‘Yeah, maybe,’ Doyle says, but the doubt is evident in his voice.
‘You don’t buy it, do you? So what’s the alternative?’
Doyle looks at her. Her logic seems so impeccable, it almost seems ridiculous to suggest anything else.
‘The alternative is, the reason nobody can identify this guy, me included, is that . . . is that he doesn’t exist.’
He watches her face for the reaction. She looks as though she hasn’t heard him. As if she’s still waiting for him to say something. Or at least something intelligible. Finally, she
blinks several times as if coming out of a hypnotic trance.
‘Cal, what are you talking about?’
He has to look away from her, so as not to let her expression of incredulity prevent him from voicing his train of thought.
‘I met a guy last night. He knew the name of the person doing this to me, but he was killed before he could tell me. The very last thing he told me was that I could stop digging into my
past. At the time, I thought he meant there was no need to keep looking through the files because I was about to discover the name. But now I think what he was telling me was that I was looking in
the wrong place. That it had nothing to do with my past. That maybe it didn’t even have anything to do with
me
.’
There’s a silence, and he has to slide his eyes to her again to try to discern her thoughts. He decides that she still assumes he’s gone ga-ga.
‘Cal, I seriously think you need to get some rest. How can one ambiguous statement from a guy who’s now dead make you start to think that none of this is real? Look at what’s
happened. To
your
partners, to
your
wife, to
your
friend Spinner, to this guy
you
were speaking to last night. That’s not imaginary, Cal. Horrible though it all is, you have
to start accepting that you’re the common factor in this or you’ll lose your mind.’
‘Yeah, I admit that’s how it looks . . .’
‘That’s how it
looks
?’
‘ . . . but when you break it down I’m not so sure. The guy last night was killed to shut him up. Spinner was also killed because he knew too much, not because he was close to me.
Rachel wasn’t even hurt; I was just tricked into thinking she was. Take all of them out of the equation, and that just leaves Joe and Tony.’
‘Aren’t they enough? And anyway, it’s not true. What about the two hookers who died, and that pimp?’
‘Cavell. Yeah, I been thinking about them too. You know what the funny thing is? All along, people kept asking me, “You got the cop killer yet? You got the guy who whacked your
partners?” It would get me so pissed off, I would say to them, “Don’t forget the hookers and the pimp; they died too, you know. They were human. They mattered.” And you know
what? I was wrong and they were right. To most people, the killer included, they didn’t matter. They didn’t count. Their only use was as bait to set traps. The problem was, I
couldn’t see that I was wrong. I kidded myself that I was on some kind of moral high ground. Hell, I never even bothered to find out that second hooker’s name, that’s how much I
cared about her.’
‘But that still leaves Joe and Tony.
Your
partners. Or do you have a way to cross them off your list too?’
‘Sure, Joe was my partner. But Tony never was. Not really. I worked with him for a few hours, that’s it.’
‘So what are you saying? That it’s just pure coincidence that you happen to be linked to all these people? Come on, that’s kind of a stretch.’
‘No, what I’m saying is that somebody killed Joe and Tony, and then made it look like just a part of a greater plan to hurt me. That’s why the killer sent me revenge messages:
to make me and everyone else think I was the focal point.’
‘Why? Why would they do that?’
‘To shift the attention away from Joe and Tony as the real victims. And it worked. Nobody is looking for links between Joe and Tony because they’re all too busy looking at
me.’
Nadine stares for a while, then shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, Cal. To do all this, just as a diversionary tactic . . .’
‘What, you don’t think escaping the death penalty is sufficient motive? The killer’s got the whole NYPD looking in the wrong direction, and that means they’re never going
to find him. I’d say that makes his efforts pretty damn worthwhile, wouldn’t you?’
Seeing that Nadine still looks doubtful, he says, ‘Look, if this guy really wanted to hurt me, why didn’t he just kill Rachel and Amy rather than go through that whole charade of
making me think they were in trouble? Why didn’t he kill Spinner after my first meeting with him, rather than wait until Spinner became a danger to him? Where’s the
consistency?’
