Third: The letter had come with an MTA token—the solid quarter-size used throughout the eighties with the iconic Y logo, although lacking its predecessor’s cut-out shape. It’d been issued in 1980 when the fare was sixty cents a ride and had lived through two additional price hikes before the style had been discontinued in 1986.

Fourth: This individual had wanted Larkin’s attention. And now here he was, investigating a curious murder in the depths of the subway system, with his literal name on the only discernable piece of evidence.

Larkin frowned.

Once is chance. Twice is coincidence.

“Evie.”

Larkin startled and looked up. Doyle was staring at him. “Hmm?”

Doyle smiled as he repeated, “I asked if you were solving the case without me.”

“No. Just thinking.”

Doyle didn’t know about the April Fools’ letter.

Larkin studied Doyle as he carefully removed the stained and damaged photo from the evidence bag, set it in the first pan of water, and began to scrape away human fluids with one of the brushes that’d been laid out on the table. Doyle’s actions were attentive, purposeful, gentle.

—Blunt fingertips trailing up every link of Larkin’s spine, engrossed in the story of skin and bone, the caress so tender, so heartfelt, Larkin could identify Doyle by the lines and ridges of his fingerprints alone.—

“You look nice,” Doyle stated into the quiet. He hadn’t glanced up as he transferred the photo to the second bath and rinsed it.

“Yes, thank you. I showered today.”

Doyle’s sunshiny smile was back and he chuckled under his breath. “Gold compliments you.” He set the photograph on a paper towel and began to blot it dry. “It brings out your eyes.”

“You’ve used this line on me before.”

“Were you wearing a gold pocket square at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s why.” Doyle picked up the photo by its edges, studied the image briefly, then said, “That residue came off easier than I expected.” He turned it around before adding, “I don’t want to use emulsion cleaner too and risk damage to this writing.” Setting the photo facedown on a fresh towel, Doyle continued. “I can tell you right off the bat that this print is… maybe thirty… thirty-five years old.”

Larkin moved forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Doyle. “How can you tell.”