‘You didn’t say you was a cop.’
‘Yeah, well, think of it as a test of your social skills. You got a failing grade, by the way. Now do you wanna stay and appeal the decision, or do you wanna go get a coffee for ten minutes while I talk to Michelangelo here?’
‘I, uhm, I could do with a beer.’
‘Sure you could. There’s a good bar on the corner of this block. They don’t even have an anti-obesity policy. Take your time.’
Doyle releases his grip, then helps the man out of the chair. He waits until the man has dressed and left the building before he turns his burning gaze on Proust.
Proust backs away a little, cowering just as he did on their previous encounter.
‘Cut the act, Stanley. There’s nobody else here to see it.’
‘What act? I’m not acting, man. You’re here to scare me. You wanna hurt me.’
‘I’m not here to hurt you. Not this time. I’m here to warn you.’
‘W–warn me about what?’
‘It’s not gonna work, Stan. Calling up my boss. Putting in complaints about me. All you’ve done is made me mad. It ain’t gonna stop me coming after you. In fact, you’ve just started a whole new ball game. From now on, I only come here alone. No partner to see what I might do to you. And that way, I can deny I was ever here. You haven’t made yourself safe, Stan. You’ve made it a hundred times worse for yourself. Think about that before you try to jam me up again.’
Proust shrinks back against the counter. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t touch those girls. I never even met them. You’ve got it all wrong about me.’
Doyle steps forward. Gets right in Proust’s face. So close he can smell the onions he must have had on his sandwich.
‘It’s just you and me now, Stanley. Nobody can save you. Start being afraid.’
Doyle stands there for a while. Allowing time for this moment, this threat, this promise, to burn itself into Proust’s consciousness.
When he finally turns and leaves, he feels himself trembling. He runs through the rain and gets into the car. He looks at his hands. They’re shaking, and he has to grip the steering wheel tightly to stop them.
He wonders what he’s becoming.
SEVEN
Why won’t they listen?
He’s right. About Proust. But nobody will listen. Just as nobody listened last time either. Jesus, what is wrong with these people?
The first forty-eight hours after a killing are crucial to the solving of the case. If you get nowhere in that time, chances are you’ll get nowhere period. Over half of that time has already elapsed. Try as he might to stay calm and allow the wheels of the investigation to grind on, Doyle can’t suppress the feeling that the Department is giving Proust space to slip out of the net. Ordering Doyle to back off is the exact opposite of what they should be doing, and it frustrates him that he doesn’t know a way to make them reconsider.
In his uptight state, he pulls into the parking space too quickly. Has to slam on the brakes to stop the vehicle from jumping the curb and mangling a street lamp. He feels his blood boiling in his veins as he gets out of the car. When the rain hits his skin he expects it to sizzle and burn off as steam.
And that’s another thing: this damned rain. When will it ease off? Maybe if it could give these other cops a chance to think in peace and quiet, they’d realize he needs to be listened to.
He ducks his head and jogs into the station house, sick of being constantly wet. He gets a nod from a uniform. He ignores it. The desk sergeant mutters something to him. He ignores that too. If it’s something trivial, then he doesn’t need to know; if it’s something important, he doesn’t want to be troubled by it. He’s got enough on his plate already.
He pounds up the stairs, heading for the squadroom. He’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets there. He is supposed to work the Megan Hamlyn case. That’s his top priority. Except he can’t work it the way he wants to work it, because nobody in this place wants to open their fucking ears and listen to what he has to say.
On the stairs he bumps into LeBlanc coming the other way. LeBlanc puts an arm out, gesturing for him to hold up.
‘Hey, Cal. Where’d you get to?’
Doyle keeps moving. ‘Not now, Tommy.’
LeBlanc puts a hand on Doyle’s arm, not knowing that another man has just been threatened with having his fingers broken for doing a similar thing.
‘Cal, we need to talk about this.’
‘No. We don’t.’
He pulls away from LeBlanc’s grasp and continues up the stairs.
‘Damn it,’ says LeBlanc. ‘I saved your ass with the boss today. I coulda told him what you did to Proust, but I didn’t. You know why? Because you’re my partner. Like it or not, we’re partners on this case. So how about you start treating me like one?’
