“Tomorrow,” Larkin replied without looking up. He yanked a depressingly slim file free, then shut and locked the drawer.

“Welcome back,” Porter answered absently. He set his takeout on the desk in front of Larkin’s. The aroma from the bag suggested the meal was Porter’s usual go-to: breakfast for dinner.

“There’s over a thousand calories in just two of those cheesecake pancakes alone,” Larkin said, already on his way back to Connor’s office.

“Yeah, well, fuck you too,” Porter called without malice.

Larkin stopped in the threshold of the office, unbound the file, and held up a yellowed report as he said to Connor, “On May 19, 1997, Marco Garcia was pushed in front of an incoming Q train.”

“At what stop?” Connor asked, his brow furrowed as he struggled to catch up to whatever connection Larkin had already made.

“Fifty-Seventh Street. The Q used to run what is now the F line during the ’90s.” Larkin studied the printout he’d adopted from Homicide Detective Wally Kent upon his retirement, and said, “Today is the twenty-third anniversary of Marco’s death. Once is chance. Twice is coincidence.” Larkin looked up and finished with “Three time’s a pattern.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The arrival of an early summer was already wreaking havoc on those who called walkups in the city home, and Larkin wasn’t surprised that the window unit of 4A was on as he opened the apartment door. The hundred-year-old Village tenement, with its fire-engine red façade, was poorly insulated against heat and acted a bit like a poor man’s sauna. Despite the sun having set half an hour ago, the unit would be chugging in the kitchen window most of the night as it combatted the effects of a house closed-up for twelve hours.

The television against the bare brick wall was tuned to a Mets game, the volume dialed down low. The fairy lights strung throughout the studio were giving off that ever-welcoming sepia glow. And Doyle stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, wearing a pair of old Levi’s with the pant legs cuffed and a white T-shirt with the iconic stencil art of Banksy’s Flower Thrower. He was pulling takeout containers from a paper bag as he looked toward Larkin in the doorway.

“Perfect timing,” he said, his smile so warm, it made Larkin feel as if he’d been drinking on an empty stomach. “Tonight’s dining experience will include spinach salad with blue cheese—not goat, I know you don’t like it—walnuts, apples, and a vinaigrette dressing.” Doyle raised a white cardboard container and shook it. “Also an order of waffle fries, because who can resist?”

Larkin turned, quietly shut the door, and threw the deadbolt.

“And I made mocktails,” Doyle continued as he finished with the takeout containers and threw the bag into the recycling bin. “It’s lemonade with raspberries, cucumber, and mint.”