She waits for more. Doesn’t get it.
‘Is that just you giving yourself a pep talk, or do you actually have something concrete?’
He ventures another assault on the fish. Tries teasing out those menacing white barbs. He just knows he’s not going to get them all. One of the little bastards always manages to bury itself deep. It’ll lurk, just waiting for its chance to jump out and impale itself in his cheek or, even worse, lodge in his throat. Why do fish need so many damn bones anyway?
‘We’re close,’ he says.
‘Well, how close? You know who did this? You know where they are? What?’
The answers are in the affirmative. Yes, he knows who did this, and yes, he knows where he is. But if he tells Rachel what he knows, then she’ll go all negative on him. She’ll tell him to back off. She’ll remind him of how it went last time. And he can do without that right now.
‘Rachel, can we change the subject, please?’
He waits for her to snap at him, which she has every right to do. But she doesn’t snap. She sits there, more calmly and patiently than he deserves.
‘How’s the fish?’ she asks, which is certainly a change of subject. Makes him feel guilty, though. He knows she really wants to talk about big, weighty matters, but he has diluted her conversation to the point of dealing with trivia.
‘Bony,’ he says, and then wonders if he has a death wish. He should have said the fish was fine, even though it isn’t. Instead, he has to go and mix it up. That’s the sort of self-destructive mood he’s in today.
Rachel leans across and peers at his dinner. ‘They’re not bones.’
He jabs at his food with his fork. ‘Look.’
‘What, those puny little things? You make it sound like the dinosaur exhibit in the Natural History Museum. You won’t even notice them.’
He begs to differ. He already has noticed them. And if he allows them into his mouth he will notice them even more. But for once he makes the right decision and keeps his objections to himself. Time for another change of topic. Who’d have thought a fish dinner could be the cause of such friction? Bones of contention, if you will.
‘How’s Amy?’
‘Oh, she’s all right.’
Even in his distracted state of mind, Rachel’s tone is not lost on him. It’s a tone that says, Well, actually, she’s not so great.
‘Something happen today?’
‘Yeah. I yelled at her.’
Her voice is tinged with regret, and Doyle blinks in surprise. Rachel almost never loses her temper with Amy.
‘You yelled at her? Why?’
‘She had some things. In her schoolbag. Things that don’t belong to her.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Pens, erasers, rulers – that kind of thing. I think they belong to the school.’
‘Did you ask her about them?’
‘Of course I did. I sat her down and I asked her. I gave her every opportunity to explain how they got there.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said she didn’t know they were even in her bag. Said she’d never seen them before.’
‘Okay, so maybe somebody else put them there.’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘No. She wasn’t telling the truth, Cal. Amy’s a terrible liar.’
Doyle puts down his fork. ‘Rachel, have you heard yourself? You’re calling our daughter a liar and a thief. How can you say such—’
‘I didn’t say she was a thief. I said she knows more about this than she’s saying. And I’d like you to back me up on this, please.’
‘Back you up how?’
‘By talking to her. By asking her how she got hold of that stuff.’
‘She’s seven years old, Rachel. She’s not a criminal mastermind. She doesn’t need me giving her the third degree over some little mistake she’s made.’
‘She’s old enough to know right from wrong, Cal. And when she gets confused over that, it’s up to us to set her straight.’
‘Okay, tell you what – why don’t I haul her into the station house and take her fingerprints and stick her in the cells? You think that’ll teach her?’
Rachel slumps back in her chair, her mouth working like she doesn’t know what sounds to make with it next.
‘Why are you being like this? I’m asking you to have a quiet word with her. Father to daughter. It doesn’t have to be a confrontation. I just want you to—’
‘There’s no evidence, Rachel. She says she’s done nothing wrong, so I think we should believe her. I can’t go accusing her just because—’
He stops then. Stops because he realizes things are getting all jumbled up in his head. He’s talking to Rachel about Amy, but in his mind he’s working on the murder case. He’s saying things that Rachel would probably say to him if he told her how he was going after Proust. That’s how much of a hold Proust has on him. He knows things won’t be normal again until he nails that sonofabitch.
