“It’s three donuts,” Doyle corrected, rising from the desktop in that lazy, catlike way he had of moving, while studying the contents of the Ziploc bag. “Even geniuses get cranky when their blood sugar’s low. This is out-in-the-field rule two, Porter: If being hangry can be avoided—avoid it.”

“So what do I have to do to get donut deliveries?” Porter continued. “How many other artists are in your unit?”

“Two.” Doyle plopped down into the seat beside Larkin. He added, almost like an afterthought, “But I don’t think you’re their type.”

“What about you, then?” Porter spun in his chair, grabbed a thick accordion file, then held it up, saying, “Want a big, juicy, double homicide? Twelve years cold, gang hit—”

Larkin pointed his half-eaten donut at Porter and interrupted, “I found him first.”

Doyle murmured, “That was hot.”

“Stop it.”

“No, no, I like that I honestly can’t tell if the territoriality is because of the art or the donuts.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re right. It’s the donuts.”

Larkin all but rolled his eyes before taking another bite.

“Why don’t you two just get married while you’re at it?” Porter suggested.

“Oh, we already are,” Doyle answered.

“No, we’re not,” Larkin hastily said around the last bite of dough and cream.

“Work husbands for life,” Doyle concluded before winking at Porter.

Larkin turned in the chair, his knee knocking Doyle’s. He took Doyle by the tie and tugged forward. “I’m going to eat a second donut.”

“And what am I going to do?”

“You’re going to tell me everything that isn’t obvious about that photo,” Larkin said with a nod of his head at the Ziploc bag.

“You might want to let go of my tie before I develop a kink.” Doyle smiled when Larkin quickly released him. He patted Larkin’s thigh twice, the touch more than friends but less than lovers, then leaned back into a slouch. “What’s the book for?”

Larkin plucked the second donut from the box. “I found it wedged between the mattress and bed slats. The photo fell out of Act II, scene ii.”

“Is that a relevant detail?”

“Only ironically.”

Doyle hummed absently, held the bag up toward the awful fluorescent overheads, then said, “Ah… this boy appears to be deceased.”

“Yes, I gathered that much on my own.”

“Okay… well, track pants and a baggy hoodie would suggest death occurred at a cooler time of year, but I’m not comfortable with the way the pants have been tugged so low… almost like… for titillation purposes. There’s the oak bench and white tile wall, which would make this a subway, but with no other environmental details….”

Larkin turned his attention on Doyle and caught how his expression was in the midst of drifting from curiosity to thoughtfulness to recognition—so much character in those thick brows of his. “What is it?”