Doyle pauses on the stairs, his back to LeBlanc. Thinking about the preconceptions. LeBlanc’s, but maybe his own too.
Slowly, he turns. ‘You wanna know what it’s about? I’ll show you.’
He continues up to the second floor, LeBlanc almost scraping his heels. He looks into an office normally occupied by one of the PAAs – the Police Administrative Aides – and finds it empty.
‘In there,’ he says to LeBlanc. ‘I’ll be right back.’
While the bemused LeBlanc enters the office, Doyle continues down the hall and into the squadroom. Ignoring the stares from Schneider, he goes to his desk, grabs one of the folders from its surface, then retraces his steps to join LeBlanc. In the office, he closes the door behind him.
LeBlanc says, ‘What’s with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?’
Doyle doesn’t respond. He sits at the PAA’s desk, opens up the folder, and takes out a DVD. He presses a button on the computer in front of him. A tongue of black plastic slides out, and Doyle feeds it the disk and watches it swallow.
LeBlanc leans forward to get a better look at the screen. ‘What is this, Cal?’
Doyle mouse-clicks the play button. ‘Watch.’
The movie starts up. There are no opening credits. We go straight into the action, and boy, does it grab you by the throat. This is one to make you pause with the handful of popcorn on its way to your mouth.
Opening scene – what looks like a basement. Sparsely furnished. Plaster peeling off the walls. No carpet on the floor. In the center of the room, a crude platform fashioned from two wooden doors set atop a number of plastic crates. On the platform, a naked girl, face down. She is anchored to this dais with ropes on her wrists and ankles. There is no sound to this movie, but it is clear that the girl is crying, that she is in agony. Her body carries marks all over it. It’s hard to tell what they are or what caused them. Here and there, rivulets of blood trickle down her skin.
A man steps into view. He is visible only from the waist down, and it seems that he is wearing only tight leather shorts, which would be comical if the subject matter were not so serious. His legs are stout and hairy.
And he is carrying a bullwhip. And it is only seconds later that he is raising his arm out of view and bringing that whip down again. Slicing it through the air. Firing its tip at supersonic speed into the flesh of the young woman. There is no eroticism here. No soft spanking with a leather thong. This is sheer sadism, acted out on an unwilling participant. A victim, no less. When the tip of this whip strikes, it does so with ferocity. It opens up her flesh. It gouges out chunks. Her face pleads for mercy. She receives none.
Fade to black. No end credits. See you at the Oscars.
Except that this isn’t acting. This ain’t Tinseltown. Doyle knows it, and he can tell that LeBlanc knows it too.
‘Jesus,’ says LeBlanc. ‘What the fuck was that?’
‘A home movie. Or at least part of one. It was found on the hard drive of a scumbag who got arrested on porn charges. He said he found it on the Internet.’
‘Okaaay,’ says LeBlanc. ‘And this is relevant how?’
Doyle grabs the mouse and manipulates
a slider on the screen to rewind the video a few frames. He’s not good with computers, but this he can manage. He’s done it enough times. He must have studied every frame of this clip.
‘Tell me what you see.’
LeBlanc leans forward again and pushes his spectacles up his nose.
‘A guy. A girl. The guy is torturing the girl. That’s it. Cecil B. DeMille it ain’t.’
‘Closer. The detail.’
A pause while Doyle waits for LeBlanc to get it. And then he gets it.
‘Tattoos. On the girl and the man. Is that it? The tattoos?’
On the frozen image, a blotch of color is just visible on the girl’s shoulder. It’s almost lost amongst the wounds there. The man’s tattoo, on the back of his lower leg, is more obvious. For one thing, it’s darker, but on this grainy picture it’s still just a blob.
LeBlanc says, ‘I don’t get it. That’s not Megan Hamlyn, and that’s not Proust. They’re just two people with tattoos. What are you telling me here, Cal?’
Doyle swivels the chair to face LeBlanc. ‘Six months before I came to the Eighth, I caught a homicide. A floater in the Hudson.’
