larkin concluded. “Goddamn it. There’s my proof he murdered Marco. After his students had boarded the downtown Q on the evening of May 19, Marco confronted Niederman about the death portrait of Jay Gibson. The one witness on the platform said Marco had been arguing with a man in a ‘utility uniform.’” Larkin spread his arms out to either side. “Coveralls. I’ll bet Niederman’s uniform used to be coveralls back then.”

Doyle was still staring at the kitchen door. He bit on his thumbnail, chewed it for three, five, seven seconds, then said, “You think Hernandez killed Niederman? Some sort of revenge for what happened to his best friend twenty-three years ago?”

“The business card in Niederman’s pocket puts him in Hernandez’s direct orbit.”

Doyle retrieved his cell and scrolled through recent calls. “I’ll ask Niederman’s manager if she can confirm over the phone his employment at the Center in ’97.” He put the phone to his ear.