It was 10:55 a.m. as Larkin took the stairs two at a time to the second-floor bullpen of Precinct 19, carrying Hamlet and the second, unidentified photo in a Ziploc bag Camila had provided on his way out. Larkin heard Doyle before he saw him—heard the heat and smoke that’d make someone a millionaire, if only they could figure out a way to bottle and sell that voice—and when he rounded the first landing and hiked the final steps, there was Doyle. He was leaning against the front of Larkin’s desk, assuming that habitual pose of long legs stretched out and big hands planted on the edge of the furniture. He’d inclined forward to speak with Porter, who’d spun around to face Doyle as they chatted.

At the sound of Larkin’s heels, Porter glanced toward the stairs and said, “Hey, Grim, look who dropped by to say hello.”

“Detective Doyle didn’t drive eighty-four blocks out of his way to simply say hello to me, Porter.”

“You? Who said anything about you? I was talking about me.”

Doyle twisted to catch Larkin’s eye. He wore a flirty smile as he asked, “Eighty-four blocks?”

“Approximately.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It can be difficult to account for all the blocks with the chaotic, nongrid pattern of the Lower East Side,” Larkin continued, taking in Doyle’s disheveled state of loosened tie and rolled-back sleeves. He noted one of the molded plastic chairs that was always being punted around the bullpen had been dragged up along the right side of his desk, and Doyle’s suit coat was tossed over the back, his portfolio bag wedged between its leg and the furniture.

“‘By miles’ would probably be easier,” Doyle suggested.

“That’s the least common measurement of distance in the city,” Larkin answered.

Doyle continued, unfazed, “It was four and a half miles.”

“If we’re not using blocks, time taken is the second most utilized method of gauging distance. Although not an actual measurement of physical space, it is more typical of walking than driving, and fairly useless when taking rush hour into—1PP is six miles via the FDR.”

“I didn’t take the FDR.”

“Why.”

Doyle glanced over his shoulder at the desktop, reached, and nudged a small takeout box stamped with Krispy Kreme’s logo. He looked at Larkin again.

Larkin moved to the desk and flipped the lid on the box. The corner of his mouth tugged into a shy smile. He handed Doyle the evidence bags, took a seat, and removed a cake-batter-filled donut coated in yellow frosting and sprinkles. He took a big bite, caught a blob of filling on his thumb as it oozed free, and sucked it clean.

“That’s it?” Porter asked, and when Larkin looked up, the older detective was motioning at him while addressing Doyle. “One donut and he shuts up?”