Madison Square Murders by C.S. Poe

Madison Square Murders by C.S. Poe

Author:C.S. Poe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Emporium Press
Published: 2021-09-21T00:00:00+00:00


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 of Funerary 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.



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