Connor was nodding in that way people did when they’d already come to a decision and were simply listening for their chance to speak. “I want you to take lead on the subway slaying. If it’s related to the April Fools’ letter, you’ve got a better chance of cracking it before those boys in the Bronx can even find the case number in their stacks. One of their own be damned—they’re up to their nuts in robberies and felony assaults, and that letter didn’t have a suggestion of violence against you that’d otherwise make it a priority.”

“The Theater District’s crime rate is worse than any neighborhood in the Bronx.”

“Tourists are dumbasses, Grim. Don’t use technicalities with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If the events are unrelated, okay, but you’ll satisfy both our curiosities as to why this”—he raised the photo in its plastic sleeve again—“has your name on it. Now, bring me up to speed.”

“The victim was an adult male, badly decomposed from heat and humidity. No wallet or ID, but there was a partially destroyed business card for St. Jude’s Mission on his person—I’ll speak with them once the ME has completed an autopsy—and of course, that photo was in his pocket.”

“Was it cleaned up?”

“Yes. By Detective Doyle of the Forensic Artists Unit. He’s logged the procedure.”

“Who? Oh right. Jackson Pollock at 1PP.”

Larkin frowned but said, “Doyle works primarily in illustration, but he’s a very competent visual artist and is knowledgeable on painting, sculpture, and photography. Based on the brand of photo paper and the printed code on the back, he estimates this picture was taken between 1985 and 1990. Her clothing would suggest Doyle’s evaluation to be accurate.” Larkin planted both feet on the floor before leaning forward to tap the evidence. “She’s also dead.”

Connor blinked owlishly. He looked at the photograph. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Low and gravelly, Connor murmured, “It’s Inception, but with death instead of dreams….” He raised his head and stared at Larkin. “What train was this off of? The Q?”

“The F,” Larkin corrected. “Fifty-Seventh—” He stopped abruptly, pushed to his feet, and left the office without further word.

“Grim?” Connor called after him.

Larkin removed a ring of keys from his pocket as he approached his desk. He chose a small office key, stuck it in the lock on the second drawer, then jerked it open. Larkin was poring over the precisely aligned and organized accordion files of his active cases when slow, heavy steps on the stairs to his right indicated that Detective Jim Porter was pulling a late night. The crinkle of a plastic bag further suggested that he’d been out picking up something to eat.

“Hey, Grim,” Porter said from the landing. “You on duty?”