He opens up the folder, extracts a large photograph and passes it to LeBlanc. The photo shows the body of a young woman. She is naked. Her body is bloated and mottled, but the numerous injuries it carries are still evident. And, on her shoulder, what looks like a tattoo.
LeBlanc studies the picture, then switches his gaze back and forth between it and the computer screen.
‘Looks like her.’
‘It is her,’ says Doyle. ‘The wounds and the position of the tattoo match up exactly. And before you ask, that’s not just my opinion. It’s also the opinion of a Medical Examiner and an expert in image-comparison techniques.’
‘Okay, so it’s the same girl. Who is she?’
‘Name’s Alyssa Palmer. She disappeared just over a week before she turned up in the river. She was seventeen. Her friends told me she was obsessed with the idea of getting a tattoo, but that her parents wouldn’t let her have one until she was old enough. The day before she went missing she told her best pal that she thought she’d found someone who would do the tattoo for her.’
LeBlanc looks up. ‘And she named Proust?’
Doyle doesn’t answer, because his answer isn’t the one he wishes he could give.
He slides another photograph from the folder and hands it over. ‘This is a close-up of the tattoo.’
LeBlanc studies it. It’s a red-winged butterfly, hovering over a flower. Delicate curling fronds from the plant intertwine above the insect.
‘Nice,’ says LeBlanc. ‘You trace it to Proust?’
Again, another negative that Doyle doesn’t want to voice. ‘We talked to every tattoo artist in the city. A couple of them said it looked like it could be Proust’s work.’
LeBlanc nods. Says, ‘Uh-huh.’ Makes it pretty damn obvious that he doesn’t think it’s a lot to go on. Which, Doyle has to admit, it isn’t.
‘And the other tattoo? The one on the guy’s leg?’
Doyle gives him the next photograph in the sequence. ‘Best we could get.’
It’s a magnified view of the guy’s calf. Unlike blow-ups you see done in TV programs, which magically supply absent detail, this one is highly pixelated. The tattoo consists of a black symbol containing a blurred white smudge at its center.
‘That’s the ace of spades,’ says LeBlanc. He taps the photograph. ‘What’s this in the middle?’
‘We think it could be a skull and crossbones,’ says Doyle, using a plural rather than the more accurate singular pronoun. He watches as LeBlanc squints at the image and makes no attempt to confirm that he sees the piratical symbol too. Doyle wants to snatch the picture back from him and tell him to forget it if that’s going to be his attitude.
Then LeBlanc compounds his error. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because . . .’ Doyle begins in a louder than necessary voice. He softens it again. Tries to find some patience for the inexperienced young cop. ‘Because Proust has done a number of tattoos of the ace of spades with a skull and crossbones in the middle. They’re in his books. Okay?’
He glares at LeBlanc, daring him to make further challenges. Keeping suppressed deep within him his knowledge that there is a lot to challenge.
Heedless of the danger, LeBlanc presses on. ‘Hold up. What am I missing here? You have one tattoo that a coupla people say could have been put there by Proust. And you have this other tattoo that might possibly be similar to some others that Proust has done. And this is why you like Proust for two murders?’
And now Doyle does snatch the photograph back. He grabs it back so fast he hopes he gives LeBlanc a paper cut.
‘No. Did you hear me say this was everything?’
‘So, then, what? You pin some forensic evidence on him? Maybe locate the basement in the video?’
None of the above, thinks Doyle. Oh, what he would give for something as concrete as that. And oh, how lame it sounds when his answer leaves his lips:
‘I talked to the guy.’
LeBlanc moves quickly on to his next question, but Doyle sees the irritating flash of disbelief on his face before he does.
‘Proust? What did he say?’
‘He denied everything.’
Thinks Doyle, You just go ahead and say, ‘Okaaay,’ in that long, doubting way again.
‘Ah,’ says LeBlanc. Which is almost as bad. ‘But you caught him out on something. Right?’
Now he’s being patronizing, thinks Doyle. Throwing me a line like that.
