Larkin frowned from behind his own mask and slid both hands into his trouser pockets.

“See?” Baxter looked up at Millett and snapped his fingers, the latex cracking loudly. “Keep up, Neil—you work in evidence collection.”

A moment passed before Millett looked at Larkin, said, “Dr. Baxter is single, if you’re looking,” then bent down and busied himself with his kit.

“Shut the fuck up,” O’Halloran barked. “Holy Mary, Mother of Christ, what’re the odds of me ending up in a room with you homos?”

“One in eleven,” Larkin said in a monotone, although he’d been studying the IKEA bag as he spoke. Turning his reaper-gray eyes back on O’Halloran, Larkin’s stare bore into the Homicide detective as he continued. “The population of New York City is just over eight million, of which nine percent openly identify as LGBT. Therefore, you have a one-in-eleven chance of being in a room with us. Of course, ratios do vary the more we break down the acronym, but that’s not really the point here, seeing as your comment was meant to imply something negative about the competent and professional company you’re currently in the presence of. I suggest therapy as a means of addressing your homophobia, as a team of Australian scientists recently conducted a study on the correlation between prejudice against same-sex couples and low cognitive ability. The results did indeed indicate a distinct parallel, with emphasis on this pattern being even more pronounced for verbal ability measures, which is a very scientific way of saying you sound like an idiot and an asshole when you speak.”

For a singular second, the subway was silent. There was no screech of trains rolling through the station, no echo of voices from outside the utility room, not even the shift of the PPE bodysuits whispering on the stale air.

And then Baxter let out a long sigh, asking in a dreamy voice, “Are you available, Larkin? Like, emotionally?”

“No.”

“Such a shame.” Baxter met Millett’s what gives? hand gesture and laughed, “What?”

O’Halloran, whose usual ruddy complexion was well on its way to turning the color of pinot noir, pointed a finger at Larkin. “Listen to me, you sonofa—”

“I have thirty-seven open cases, O’Halloran. I don’t intend on adding this one to my stack until it falls within the purview of my job description—namely, when detectives have exhausted all investigative leads.”

O’Halloran squared his shoulders and barked, “Show Grim the goddamn photo.”