He pushes his chair back and stands up. ‘I gotta go out.’
Rachel stares at him. ‘What do you mean? Why do you need to go out all of a sudden?’
‘I just do. Something I forgot to do on the case.’
‘And now it comes to you? Right in the middle of your dinner? Right when we’re having a conversation about something important like this?’
‘I won’t be long,’ he says.
He starts to head out of the room. Behind him he hears Rachel muttering something about how he should eat more fish because it might do his stupid brain some good.
The rain has subsided to a light drizzle. Doyle is glad, because it will make it easier to see. To make doubly sure, he winds down the window of his car. Then he kills the engine. Then he waits.
It’s not the same, he tells himself. Proust and Amy. Two totally different kettles of fish – there we go with the fish again. Amy has made an innocent mistake of some kind. No big deal. It’ll be cleared up in no time.
Proust, on the other hand . . .
See, you had to be there. You had to be the one who spent hours talking to Proust. Getting into his head. Getting to know how his mind works. Getting to understand how an apparently normal guy could commit such a heinous act. Explaining this to other people doesn’t cut it. You can tell people what you believe as many times as you like, but they’re never going to be convinced. Not without further proof.
And, if he’s to be honest, why should they accept his word? Would he act any differently if it were another cop laying down conclusions like this?
But they weren’t there. They didn’t see.
They didn’t see the bloated naked body of Alyssa Palmer, draped over the river-washed rocks below the Henry Hudson Parkway. They didn’t see the heart-splitting expressions on the faces of Alyssa’s parents when he had to inform them that their daughter had been found. Dead. Tortured. Raped. And they didn’t see the coldness in Proust’s eyes when confronted with these facts, these images. When Proust looked down at the photo of Alyssa, there was no recoil – not even a grimace or an out-breath of sorrow. Doyle knew then that this was his man.
But how do you explain all that to someone? How do you tell them it was all there, in the man’s eyes, his body language, his lack of emotion? How do you convince them without more concrete evidence?
They looked for it. Of course they looked. They must have talked to every tattoo artist in the city. Only one of them felt right, and that was Stanley Proust. An artist extraordinaire, all right. But no matter how hard they looked, they found nothing to prove Alyssa had ever visited Proust. They found nothing to suggest that Proust was into the S&M scene. They found nothing to substantiate Doyle’s opinion that this seemingly mild-mannered individual was in fact a deranged homicidal maniac.
The most disturbing and yet exhilarating piece of evidence that landed in their laps was the Internet video. But even that fizzled into nothing. Other than the presence of some blurry tattoos, it provided no connection to Proust. They never even located th
e basement in which it was filmed.
But it did play a more unexpected role.
Doyle remembers it vividly. He’d pushed and pushed at Proust, but had gotten nowhere. Despite being warned by his superiors to cool it with Proust, he continued to hammer on the man’s consciousness.
‘Take a look, Stan. Look at the photos. Look at what you did.’
‘I didn’t do nothing. That wasn’t me. I didn’t make that video.’
And then the pause. The long pause while Doyle and Proust stared at each other, the truth suspended between them.
‘Who said anything about a video, Stan? And who suggested you were the one who made it?’ He tried to backtrack then, of course.
‘You did. You said these were stills taken from a video.’
‘No, Stan. I never said that. Why would you think it was a video?’
‘Well, somebody said it. One of the other cops, maybe.’
‘No, Stan. That came from you. You just put yourself behind the camera too.’
‘No, I . . . you’re putting words in my mouth. You’re twisting things. I never meant . . .’
‘You were there, weren’t you, Stan? You did things to this girl. Maybe not all of it, but some of it. Tell me, Stan.’
‘No. NO!’
