Steve feels his heart begin to pound. He doesn’t yet know what the note says, but he is certain it’s something of immense importance. Something about Megan that will turn everything upside down.
He steps closer to the front door. When his bare toes are just inches away from the letter, he stares down. It seems to stare back at him, daring him to touch it. Whispering to him that this is the answer to his prayers.
He bends down and picks up the envelope. Straightens up again as he stares at the printed words on the front:
CONFIDENTIAL
For Mr Steve Hamlyn
The letter seems feather light. It cannot contain more than a single sheet of paper. He hopes this isn’t some kind of cruel prank. Some twisted bastard’s idea of a joke.
He turns the envelope over. Carefully eases open the flap. Slides out the folded note. It holds just a few lines of laser-printed text:
Mr Hamlyn,
I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I want to help you. The man you need to speak to is called Stanley Proust. You can find him at a tattoo parlor called Skinterest on Avenue B in the East Village.
Good luck.
Steve re-reads the message again and again. He looks on the reverse of the sheet, then inside the envelope. There is nothing else. No clues as to who sent this. Just the words.
He slips the note back into the envelope, then pushes it into the pocket of his robe.
He knows what he has to do.
As frames of mind go, Doyle has had better. Last night was bad enough. The unexpected encounter with Paulson. Then his abortive attempts to discuss what was going on with Amy. She denied everything. Claimed she had no idea how those things got into her schoolbag, even though she had been seen putting them in there. A thief and now a liar? Is that the kind of daughter they’ve raised? How did it all go so wrong?
And now there’s this. LeBlanc. Shooting daggers at Doyle even though he’s the one who’s being the asshole. Where does he get the right to act so sanctimonious, after what he’s done? What were all those little discussions about, if not to clear the air?
‘You got something you wanna say to me, Tommy?’ he asks.
LeBlanc glares at him across the squadroom. ‘With us being so open with each other, you mean? Telling each other everything? That’s a good one, Cal.’
Doyle has only just taken off his jacket. This is barely the start of his working day, and he’s already wondering if it could possibly be any crappier.
‘You just stole the words from my mouth. I thought we straightened things out yesterday.’
‘So did I, Cal. So did I. Shows how wrong I was.’
Doyle is mystified. He feels like he’s skipped a day. Did LeBlanc reconsider his views and decide he’d been too conciliatory? Why is he suddenly on the offensive?
‘Tommy, I think we need to have one those little discussions you’re so fond of.’
When LeBlanc gets up from his chair, Doyle rises too. But then he notices that LeBlanc is pulling on his coat.
‘No, Cal. We’re done talking. I’m sick of finding out that the words coming out of your mouth don’t match up with your actions. You feel the need to talk, go see a priest. Someone who might actually convince you to unload the truth.’
Doyle feels his anger building, but it’s overwhelmed by his astonishment. Isn’t he the injured party here? Isn’t he the one who should be letting rip at LeBlanc? How the hell does LeBlanc feel so justified in turning the whole story on its head?
Before he can put his brain in enough order to formulate a sensible reply, he notices that LeBlanc is already on his way out of the squadroom.
‘Where the hell are you going?’
LeBlanc pauses. ‘I got a case, Cal. A homicide. Remember that? Remember why we were partnered up in the first place? I got people to talk to.’
‘Okay, then . . . I’ll come with you.’
LeBlanc shows him an open palm. ‘No, Cal. I don’t think so. We’re through. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. That’s what you seem to prefer anyhow.’
And then he’s gone. Doyle takes a step forward, on the verge of following, but then changes his mind. Standing there in the middle of the squadroom, he feels a little foolish. Around him, the other detectives return to their reading and typing and phone calls, pretending they didn’t notice a thing. All except Schneider, of course, who is wearing his biggest Cheshire cat smile. If Doyle needed to explain the word ‘schadenfreude’ to anyone right now, all he would have to do is point at Schneider.
