“He wasn’t there,” Reynold insisted. “And since they’re closed on Sundays, I took a chance and followed some of the punk kids who had been eating there.”

“Was one of them Megan.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “They went down to the Fifty-Seventh Street station—the F. They were down there for hours, so I thought, maybe that was one of their spots. I went back to the subway Monday night.”

“And that’s when you offered Megan five hundred dollars in exchange for allowing you to take pictures of her in your home.”

Reynold licked his chapped lips and nodded.

“So where’s Dicky.”

“I have no idea. I swear.”

Larkin started to speak, but the hospital room door opened. Larkin turned as Doyle entered, set his portfolio bag against the wall as the door clicked shut, and then approached Reynold’s bedside. “Did you—”

Doyle lunged before Larkin could finish his thought. He grabbed the front of Reynold’s hospital gown, tore a heart monitor free from his chest, the machine beeping erratically, and drew Reynold up so they were face-to-face. “She’s a child,” he shouted. “A fucking child, you disgusting pig!”

“Doyle!” Larkin grabbed his arm and yanked, but Doyle was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked.

Reynold was screaming.

The door was thrown open a second time, the uniformed officer putting a hand to her service weapon, then faltering as she took in the sight.

Larkin sidestepped, wrapped both arms around Doyle’s chest, and yanked him backward so hard, so fast, they both tripped and stumbled into the wall on their left. Shoving Doyle off, Larkin turned, got in the path of the bed before Doyle could go at Reynold a second time, and shouted, “Get out of here.”

“He’s been abusing children his entire life.”

“I know what he’s done.”

“I don’t touch the kids,” Reynold cried from the bed at Larkin’s back.

“Shut up,” Larkin ordered, turning his head long enough to address Reynold. He looked at Doyle again and pointed to the open door. “Get out.”

“Evie—”

“Right the fuck now, Ira.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Larkin found his Audi parked on the third floor of the hospital’s parking complex at West 165th Street.

More specifically, he found the Audi wedged between a matte black Hummer and silver Subaru Outback, with Doyle sitting on the concrete, back against the passenger door, knees drawn up and elbows resting atop. His portfolio bag lay discarded near the Audi’s front bumper, like he’d chucked it upon reaching the vehicle and really didn’t care how it landed.