That was the closest he got. Proust’s biggest slip. Doyle pursued it, of course. As doggedly as he could. But Proust got a lot more tight-lipped after that. Stuck to his story that somebody must have mentioned a video to him.
And he walked. To Doyle’s fury, Proust walked away a free man.
He wonders now why he didn’t mention this episode to LeBlanc, but doesn’t have to wait long for the answer to come to him.
He was frightened.
He was scared that LeBlanc, cynical young pup that he is, would have ripped any meaningful content of that conversation to shreds. He would have refused to interpret it as the undeniable proof of Proust’s guilt that it so obviously is.
Because it is proof, thinks Doyle. You don’t understand, Tommy, because you weren’t there. None of you understands.
The Alyssa Palmer case would have continued to haunt Doyle anyway, but fate decided to lend her ghost a helping hand. Following the fireworks surrounding the death in service of his female partner, Doyle transferred to the Eighth Precinct. For which the station house is situated just a few blocks from Proust’s place. Doyle has driven or walked past it countless times since then, and every time the sight of it has taunted him. Each time, it reminds him of how he failed the Palmers.
And now the gods have decided to ratchet up Doyle’s torment further by making him relive the nightmare all over again. The circumstances of Megan Hamlyn’s case are almost identical to those in the Palmer case. The young dead teenage girl. The griefstricken parents. The untouchable Mr Proust. Identical except for one thing, thinks Doyle. This time the outcome will be different. This time, Stanley, you pay for what you did.
He looks out of the half-open car window. Cool rain spits into his face as his eyes read and re-read the sign.
Skinterest.
An interest in skin. An interest in flesh. You got that all right, Stan. Young, innocent skin that you put your mark on. A permanent mark. You mark them for life. You mark them for death.
Movement catches his eye. From inside the shop. A huge shadow, gradually shrinking as its owner gets closer to the door. And Doyle is parked right in front of that door.
The shadow is replaced by solidity. The scrawny frame of Stanley Proust, standing behind the glass panel.
Doyle hears a key being inserted and turned, then the sound of bolts being drawn.
That’s when Doyle switches on the interior light of his car.
Proust stops moving for a second. Then Doyle sees him press his nose against the rain-spotted panel as he peers out.
Doyle doesn’t do a thing. Just sits there and stares back. Lets Proust know that this is how it’s going to be from now on. Lets him know that this is what he’s prepared to do, for as long as it takes. He will stay on Proust’s back until the man can take the weight no more and he buckles. He will break him. He will do this for Alyssa Palmer and for Megan Hamlyn and for their families. He promises all this in the intense stare that he sends Proust’s way.
Slowly, with trepidation, Proust reaches up and lowers the roller blind into position.
NINE
‘I wasn’t trying to give you grief, Cal. Okay? I want you to know that.’
Doyle has only just sat down at his desk. Hasn’t even touched his first coffee of the day yet, and already LeBlanc is jabbering in his ear. Which would be okay if it was something valuable, like letting Doyle know he’s just managed to nail Proust with a murder rap. This touchy-feely stuff he can do without right now.
‘Forget it, Tommy.’
LeBlanc looks around the squadroom, as if checking for eavesdroppers, even though nobody else on their shift has arrived yet.
‘I don’t want to forget it. I want this to work between us. If you think Proust has something to do with this, then that’s good enough for me.’
Doyle puts down his coffee mug. ‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that . . . I’ll talk to him.’
‘You’ll talk to Proust?’
‘Yeah. Sure. If you think he’s involved. But even if he isn’t, maybe he can give me something useful on the tattoos. Like maybe suggest some other artists I could talk to.’
Doyle wants to tell LeBlanc he’s wasting his time. He will get nothing from Proust. In fact, Proust will have LeBlanc eating out of his hand, he’s that clever.
Well, let him find out for himself.
‘Yeah, maybe. You do that, Tommy.’
LeBlanc nods, but still lingers at Doyle’s shoulder.
‘’Course, I can’t take you with me. Much as I’d like to. You heard what the boss said.’
