‘So,’ says Bartok. ‘You managed to find Anton Ruger. You mind telling me how?’
‘I put an ad in the dating section. Wanted: Man with good sense of humor and a huge ring. It worked, although I did get a few weird calls from people who misunderstood.’
‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure you could do it. Looks like I underestimated you.’
‘A lot of people do that. I think I must have some kind of aura of ineffectiveness. At school I was always being told I would never amount to much. But now look at me. Sitting here with you three guys – four if you count the corpse. How wrong could they have been, huh?’
‘Did Ruger put up much of a fight?’
‘Nah. We wrestled a little, and then I tied him naked on the bed, and then . . . no, wait a minute: that’s not coming out how I intended.’
‘So where is my old friend Anton? For future reference.’
For the first time, there’s a hint of a smile on Bartok’s face. No doubt as he contemplates what horrors he might inflict on his betrayer.
‘Funnily enough, as soon as I mentioned your name he said he was thinking of booking himself in for a long cruise.’
Bartok drops his smile, but doesn’t pursue the matter.
‘All right, let’s get this business out of the way. Rocca here is starting to smell funny.’
‘Are you sure it’s not Snow White over there?’
Doyle notices the way in which Sven suddenly squares himself up. He’s itching to go another round with Doyle, and Doyle feels likewise.
Says Bartok, ‘You got the ring?’
Doyle pats his pockets. ‘Shit, I knew there was something.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Doyle. Show me the fucking ring.’
Doyle raises his eyebrows at him. ‘Sheesh. Some priest you’d make at a wedding.’
He reaches into his inside pocket and takes out the lump of gaudiness. Holds it in the air like it’s a plucked flower.
Bartok opens a drawer in his desk and takes out a black box. He gestures to Sven, who collects the box, opens it, and transports it to Doyle. Doyle sees that it’s one of those jewelry presentation cases, with a velvet cushion inside. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of all this ceremony, but he places the ring on the cushion anyway.
‘Is this Pass the Parcel?’ he asks. ‘Because we should have music for that. Can your buddy over there carry a tune?’
Sven gives him a stony glare before conveying the box back to his boss. He hands it to Bartok, who gazes lovingly at the prized possession that has finally been returned to him.
‘Beautiful,’ says Bartok. It’s the most emotionally positive that Doyle has ever heard him get about anything. Except when he’s killing someone.
‘Okay, so you’ve got your Precious. Can we close the deal now?’
Bartok snaps the lid of the box shut. He puts it into his drawer, then opens another drawer and takes out a roll of cloth, tied with a ribbon around its center. He gets out of his chair and comes around his desk. He unties the ribbon and unrolls the cloth on his desk. Its contents clink together, metal on metal. Bartok turns to Doyle and sweeps a hand across his display, like he’s fronting a shopping channel for the deranged.
‘What d’ya wanna start with, Doyle? I got scalpels, scissors, saws . . .’
‘Good job you don’t have a lisp. You got one of those remote-control bullet-extraction tools in there?’
‘I’m all out.’ He reaches into his array of instruments and slides one out of its pocket, then holds it up for Doyle to see. ‘I think a scalpel, don’t you? Come on, you must a seen plenty autopsies. A slash here, a slash there. Hell, it’s not like he’s gonna complain about you being untidy or nothing.’
Doyle looks at Rocca’s lifeless body, as if expecting it to put in an objection. It’s true that Doyle has seen many autopsies, and many corpses in various states of destruction and decay. But now that he’s faced with the task of burrowing into and exploring the body cavity of a man he quite liked, he finds himself repulsed by it. Swallowing hard against the bacon and egg that’s threatening to reverse its way out of his stomach, he turns back to Bartok, who is now wearing a grin as menacing as the scalpel glinting in his hand.
When Bartok’s smile is broken through by an explosion of manic laughter, the extent of the troubles in his mind is made all the more apparent.
‘Ha!’ he says. ‘You should see your face! You think I’m gonna let you spill this wop’s filthy organs all over my nice clean office? Fuck that.’
Doyle feels a surge of anger. ‘We had a deal, Lucas. I hope you haven’t forgotten that.’
Bartok chuckles. ‘You dumb mick. How the hell did a peabrain like you get to be a detective anyhow?’
