Page 49 of Madison Square Murders
“He’d have learned metal casting and welding—necessary skills for creating Andrew’s death mask.”
CHAPTER TEN
It was 1:27 p.m. when Larkin and Doyle exited the walk-up.
Upon seeing the fully rendered sketch, Jessica was surprisingly confident in the entire face, not only the elements she’d selected. She had touched the corners of the pad, like caressing a memory, and said,That’s him.
Jessica promised to clean her apartment, top to bottom, and if she found anything squirreled away that might help put a name to his face, she’d call Larkin on the card he provided. And before the interview’s conclusion, she offered a few photos. Her and Andrew Gorman in sunglasses and ballcaps, standing outside of Nathan’s, each holding a hot dog. Another of just Andrew standing in line outside of what Larkin suspected was a theater, given his adoration for musicals. The last was outside of the walk-up, both of them in winter clothes and Jessica being given a piggyback boost by Andrew. She displayed a key for the camera—their apartment key, most likely. Two men were maneuvering a mattress through the door in the background.
“Are those pictures going to be useful for anything?” Doyle asked as he put his portfolio bag in the backseat of the Audi.
“Maybe,” Larkin answered. He stood at the driver side door, puzzling over the pictures. He shuffled through them over and over—Nathan’s, theater, move-in day. Nathan’s, theater, move-in day. “There’s a clue in most everything.”
“Doing a little light reading?”
Larkin looked up. Doyle stared at him over the roof of the car, holding the library copy ofFunerary Rituals: Faces From The Other Side, A Brief Account of Effigies and Death Masks. That’s right. He’d picked up the book from the living room floor on his way out the door that morning and had forgotten about it completely once he’d put it in the backseat. Larkin tucked the photos into his inner suit coat pocket, then removed his phone. “I need to mark the return date in my calendar….”
“Did you read it yet?”
“Hm-hm.” Larkin saved the reminder, turned off the phone screen, and pocketed it. “Yes. Well, a good portion of it.” He watched Doyle page through the book. “The death mask would eventually become treasured for what it was: realism artwork obsessive of the individual. The death mask would become the symbol of all that embodied the man. His face undying.”
Doyle briefly met Larkin’s steady gaze. “You forgot you left it in the car?” he guessed.
Larkin shifted. “The act of borrowing a library book for work research is not routine to my life. So… yes, I forgot.”
“Just clarifying,” Doyle said, his whiskey-voice easygoing. He looked at the pages again and echoed, “‘Obsessive of the individual’ is a touch melodramatic, but it’s honestly not a bad description of death masks.”
“It resonated.”
“Why’s that?” Doyle bent, set the book back on the seat beside his bag, then shut the door.
“It reinforces the belief that there was a relationship between Andrew and the perpetrator, and that Andrew was tucked away because the truth of that connection would out his killer. Obsessive of the individual.”
Doyle tapped his fingers against the roof for a moment. “Do you suspect Jessica was at all involved?”
“No.” Larkin raised one fine eyebrow. “Do you?”
Doyle shook his head. “No. She sincerely loved Andrew. Maybe was even a littlein lovewith him. But her sense of being… unmoored, I guess, that’s real.” He smiled and added, “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
Without warning, a gunshot fractured the air, like a pianist slamming their fists down on the keys and the crash ricocheting back and forth against the walls of an empty auditorium. Larkin and Doyle both reached for their holstered weapons and drew a SIG P226 and Glock 17, respectively.
“That was on this block,” Doyle said.
A second shot was fired, and somewhere overhead, glass broke. Children at the public school a few doors back began screaming.
“Recess,” Doyle said.
“Go,” Larkin snapped. “Tell the teachers to put the school in lockdown.”
Doyle left the Audi in a full run, as if the hounds of Hell were snapping at his ankles.
Larkin turned toward Jessica’s walk-up when the front door was thrown open and Ricky stepped outside, tucking something into the small of his back. The front of his sweatshirt was speckled with red. Larkin checked over his shoulder. Doyle stood at the gates of the school, badge raised, voice steady but loud and insistent as he ordered teachers to quickly escort the children inside. Swearing under his breath, Larkin turned to Ricky, raised his gun, and shouted, “NYPD, Ricky! Stop where you are!”
Ricky startled, looked across the street, and when he spotted Larkin, he broke into a run toward Avenue D.
“Ricky!” Larkin called again, immediately giving chase. He cut across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. Brakes screeched, a horn honked, the driver shouted out his open window, but Larkin didn’t stop. He jumped a sizable puddle at the curb, remnants of yesterday’s storm, and pounded down the sidewalk after Ricky. The super hadn’t bothered to hide his weapon underneath his sweatshirt, instead leaving the handgun on full display at the waistband of his jeans. Larkin stretched his legs, pushed himself to sprint harder, faster, and barreled his shoulder square into Ricky’s back.
Ricky’s arms flailed for purchase and he crashed to the ground like the giant falling from his beanstalk.
