“I’ve only spoken with Camila Garcia, Marco’s mother. Of her own volition, she admitted to a background and interest in photography, but there is absolutely no way she was involved in Marco’s death. Not only did she have an alibi for the time of death, confirmed by Kent, the original detective, but her grief is sincere. And she couldn’t have been involved with yesterday’s DB either. Camila is five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet. She doesn’t possess the necessary physical strength to stuff a full-grown man into an IKEA tote bag.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“What was the importance of the shoe,” Larkin asked, sliding a hand into his trouser pocket.

The uneasiness in Doyle’s stance had dissipated some, but there was still a jagged edge to the line of his shoulders. “The shoe was a popular symbol in postmortem, used to signify a childhood cut short.” He held up the photo of the unknown girl. “Yesterday, I just thought she had a flower or even some kind of debris tucked behind her ear, but the presence of the shoe motif is making me think someone put an acanthus leaf in her hair.”

“Why.”

“It’s more mourning imagery. Some of the oldest, in fact.” Doyle paused a beat before adding in a lighter tone, like he was trying to alleviate the remaining tension, “I like that look you have.”

Larkin met his eyes. “What look.”

“The one that says you’re thinking all those great big Holmesian thoughts.”

Larkin realized he’d been tapping his chin with his index finger in an offbeat rhythm. He stopped, asked, “Where’s your notepad.”

Doyle made a vague motion that suggested Larkin’s desk.

Larkin turned, opened the door, and left the Fuck It. As he entered the bullpen from the hall, Detective Byron Ulmer, tall and broad, with a dark complexion, shaved head, and goatee, was entering from the staircase at the opposite end.

“Well, well, well, look who’s finally—”

Larkin sidestepped Ulmer without a word, ignored the indignant protest, circled his desk, and grabbed Doyle’s suit coat from the back of his chair. He reached into a front pocket and found a handful of lemon candy.

Ulmer asked from behind Larkin but seemed to be addressing someone else, “The fuck you doing here?”

And it was Doyle, smooth and unperturbed, who replied. “Working a case with Larkin.”

“Again?”

“Inner pocket, Larkin,” Doyle called.