Larkin collected an accordion file from his desk drawer. He removed a slim folder, flipped through the years and years of DD5s to the original report, and read, “Brian Hoffman, fifty-three, CPA with Harold, Hirth & Goldman in Midtown, asserted he was waiting on the downtown side, having just missed the Q that, presumably, was carrying Marco’s students home. He claimed to be the only straphanger besides Marco, who he noted was standing somewhat closer to the northern mouth of the uptown tunnel, but otherwise he was focused on reading the New York Times, which Mr. Hoffman had been unable to read on his morning commute. Quote, ‘I thought the kid was talking to himself, but when I heard shouting, I looked up, and there was a second guy. I didn’t notice him come down the stairs. They were arguing, but I don’t know over what, because the uptown train was approaching. Then the kid was shoved. He went right over the edge. The train laid on the horn, but it had no time to stop.’ End quote. Detective Kent asked about the second man, but Mr. Hoffman could only say that he was taller and wore some sort of utility uniform.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Marco was dragged under two of the eight cars before the train was able to come to a full stop. Mr. Hoffman said the second man was long gone by then.” Larkin snapped the folder shut.

“Did Kent ask Mr. Hoffman to note where he himself had been standing on the platform?”

“He did not.”

Doyle blew out a breath. “Okay, well, I know that entire station has gotten a facelift since the ’90s, but the suspect could have run up the stairs nearest the northern mouth of the uptown tunnel and not have been seen, if Mr. Hoffman was standing toward the middle. Alternatively, the suspect could have jumped onto the downtown tracks and hidden in that tunnel.”

“Unfortunately, we’ll never be able to clarify,” Larkin said. “I reached out shortly after adopting the case—Mr. Hoffman died of an aneurysm in 2004.”

Doyle looked down at his notepad, stuck the end of his pen in his mouth, and chewed absently on the cap. “So we’ve got no suspects or persons of interest in the murder of Marco Garcia, and even fewer in the case of IKEA-John.”

“And that about brings us up to speed,” Larkin concluded. He dropped the folder onto the desktop before leaning over Doyle a second time to reach the keyboard. “Can you move.”

“I don’t mind.”

Larkin typed his password and hit Enter.

“You smell nice.”

“Don’t smell me at work.”

“If you didn’t want me to smell you at work, you wouldn’t wear a very expensive Eau de Toilette that you’ve now taken to spritzing on both your wrists and neck.”

Larkin glanced sideways.