Another pause from Nadine. ‘If you’re right, and I still think it’s a huge if, then that still means somebody wanted Joe and Tony dead. Why would they do that? You knew Joe
better than most. Why would someone want to kill a nice guy like that?’
Images of Joe Parlatti laughing and smiling jump to Doyle’s mind. He feels slightly guilty that the events of the past few days have not allowed him more time to think about his partner.
Yes, Joe was a nice guy. One of the nicest. His wife, Maria, said the same. She said a few other things too.
‘I don’t know why,’ Doyle says, although he could venture a guess. ‘But I got some ideas as to who.’
Nadine’s eyes narrow. He can almost feel the touch of her gaze flicking over his face, searching it for clues.
‘Are you going to let me in on it?’
‘A cop.’
‘A cop. Any particular reason?’
‘Several, actually. The details don’t matter.’
‘Ooo-kay. Any particular cop?’
And this is where it gets difficult, thinks Doyle. This is where friendships are tested. This is where bonds are stressed to their breaking point. This is where hearts are broken.
‘You remember the night after Joe was killed?’ he begins. ‘When I came home, and you were there with Rachel?’
Nadine doesn’t move. Her eye-line doesn’t shift even a degree away from Doyle’s face.
‘Go on,’ she says.
‘I told you that Mo was on his way home, because that’s what he told me. And you seemed surprised at that, like you weren’t expecting him home until much later.’
This time she says nothing. Just waits.
‘So was he there when you got back? Or did he get in much later?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Was he in the apartment when Tony Alvarez was being killed?’
So there it is. He’s crossed the line, and he can see as much on Nadine’s face.
‘Cal, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’
Doyle has no choice but to press on. ‘What about the previous night, when Joe was killed? Was Mo home then?’
‘He works hard. You know that. He’s a hard-working, hands-on cop. He’s out all kinds of strange hours, just like you are, Cal. Now before you say another word, I think you need
to—’
‘What about Saturday, Nadine?’
‘Saturday? What about it?’
‘That’s the day Spinner was killed. According to Mo, he was in a meeting at police headquarters that afternoon.’
‘And?’
‘You’re right. Nothing unusual in that. No reason to doubt him. Except that he said something else too. He said that directly after leaving 1PP he met up with you to do some
Christmas shopping.’
Nadine’s silence says everything.
Doyle continues: ‘All perfectly normal too, right? Nothing suspicious there. In fact, it was only today that it clicked with me. He couldn’t have gone shopping with you.’
Nadine is angry now. Angry and fearful. ‘Why, Cal?’ she snaps. ‘Why couldn’t he? Suppose I say he
was
shopping with me? What then?’
‘You’d be lying. Saturday evening was when Amy was in the dance competition. And you were there. I remember Rachel telling me you were going to be there. You weren’t available
to go shopping because you were at the dance competition. Am I wrong about that, Nadine? Am I?’
Nadine’s eyes well up and glisten with the reflected light of the fire. Through tight, trembling lips she says, ‘Do you know what you’re accusing him of, Cal? I heard about
what happened to Spinner. He was tortured. For a long time. And then his throat was cut. Do you really believe that Mo is capable of such a thing? He’s my husband, Cal. Your boss. He’s
always said great things about you. You brought a lot of baggage with you to the Eighth, and he’s always defended you. Do you think he could turn on you like this? Do you think he deserves
this kick in the teeth from you?’
‘I don’t want to believe it, Nadine. Really I don’t. But it all fits. The person who’s doing this is a cop, and it has to be a cop who knows a lot about me. He had to
know a lot about Joe too, and the fact that Tony had interviewed Cavell. And there’s something else . . .’
Nadine sniffs. ‘What?’ she asks, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t really want to hear the answer.
‘Something else that Mo said on Saturday, when he came to Spinner’s apartment. He was giving me a hard time, letting rip at me for all the mistakes I was making. One of the things he
didn’t like was the fact I had an unlogged meeting with an informant.’
‘So?’
‘I hadn’t told him about that meeting. I hadn’t told anyone about it. The only way Mo could have found out about it is if he was the one who killed Spinner.’
Nadine shakes her head, gets to her feet.
‘You’re wrong. There has to be another explanation. Mo couldn’t do all this. You’re wrong.’