Says Schneider, ‘Nice moves, Doyle. I’ve always admired the way you mesh so smoothly with your partners. You’re a lesson to us all on how to be a team player.’
Doyle wants to tell Schneider to go fuck himself, but finds he is unable to respond. He had thought he occupied higher ground, but LeBlanc’s unfathomable behavior has left him no longer certain of his altitude.
TWENTY-TWO
She has been here. He’s not sure how he knows this, but he does. Megan was here. This is where she had her tattoo done.
He looks around, searching for something to add substance to his tenuous assumption. He sees how clean and sterile the place seems. Megan would have felt comfortable here. She was obsessive about hygiene. For something as invasive as a tattoo, she wouldn’t have gone somewhere that looked even slightly dubious with regard to its harboring of germs. She was the same when she had her ears pierced. Yes, she would happily have signed up to getting a tattoo done here. In that chair.
He stares at the chair, and his thoughts grow dark. He can picture her there. The chair is fully reclined and she’s lying on her front, her shirt raised and her jeans pushed down to expose the base of her spine while the artist goes to work. The artist who could also be her killer.
He imagines her biting her lip, trying to stifle her cries at the pain of the work being done on her flawless flesh. He can hear her soft whimpers. Tiny foreshadowings of the cries that are to come later. He wants to reach out a hand and touch hers. Tell her it will be all right. Tell her he has come to take her home.
But he’s too late. He knows that. He wasn’t there for her when she needed him. She couldn’t trust him enough to let him know what she planned to do. And because he failed her as a parent, he was penalized. She was taken away from him. She was put through hell.
He cannot forgive or forget that. Someone has to pay.
‘Hey. Can I help you?’
A man has appeared from the back room. Steve has to blink several times while he works out what he is looking at. The man is covered in bruises and healing cuts. He wears several Band-Aids, and he walks with one shoulder dropped, as though to straighten up would cause him pain.
And what this tells Steve is that there is something going on here. People don’t usually look like this. There is a story here. A story involving violence and hurt. This man has something important to reveal. Steve’s gut churns as he realizes he is definitely on the right track. The note he received earlier was no prank. This is the real deal. This is not just a man, but a presence.
The man puts down a plate on the counter. The plate holds a piece of toast and a knife smeared with butter.
‘Sorry,’ says the man. ‘I was just getting some breakfast.’
‘Uh-huh,’ says Steve. Because he’s not interested in this guy’s eating habits. His domestic life is of no concern. The only thing that matters here is what he knows about Megan. ‘You the owner?’
‘That’s me. Stanley. Stanley Proust. Good to meet you.’
He smiles and reaches a hand across the counter. All bright and breezy, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary about this situation. Steve takes the hand. It feels clammy. He pumps his arm only gently, but sees a tremor of pain move across Proust’s face.
‘I’m Steve.’ For now, he withholds his surname. He releases his grip and gestures toward Proust’s head. ‘What happened?’
Proust starts to raise a hand to his face, but stops halfway. ‘Traffic accident. My car was totaled. I
’m lucky to be alive.’
Lucky, thinks Steve. Sure, lucky. Not like my Megan. Her luck ran out when she walked in here. And a car crash? Bullshit. You’re lying to me, man. Why are you lying?
He watches Proust. Studies his face and senses his discomfort.
Says Proust, ‘You thinking of getting a tattoo?’
‘No,’ says Steve. ‘Actually, I’m here about my daughter.’
‘Yeah? Okay. How old is she?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Sixteen? Sorry, dude, she’s not old enough. You could bring her in when she’s eighteen, though.’
‘You couldn’t make an exception? She’s nearly seventeen. What’s a year or so?’
‘No way, man. Sorry. It’s against the law.’
‘Really? Because I heard you’re a discreet kinda guy. You don’t say and we don’t say, you know what I mean? I’d make it worth your while.’
Proust shakes his head. ‘Like I said, no can do. You’ll have to try someplace else. But if they’re reputable, they’ll tell you the same thing.’
