“This is why I said to drive with two hands, Doyle,” Larkin stated.

“You got some fucking nerve—”

“Name and phone number,” Larkin prompted a third time.

O’Halloran snarled like a caged predator before barking the information loudly, and without taking a breath, then hung up.

Larkin lowered the phone and calmly tapped the newly obtained number on the dial pad.

“I can’t believe you made a ‘where is the clitoris’ joke,” Doyle said.

Larkin put the phone to his ear a second time, saying, “It’s healthy to humble straight men now and then.”

After Larkin had spoken with Tanisha Crowley, Station Manager of Fifty-Seventh Street, who agreed to bring Demetrius Armstrong, the track worker responsible for the 911 call, to meet Larkin at the station by 2:30 p.m., he opened his calendar and inputted the details of the appointment. “PS 51 at one o’clock,” Larkin stated. “MTA at 2:30. The kitchen at St. Jude’s Mission is open from noon to two o’clock, so we’ll speak with the staff and guests tomorrow, at the earliest….” Larkin raised his head. He watched the dark, choppy water of the East River pass in a blur. “I’m forgetting something.”

“Professional or personal?” Doyle asked.

“I’m not sure.” Larkin stared at the calendar again, scrolled to the beginning of the day, then back to the evening, before letting out a dissatisfied huff and tucking the phone in his pocket. He leaned his elbow against the passenger door and propped his head against his fist. Afternoon light gleamed off the glass and steel of towering skyscrapers. Larkin lowered the visor. A comfortable, companionable silence had settled between them, broken only by the thrum of the Audi’s tires and the slide of Doyle’s hand on the steering wheel, when Larkin said suddenly, like he hadn’t a chance to process the thought before verbalizing, “I’m very attracted to you. Also, thank you.”

“Are you thanking me for being hot?”

“No. I mean—those were two independent and unrelated concepts I thought at the same time, because my brain doesn’t turn off. And I attempted to condense them for the sake of efficiency and because my straightforwardness is usually awkward, but… I ended up making it worse.” Larkin tugged on his seat belt so he could better study Doyle. “I think you’re very striking. When driving, especially. Not specifically.”

Doyle’s smile exploded like a timelapse blooming rose. “Can this be a new out-in-the-field, rule? The tall and sexy will drive?”

“Don’t let one compliment inflate your ego. I bought the Audi for me.”

Doyle laughed, and it was like smoke skimming the surface of amber heat. “And what was the thank-you for?”

Larkin slowly leaned back in his seat. He fingered the latch on the center console where he’d hidden the Xanax prescription he’d filled without Doyle’s knowledge.

Click.