She moves closer to the fire. She slides a poker from its beaten-copper holder. Idly, she pokes it into the logs. They hiss at her like disturbed rattlesnakes.
Doyle stands up. ‘The guy I met with last night? Someone paid a lot of money to have him killed. Most cops I know don’t have that kind of money. Mo does, though. This house, the
inheritance from his mother. He must be worth a fortune now. I hear he plans to retire next year.’ She stabs at the logs more vigorously. Doyle takes a step closer. ‘I’m sorry,
Nadine, but it all fits. It’s the only possible answer.’
She whirls on him, brandishing the poker. The glowing red tip is a foot from his face.
‘Then answer me this,’ she yells at him. The tears are streaming down her face now, and he hates that he’s doing this to her. ‘Why, Cal? Why would Mo do it? Why would he
want to kill Joe and Tony?’
Doyle looks at her pain. Sees beyond it to the understanding and the damage it has done.
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
They stand there for a full minute, either side of a broken friendship, until Nadine’s arm begins to shake with the weight of the outstretched poker. Finally she lowers it and pushes it
back into the fire, coaxing new life from it.
Doyle waits patiently for her response. He waits for words that will either form the last piece of the puzzle, or else will leave him wondering whether he has somehow got this terribly, horribly
wrong.
‘I’d like you to leave now, Cal,’ she says, giving him neither.
She waits alone in front of the fire. Even though the logs are now just glowing embers, she has removed the woolen sweater that was covering her white silk shirt. She has also
slipped on some shoes and combed her hair. Because for some reason she doesn’t want to feel cozy and snug and Christmassy. She wants –
needs
– to be businesslike and
objective and distanced from that precipice which seems so perilously close to her feet.
She curses Doyle for coming here tonight. He was supposed to be a pariah. He should have acted like one. He should have stayed away.
But he didn’t. And the demons followed him, bringing not death this time but destruction and misery of a different form.
She hears the car approaching, sees the flash of headlights across the drapes. The slam of a car door. The jangle of keys. The unlatching of the front door. The steps across the hallway.
She manufactures a smile as he enters the living room.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hey,’ she echoes.
‘Long day.’
‘When isn’t it? You eaten?’
He looks at her, puzzlement and suspicion in his gaze.
‘Yeah. I grabbed something earlier. Are you . . . is everything okay?’
‘Mo, can I talk to you, please?’
For a long time he doesn’t answer. He puts his hands on his hips and looks her up and down, appraising her. As if thinking, What is this? What is this woman doing, getting above her
station like this? Where’s the welcome-home Scotch and the sexy negligee and all the other things in our contract? Where did it say she could ask for a damn conversation, for Christ’s
sake?
‘Sure. What’s wrong?’
She sits down on one of the armchairs, then gestures for Mo to do likewise. Mo stares at the chair like it’s haunted, before finally stepping across the room and lowering himself onto
it.
She studies his face. She sees the tiredness there. But more than that she thinks she sees turmoil. An immense tension inside, pulling him in on himself, making him appear small and withdrawn
and incredibly old.
‘I had a phone call tonight,’ she lies.
‘Who from?’
‘Cal Doyle.’
‘Cal? Is he okay? Has he been trying to get hold of me?’
He reaches into his pocket and produces his cellphone, then starts checking it for messages.
‘No. He wanted to talk to me. He has a lot of worries. About what’s happening to him. About the lack of progress on his case.’
A sigh. ‘I already talked to him about this. It’s a tough case. He’s just gotta hang in there.’
‘Yes. That’s what I told him too. Only he’s got some new theories about it. Some idea about the only true targets being Joe Parlatti and Tony Alvarez, with everything else
being just stage fog.’
He barks a mirthless laugh. ‘What? Is he crazy? What’s he talking about? And why you, Nad? Why’s he telling you all this? If he’s got something to discuss about the case,
why doesn’t he come to me?’
She listens to his dismissal. There’s a hollow ring to it that sickens her.
‘Could he be right, Mo? About all this boiling down to the murder of two cops? Is there any reason why someone would have wanted Joe and Tony dead, other than to hurt Cal Doyle?’