‘I told you. I talked to him. I spent hours with that sonofabitch. He did it. I could smell it on him. He killed Alyssa Palmer. And now he’s killed Megan Hamlyn.’
Which, to Doyle, should be an end to it. LeBlanc should shut up now and bow to the wisdom of his older, more experienced partner, and leave it at that.
But he doesn’t.
‘What exactly did Proust do or say? How do you know all this about him?’
Doyle stuffs the photographs back into his folder, then presses the eject button to retrieve his DVD. He gets the computer’s tongue again, the disk still sitting there like a pill it refuses to take.
‘He didn’t exactly do or say anything. It’s a feeling, Tommy. I know this guy. I know what he is. I know what he did.’
LeBlanc thinks about this for a moment. ‘We can’t work on hunches, Cal. We need something more.’
Doyle stands up. ‘For fuck’s sake, do you think I don’t know that? I’m sick of everyone in this damn squad telling me how to work this case. You do what you want, Tommy. I’m going after Proust.’
LeBlanc gets up. ‘Cal, I didn’t mean—’
But Doyle is already out the door. LeBlanc wanted an explanation, and now he’s got it. If he doesn’t like it, he can shove it.
Doyle is getting used to working alone. Even when he has a partner.
EIGHT
This should be an oasis of calm. Here, at home. With his wife. In their beautiful apartment in the Upper West Side.
But it isn’t. He knows how tense he is. Everything he says or does seems loaded with pent-up energy. Earlier, when he tripped on the corner of a rug, he felt compelled to kick the damn thing across the room. And when he went to sit at the table and found that the leg of his chair was caught up in one of the other chairs, he almost turned the whole set of furniture upside down in an effort to get himself seated.
He wonders if he’s going through a mid-life crisis. If he is, then he’s going to have a short life. It should be way too early for one of those.
Maybe he’s hormonal. A problem with his thyroid or whatever. It’s playing havoc with his system. Yeah, that’s it. He’s ill. He can’t be blamed for the way he’s been acting lately. People need to be more understanding.
He’s not ill.
He’s obsessed. Which, he realizes, could also be classed as a form of illness. Except that he’s obsessed for the right reasons. His obs
ession is justifiable. He’s not some kind of irrational stalker. He just wants to put a killer behind bars. Is that so weird?
Rachel comes out of the kitchen, carrying his meal in an oven mitt. Note to self, he thinks: don’t touch the plate.
She sets it down in front of him. Some kind of pink fish. He has a love-hate relationship with fish. He loves the taste, but hates picking out the bones. He can’t bear to have even those flimsy little bones in his mouth. Rachel never seems to notice them. She just swallows them. Doyle doesn’t understand how she can do that.
He turns the plate.
‘Shit!’
‘It’s hot,’ says Rachel. She holds up the oven mitt for emphasis.
So much for my fucking mental notepad, he thinks. When was that – all of five seconds ago? The fish on this plate probably had a better memory than mine.
He picks up his knife and fork. It’s supposed to be a fillet. Maybe it won’t have bones.
Rachel removes the mitt and sits at the table. She tucks some wisps of her dark hair behind her ears, then puts her chin on her hand and waits for him to start eating.
He cuts into the fish. Pulls a piece away. Sees the bones spring into view like the prickles of an agitated hedgehog.
He wants to sigh.
‘How’s the case going?’ asks Rachel.
He’s told her about it. On the phone this afternoon. He let her know he would be home late, and he let her know the reason. Didn’t give her all the details, though. Nothing about Proust, for example.
‘Okay,’ he says. Which is giving her nothing. It’s a shitty response. He knows it, and yet he can’t help it.
He leaves the fish alone and takes up a forkful of potato instead.
‘Did you identify the girl?’
He nods while he chews. ‘Yeah. Her name was Megan Hamlyn. She lived out in Queens. She was only sixteen.’
He thinks, There, see? You can do it. You can have a proper conversation.
‘Oh, God,’ says Rachel. ‘Sixteen. That’s so young.’
She lapses into silence for a while as she contemplates this. Then: ‘You got anything to go on?’
‘A few things. We’ll get him.’
Marked (Callum Doyle 3) Page 7