They walked uptown on Bennett Avenue until reaching the congestion of police vehicles—two cruisers and a CSU van—and one irate civilian having a shouting match with a uniformed officer, claiming the NYPD gave his parked ’90s Ford Festiva a fender bender, although Larkin was unsure of how the owner came to such a conclusion, considering the car was so banged up that it’d have been difficult to point out a bullet hole in its Surf Blue exterior. They flashed their badges to the second officer at the building’s front door, made their way back across the lobby and down the basement stairs, only to be recognized by the female officer who’d originally run her sirens on Larkin for speeding.

“Detectives,” she addressed, before giving Larkin a surprised once-over. “You’re back.”

Larkin figured she’d seen him taken out by EMTs nearly—he checked his watch—four hours ago. “Is CSU inside,” he asked, motioning to the open door of the garden apartment just beyond.

She nodded, moved against the wall to allow them passage, and said with a nod of her chin, “Gloves and booties.”

Larkin followed the motion to the left wall. Beside the sledgehammer were boxes of latex gloves and shoe covers. He collected the PPE, passed Doyle a set, and once Larkin had pulled the elastic polypropylene over his green derbies and slid the gloves on with a loud snap, he entered the apartment. “Cold Case Squad,” he called loudly, so as not to startle whoever was working inside.

Neil Millett peered around the open door from inside the bedroom. He wore the same gloves and booties, but it was the first time Larkin had seen the CSU detective out of his shapeless PPE jumpsuit. He had a camera strap around his neck and wore a suit in a medium brown with a pale pink button-down and solid navy blue tie. The slim cut suited his tall, lean frame, and the color combinations, while on the tame side, Larkin thought, complemented his fair complexion and honey-colored hair. “Larkin. I’m flattered you requested me specifically to root around a pedo’s desk drawers,” he began in that ever-sardonic tone, underlain by only the faintest nasally quality. “But just so you know, I’m missing a drive-by shooting in East Harlem to be here.”

“Our condolences,” Doyle said from where he stood at Larkin’s side.

Millett cracked a smile. “Kaltman got that assignment. Serves her right. She called out sick on the last full moon and I had to pull a thirty-hour shift. She wasn’t even sick. She was in Vegas.” Millett motioned to two evidence markers on the floor near their feet. “Be careful. I’ve got some taser darts and cast off over there.”

“That’s mine,” Larkin stated.

“What?”

“Reynold tased me.”

“Twice,” Doyle added, raising two fingers. “I pulled out the darts before EMS arrived.”

“You two are hard-core,” Millett said.