Steve nods, like he’s accepting this. Except that he still believes Megan was here. Proust is hiding something. It’s in there somewhere. All Steve has to do is scratch away at the surface to uncover it. Just a little bit of scratching . . .
‘Okay, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to get you in any kind of trouble. So let’s say I bring her back. Maybe for an eighteenth-birthday present, something like that. What could she have done?’
‘Whatever she wants. A lot of girls, they go for butterflies, flowers, that kind of thing. I can do whatever. Here, take a look at this. It might give you some ideas.’
He slides a large binder across the counter and flips it open. An array of colorful images jumps out at Steve. He takes hold of the binder and makes a show of looking behind him for a seat.
‘You mind if I sit down?’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
Steve doesn’t go all the way back to the sofa near the door. Instead, he pulls out a nearby stool and sits on that, the book open on his lap. He flips through a few pages, not really looking at the contents. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Proust cut through his toast and then take a bite.
‘What about this one?’ says Steve.
‘Lemme take a look,’ says Proust. But Steve stays where he is. Waits for Proust to come to him.
Proust licks butter from his thumb and comes around the counter. That’s it, thinks Steve. Come on out. I don’t know what you got back there. A baseball bat? A gun? Come over here where I can get at you, you sonofabitch.
Proust stands next to Steve, looking down. ‘The rose? Sure, that’s a popular one. I did one like that recently, but it had, like, bigger thorns, and they were dripping with blood, you know? Gave it kind of an edge.’
An edge. Blood. Pain. Is that how Proust sees everything?
‘No. No blood. I want her to have something gentle. Something beautiful. Like maybe . . . an angel or something. Can you do that? Can you do an angel for my girl?’
As he says this, he lifts his gaze to lock it onto that of the man standing over him. It is a chance for Proust to demonstrate his innocence, to say without hesitation that, yes, of course he can do angels, and would you like to see some examples? To prove once and for all that he is just a man who creates tattoos, and there is nothing sinister in his world.
But Proust fails the test. The delay in his answer is as revealing as the look in his eyes. Together they attest to his undeniable guilt.
‘I, uhm, angels? Sure . . . I mean, that wouldn’t be, uhm . . .’
‘I was thinking just a small one, but with huge wings. Wings that are spread out, you know? And I think my daughter would like this angel on her back. Low down on her spine. You think that would be okay? You think you could do something like that for me? For her, I mean? You ever do anything like that before?’
Proust is saying nothing now. His jaw muscles are twitching like they’re trying to work his mouth, but nothing is happening. No sounds are being let out. He’s just staring. And the reason he’s staring, Steve knows, is because he realizes what this is all about. He knows who I am now. He knows what I’m here for.
Steve stands up, leaving the book of artwork on the stool. His face becomes level with Proust’s. His eyes remain fixed on the man.
‘Maybe if you saw her,’ he says. ‘Maybe that would help to give you some ideas. Do you think that would help? If you saw my daughter? If you knew exactly what she looked like?’
‘I, uh, I don’t—’
‘Here,’ says Steve, reaching into his pocket. He plucks out a recent photograph of Megan. ‘Take a look. Pretty, don’t you think? Beautiful, huh? Don’t you think so?’
‘I . . . Sure. She’s a . . . a good-looking girl, all right.’
‘Just good-looking?’
‘Well, no. More than that. Stunning, I’d say.’
‘Stunning? Well, I’m not sure that’s the appropriate word. I think that’s what you might call overkill. Don’t you think? Overkill’s a weird word, I know, but I think that’s what you did there. Over-kill. See, I think you might say a woman was stunning. An adult female, I mean. You might use that word if you would love to go to bed with that female, you get what I’m saying? Like, for example, you might say Beyoncé is stunning, right? I wouldn’t disagree with you on that one. But in this case, far as my daughter goes . . . well, what you have to remember is that she’s only sixteen. Just a kid, really. Not even old enough for a tattoo, let alone anything else, if you know what I mean. You do know what I’m referring to, don’t you?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
‘Yeah, sure you do. Because she looks older than sixteen, especially in the flesh. If she was standing here, right next to you, right where I’m standing, in fact, right here in your tattoo shop, you’d swear she was older than sixteen. Not that she’ll ever be older than sixteen. She will always be that age. You know why I’m saying that, don’t you, Stan? I can call you that, can’t I? Stan, I mean. It’s okay to call you Stan, isn’t it? You know why I’m saying that my girl will always be sixteen, don’t you, Stan?’
