Coming to the corner of West Fifty-Seventh and Sixth Avenue, Larkin shot across the sidewalk as the blinking red hand turned solid. He skirted around a bicycle coming up the bike lane, and at the last second, dodged left to avoid a mommy jogger and her double-wide stroller, instead hurtling the ledger bar of the scaffolding that covered the block. Larkin rushed down the stairs of the subway station as a mass of bodies was exiting. He barked NYPD at the assholes trying to come up on his right, forcing them back into the throng of people.

Larkin burst into the station proper, taking a deep breath as he surveyed the redesign he’d visited two days ago and reorienting himself. Larkin had actively avoided riding the subway since college—his HSAM being so sensitive to sound associations and stimulation overloads—and he could think of literally no greater Hell on Earth than being stuck in a packed car during rush hour, idling in the tunnel because of train traffic, the swell of bodies pressing in on him, the hum of the AC, the pop, pop, pop of chewing gum, bells and chimes of Candy Crush being played at full volume, a baby kicking and screaming in their stroller, fresh-from-college finance bros discussing the faults of the working class and whether Tom was going to bring coke to the party tonight in the same breath of conversation, and then the doors between cars opening and a dance team comes in with their speaker at full volume, screaming, “Do you know what time it is?” Larkin shuddered. Yes, he was a New Yorker who had to read the subway signs, seeming to lack that intuitive knowledge about the system that most riders possessed, but it was better than the alternative.

Doyle came to a stop at his side. He asked, only slightly out of breath in the way of a runner with exceptional stamina, “Which side was Marco on?”

“Uptown. The north end.”

“We need to get them to hold the trains.”

Doyle left Larkin, approaching the bullet-proof ticket booth, where the attendee inside was chatting through her microphone to a track employee—a young black man in steel-toed boots, jeans, a long-sleeve shirt and reflective safety vest, with a hard hat tucked under one arm and a utility belt with a radio strapped around his waist. Doyle butted into their conversation by flashing his badge, and something he said sparked recognition in the track worker’s face, who offered a hand and appeared to be introducing himself.

The two returned to Larkin’s side, with Doyle saying, “Larkin, this is Demetrius Armstrong. He reported the DB on Tuesday.”

“Mr. Armstrong,” Larkin said, quickly shaking his hand. “Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.”

“Yeah, hey,” Armstrong replied. He had a light-up-the-room smile like Doyle. “You guys are a little early. My boss isn’t going to be here for about another hour, and I was about to clock-out for lunch—”