“The brain utilizes one half of the body’s glucose, and with a drop in fuel levels, individuals have been known to exhibit an array of negative behavior, leading to the growing body of scientific research behind the term hangry. Thank you, Doctor. If you’ll be so kind as to update me on the state of the victim.”

Baxter didn’t sound nearly as perturbed as Millett had been when he replied, “Victim is male. Middle age, at least.” He pointed to the IKEA bag and added, “But I won’t be able to get you anything more exact until I get this soup back to the OCME.”

“Cause of death,” Larkin asked.

“I can’t say until after a thorough autopsy. All I know is an MTA track worker found him about two hours ago. O’Halloran probably has interview notes for you.”

“How long has the victim been deceased.”

“Are you asking or telling me?” Baxter countered.

“I’m asking.”

“Oh. Eight—nine days—maximum.” Baxter squatted beside the bag and indicated several clusters of wriggling maggots. “These are blowfly larvae, which show up on the scene of a dead body within minutes to lay their eggs. These larvae are third instar—you can even see a few pupae in the folds of the shirt,” he continued, raising a bit of fabric to show Larkin. “They’d emerge as adult flies in about… six days, assuming the body was kept at this level of heat and humidity for the rest of the week.”

“Putting time of death between Sunday, May 10—”

—thunder like the howls of a banshee on the prowl, wails of warning, a reminder that everyone must die, and Larkin was no exception. He was a psychopomp of flesh and blood, and some nights, when the rain fell and thunder crashed, and Patrick was brutally murdered over and over and over again, Larkin was so tired that he’d curl up in the tub with too many Xanax and bide his time until the day he’d be nothing more than a DD5 lost in the stacks of another Cold Case detective.

No progress to report.

But the apartment door had banged against the exposed brick wall, soles of wet shoes squeaked against the wood floor, a bag dropped with a loud thud, and a voice usually whiskey-smooth had been replaced with visceral panic as he’d called, “Evie?”—

Larkin closed his eyes, took a breath through his nose, instantly regretted it, and forced himself to swallow the bile licking at the back of his throat. Looking at Baxter again, he reiterated, “Time of death is between Sunday, May 10, and Monday, May 11.”

“I concur. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Larkin lied. He looked down at the IKEA bag—at the remains of a lost soul the city had chewed up and spit out—and asked, “Was there anything else on the body.”

“Just a business card,” Baxter answered. “Neil?”