He is standing almost toe to toe with Proust now, still holding up the photograph. His hand is trembling and his voice is trembling and he can feel a terrible build-up of emotion inside of him. An awful swell of feeling that threatens to burst out of him at any moment, and he knows he can’t prevent it. He knows that any second now he will explode, unleashing all that pent-up energy on this man in front of him.
Proust makes a vague gesture toward the back of the room. He says, ‘You don’t mind, I got some things to do.’ He starts to turn away, saying, ‘If you want, you can—’
Steve takes hold of Proust’s sleeve. ‘Where you going, Stan? I haven’t finished speaking with you about my girl.’
‘Well, I . . .’ Proust tries to pull away. Steve lets go of the man’s shirt and grabs hold of his arm instead. He grasps it so tightly he sees Proust wince, and he’s glad of it, glad that he is inflicting pain.
‘Her name is Megan. Was Megan. She’s dead now. But you know that, don’t you, Stanley? You know that my beautiful Megan is dead.’
Proust tries to twist his arm out of Steve’s grip, but Steve increases the pressure. He is stronger than Proust. Much stronger. He could take Proust to pieces if he so desired, using just his bare hands.
‘I . . . yes. Yes. I know she’s dead.’
‘How? How do you know that, Stan?’
‘The police. They told me. Look, man, I don’t know what this is about, but you need to let go of my arm. This is—’
‘The police? Why? Why did the police talk to you about Megan?’
‘I don’t know. She had a tattoo done. Before she was killed. They talked to a whole bunch of tattoo artists.’
‘They say you killed her?’
‘What? No. They were asking about the tattoo, is all. Asking if I knew who might have done the work.’
‘What did you tell ’em?’
‘I said I had no idea. It didn’t look familiar to me. I couldn’t help them. Now let go of my fucking arm, man.’
He wrenches himself away then, and it is clear from his expression that the effort causes a bolt of agony to fire through his body. Steve watches as he shuffles back toward the safety of his counter. Back to whatever defenses he has there. Steve senses that he is losing command of the situation. If he allows Proust to get away now, it’s all over. He will never find out what this man knows. Never find Megan’s killer.
Without thinking, he bounds across the floor. Interposes himself between Proust and his bolt-hole. He sees Proust recoil in shock and fear.
Steve puts his hands up. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. That’s not why I’m here. All I want is some information, okay? I’m trying to find out who killed my daughter. Is that too much to ask? Do you think that’s such an unusual wish?’
Proust backs away, one small step at a time. ‘I don’t know nothing about your daughter. She was never here. I never met the girl. That’s exactly what I told the police, and it’s what I’m telling you too. Please . . .’
‘See, here’s the thing, Stan. I’m not sure I believe you. Something about you ain’t right. It’s like . . . it’s like you’re holding out on me, you get what I’m saying?’
‘No. I wouldn’t lie to you. I understand what you’re going through, man. But I can’t help you. I wish I could.’
‘You can help me, Stan. All you have to do is give me the truth. For example, tell me how you first met Megan.’
‘I told you. I never met her. I—’
‘BULLSHIT!’
The ferocity of the yell surprises even Steve himself. He notices how Proust jumps. The room lapses into a deathly silence, as though signaling that the encounter is about to move into more serious, more dangerous territory.
The men stare at each other for several seconds. Steve wonders what is going through Proust’s head. He wonders about himself too. How he is going to pursue this. How far he is willing to allow himself to go.
Marked (Callum Doyle 3) Page 20