‘I heard him. Don’t worry about me. You go ahead. Knock yourself out.’
Tommy nods some more, and seems to Doyle to be relieved at having cleared the air like this.
‘What about you? What are you going to do this morning?’
‘Me? I thought I’d drive over to Queens and talk to the Hamlyns again.’
Yet more nodding. LeBlanc no doubt even more relieved that Doyle is not planning to get into trouble. Seemingly satisfied, LeBlanc sidles back to his own desk.
A half-hour later, Doyle leaves the station house and gets into his car. As he said to LeBlanc, he’s off to see the Hamlyns.
Via a quick stop-off at Proust’s place.
He starts the car up and pulls his sedan out into the traffic of East Seventh Street.
He doesn’t see the black Dodge SUV as it also pulls out and starts to follow him.
‘Hi, Stan.’
Proust continues with the job of cleaning his counter. He sprays some fluid onto it, then wipes it down with a cloth.
‘What’s the matter, Stan?’ says Doyle. ‘Not speaking to me today?’
Proust says nothing. He just carries on with his task. Spray and wipe, spray and wipe.
Doyle moves away from the door and crosses the room. He wipes a finger along the counter and looks at it.
‘Seems pretty clean to me. Don’t you think?’
Proust maintains his silence. He sprays the area of the counter that Doyle has just touched, then rubs it vigorously with the cloth.
Doyle cups a hand behind his ear. ‘What was that, Stan? I don’t think I heard you.’
Proust doesn’t look up, but he does find his voice. ‘Hygiene is important in my work. Everything has to be ultra-clean.’
‘Ultra-clean, huh? I see. Ultra-clean. No fingermarks. No bodily fluids. No DNA of any kind. You musta got pretty good at that over time.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yeah, you do. I’m talking about contamination, Stan. Making sure you don’t leave anything behind. Like you were never there.’
Proust goes quiet again, so Doyle picks up where he left off.
&
nbsp; ‘Except that’s not totally true, is it, Stan? You do leave a mark. A permanent mark. A piece of yourself that will never disappear.’
Doyle takes a photograph from his inside pocket and slides it under Proust’s nose. It’s a picture of Megan Hamlyn’s detached pelvic section.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ says Proust. He drops the cloth and puts his hand to his mouth.
‘Yeah, yeah. Get the amateur dramatics outta the way, Stan. It’s not like this is news to you. You’ve seen it before.’
Proust turns his head and closes his eyes. ‘Take it away, man. Please. I think I’m gonna be sick.’
‘Shut up, Stan, and look at the picture.’
Proust shakes his head, his hand still clamped over his mouth.
Doyle reaches out and grabs hold of Proust’s hair. Ignoring the yells, he twists Proust’s head and forces it back down to the photograph.
‘What do you see?’
‘Part of a body. Please, Detective, stop.’
‘What else? On the body?’
‘A . . . a tattoo.’
With his free hand, Doyle reaches into his pocket again and takes out another photograph. He drops it on top of the first. It shows the blow-up of the tattoo.
‘Yeah. This tattoo. Recognize it, Stan?’
‘N–no. I didn’t do that. It’s not my work.’
‘It’s a damn good angel, Stan. I bet there aren’t many artists in this city can do angels as good as that. You could, though, couldn’t you?’
‘It’s not my work.’
‘That’s what you said about the butterfly on Alyssa Palmer. Other people disagreed. They said it looked very much like your work.’
‘They were wrong. Look through my books. There’s nothing like either of those in there.’
‘’Course not. You’re not stupid. Why would you do a tattoo that’s exactly like any you did before? I bet you even changed your style a little, just so nobody could say it was definitely yours. But we know, don’t we, Stan? You and me, we know what really happened.’
‘Please, you’re hurting me.’
Doyle realizes just how tight his grip has become. When he removes his hand and opens his fingers, he sees it contains a number of Proust’s hairs.
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