“When I’m asked to resume active duty fifteen hours earlier than what is explicitly noted by my surgeon on the physician’s release form and called to the scene of a homicide, I don’t expect the presence of a Crime Scene detective to bring particularly favorable conditions,” Larkin answered in his usual modulated tone.

The second man, who had been crouched on his haunches beside the IKEA bag during the verbal ping-pong, rose. He was shorter than Millett, but other than his height and the general impression of a slim build, any defining characteristics were hidden by the bodysuit and mask. “Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad,” the man echoed, his voice not particularly deep, but smooth, laid-back—a sense of well-placed confidence without an overt suggestion of egotism. “If I’d known you’d be here, I’d have worn my fancy respirator.” He looked down at Millett, who was labeling the container of maggots suspended in a clear solution, and asked, “Did I tell you about the time he called my office, picked a fight with Joyce, then asked me on a date in return for making him a skull casting?”

At that comment, Millett raised his head.

“Dr. Baxter,” Larkin said, addressing the medical examiner who, prior to this moment, he’d only had the briefest of encounters with over the phone. “Pleasure to meet you in person. That’s not what happened.”

“That’s what I remember.”

“No. Your mortuary technician wasn’t versed in the methodology of facial reconstruction, nor the authority and responsibilities of the OCME, which specifically notes in its mission statement: investigating all deaths of persons in New York City, which includes in any unusual or suspicious manner. My victim was found buried in a crate in Madison Square Park, and while I don’t like assigning labels to the crimes I investigate, the death of Andrew Gorman qualified as both unusual and suspicious. In conclusion, I did not ‘pick a fight’ with that woman. I merely reminded her of her civic duties.”

“And was the offer of a date part of your civic duties?” Baxter countered rather coyly.

“There was no offer of a date,” Larkin corrected. “Merely a poorly worded compliment I’ve regretted since that day.”

Millett rose, and while pointing his pen at the good doctor, said, “He’s messing with you, Larkin.”

“I’m not messing with him. I’m flirting with him, thank you.”

“Dipshits—” O’Halloran tried.

Millett raised a gloved hand and began counting points on his fingers, addressing Baxter. “One, no flirting in the general vicinity of dead bodies.”

“Have you forgotten what I do for a living?”

“Two, if you’re wearing a respirator, it’s too much PPE for flirting.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Three, and I feel like I remind you of this one weekly, don’t flirt with married men.”

“Oh, he’s not married,” Baxter said, looking toward Larkin.