Page 28 of Hudson River Homicides
Nodding to the maître d’, Larkin said, “Hi, Mom.”
“Everett, darling, I’m so glad you could make it.”She bussed his cheek when he leaned down.“You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“I can give you the number of my medical spa on Seventy-Fifth.”
“Mom.”Larkin straightened and motioned Doyle forward.“This is my partner, Ira Doyle.Ira, my mother, Jacqueline.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Doyle said, reaching a hand out.
Jacqueline smiled politely as she allowed her hand to be briefly held.“Nice to meet you.Can I get either of you a drink?”
“We’re on the clock,” Larkin said as he took the seat on Jacquline’s left, his back to the glass walls.“What did you need to talk about that couldn’t wait.”
“Your manners have become so plebeian, Everett,” Jacqueline chastised in a hushed whisper.To Doyle, she asked, “Tell me about yourself, Mr.Doyle.You’re a police officer too?”
“Yes, ma’am.A forensic artist.”
She feigned mild interest.“Do you go to school for that?”
Doyle’s fingers tapped in an off-beat rhythm against his thigh—not from nerves, Larkin knew, but his natural tendency to fidget while sitting.“I did my undergrad at SVA.”
“I’m not familiar with them.”
“It’s an art school.On East Twenty-Third.”
“Oh.An art school.”Jacqueline picked up her champagne flute and took a sip.
There was no way Doyle hadn’t caught the subtle shift, the quality of distaste in her attitude, but he persevered as if he hadn’t just been insulted.“And I did my master’s at NYU.”
“Isn’t that lovely,” Jacqueline said, concluding the conversation that simply as she turned her attention onto Larkin.“I spoke with Noah this morning, darling.”
“About what.”
She made a moue of disapproval.“I hadn’t expected you to bring company.Private affairs are hardly a matter to be discussed in front of strangers.”
“Ira isn’t a stranger.He’s my boyfriend.”
“What?”
Slower, and stressing each word, Larkin repeated, “Ira is my boyfriend.”
Jacqueline’s eyelashes fluttered.“I raised you better than this.”
That was a laugh, Larkin thought, considering this was the same woman who’d hired a private doula to advise her on the best time to conceive, so Larkin would have that coveted autumn birthdate and always be the most developed child in his grade.This was the same woman who’d hired a play-date tutor to provide feedback on his spontaneous play deficiencies when he’d been a four-year-old in order to shape him into the ideal candidate for elite pre-K academies on the Upper East Side.This was thevery same womanwho’d hired Larkin a sports coach at six years old when he’d asked his mother to teach him to ride his bike at the park.
Jacqueline hadn’t raised a child—she’d gotten herself a participation trophy.And she’d kept it polished and shined, touting it about town whenever she needed a vehicle in which to preen and accept accolades, and all the while, Larkin had been denied an upbringing founded in the principle of love and had instead only known unattainable expectation.
Larkin met Jacqueline’s cold stare and asked, “Better than what.”
“To be flaunting yourhomewrecker.”
“We’re leaving,” Larkin said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.
“Sit down,” Jacqueline hissed.She glanced toward nearby tables before whispering, “You’re being a brat.”
The insult was like a slap, and Larkin’s cheeks stung with humiliation as he sank back into his chair.
