When Larkin reached the landing, the lemon—possibly orange—cleaner had mingled with fresh toner and coffee that’d been on the warming plate until it overcooked, concocting a stink that he hadn’t been subjected to in forty-nine days and so would have to acclimate to all over again. Larkin walked past his desk, noted the cup of pens and Lisa Frank pencils on its spartan top was lacking its usual quantity, and frowned when he counted several pens of his preferred brand on Baker’s warzone of a desk. Two were missing the caps.

Larkin continued to Lieutenant Connor’s open office door. It was 7:27 p.m. and the imposing Irishman was in the midst of pulling his suit coat on when Larkin knocked on the doorframe. “Sir.”

Connor turned, and a smile cut across his freckled face. “Grim!” he greeted him with that usual, booming voice. “Welcome back.”

“I need to speak with you.”

Connor nodded as he fixed his coat collar. “Sit down.”

Larkin took a seat in front of the desk, crossed his legs, and opened his mouth to speak as he raised the evidence bag to eye level.

But Connor asked first, “How’s the arm?” He sat and leaned back in the computer chair until it creaked ominously.

“Fine.”

“Been doing your PT?”

Larkin’s hold on the bag faltered as he answered, “I have stress balls in three different colors, resistance bands, and am particularly adept at the wall push-up now.”

“You’re a bad patient, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a good one,” Larkin qualified.

A laugh rumbled from deep within Connor’s chest. “I bet your husband is happy to get you out from underfoot, though.”

“I’m in the middle of a divorce.”

Connor sat up at the comment, his chair screeching again.

Larkin raised the evidence bag a second time and cut off whatever comment Connor was waffling over, because he didn’t want pity, he didn’t want sympathy, he didn’t want to think of Noah, and because refusing to be wholly present to a conversation was what protected Larkin from associations. “CSU found this photograph in John Doe’s pocket.” He leveled Connor with what he thought of as his “professional expression,” although Larkin had been told that particular look was about as monotone in facial grammar as his speech tended to be, and only one step above the manner in which he scrutinized witnesses and analyzed suspects.