Doyle doesn’t know what Bartok is talking about, but he doesn’t like the sound of it. He suspects that what’s about to come next will be pretty unpalatable.
And what does come next is Bartok raising his hand and throwing the scalpel. Doyle watches it fly through the air and straight into the chest of Rocca. It lands with an audible thud that makes Doyle wince. But Rocca doesn’t budge an inch. Doesn’t protest either.
Bartok marches toward the body. ‘You’re an asshole, Doyle. A witless, brainless fuck-up. How many times did you shoot this guinea? Four times, right? See the bullet holes here? One, two, three, four. Only what you ain’t seen – what you never even thought to ask about – was this . . .’
Bartok grabs hold of Rocca’s hair and drags him forward and down. Rocca’s arms flop and sway like he’s a ragdoll.
‘Look, you dumb bastard. The exit wounds. One, two, three, four. Either you need to change that hollow-point ammo you’ve been using, Doyle, or else Rocca here was made of mush. All the slugs went straight through him. I never had the fucking bullets. Ever. Do you get what I’m saying, Doyle? You’ve been had. It was all a lie, and you fell for it. How’s it feel, Doyle? Knowing you ain’t so clever? Knowing that someone you consider unfit to shine your shoes can pull the wool over your eyes like that? Just how does that feel?’
As soon as Doyle jumps to his feet he hears the guns leave their holsters. His fists are clenched and he is bristling with anger, but he’s also well aware that the smallest of steps closer to Bartok will mean his instant execution.
Says Bartok, ‘Not so good, I take it. Don’t feel bad. We all make mistakes. Although you have to admit, this was a pretty big one on your part. Oh, and in case you think I put those holes there myself, you’re welcome to take Rocca with you and do your own digging around. Just say the word, and Sven here will load him into the trunk of your car.’
Doyle wants to hit someone. Preferably Bartok, but anyone will do. He was suckered into this one, all right.
‘I’m going home now, Lucas. You got what you wanted. You got your jewelry and you got to put one over on me, and I hope both give you many hours of pleasure. We’re quits now, and I don’t ever want to see your ugly mug again. Not unless it’s behind bars.’
‘Never happen, Doyle. See, you need to re-think where you are on the scale. My brother was the smart one in the family. Everyone knew that. Made me look stupid. Doesn’t mean I am, though. Put me next to you and I’m a positive genius. It’s all relative, Doyle.’
Doyle doesn’t want to get into a debate. Right now, he’s not feeling as though he occupies a superior position from which to argue the point.
Instead, he turns and walks over to the door. Waits for Bartok to signal his men to show him out.
Says Bartok, ‘Bye-bye, Detective. See you around sometime.’
Sven and his pal escort Doyle downstairs, then push him out of the side door leading to the alley. Sven tosses Doyle’s gun onto the sidewalk behind him. He says, ‘Another time, hotshot,’ then slams the door.
Doyle picks up his gun, puts it away, then trudges through the rain back to his car. He sits in his car for some time, just thinking. Bartok is right, he decides. I am stupid. I’ve lost the ability to make correct decisions. It’s why I’m in this mess.
He tries telling himself he should be grateful. Bartok is finally off his back. Doyle has wondered for a long time if and when Bartok would come back at him over the Rocca threat. And now he has, and it’s been cleared. Never mind that Doyle nearly lost his life and three people did lose theirs. What’s important is that he can’t be blackmailed anymore. Hear that? That’s the weight dropping off my shoulders. Time for the big sigh of relief, right?
Somehow he finds himself unconvincing.
My wife thinks I cheated on her and won’t talk to me. My daughter is upset with me because she thinks she has been unjustly accused. The squad detectives don’t trust me. My own partner doesn’t want to work with me. I’m under investigation by IAB. I can’t go into work. The man I know to be a murderer is about to walk away from his crimes.
How much worse can things get?
Doyle doesn’t want to know the answer to that question.
TWENTY-NINE
The apartment echoes with emptiness when he gets home. Rachel has presumably taken Amy shopping. Or to her parents’ place. Or to the park. Or someplace else where Doyle is not.
He thinks about calling her on her cellphone. Decides not to. She needs her own space right now. Tonight they will talk. They will sort things out.
It seems to him that he’s always having to tell himself this lately. Always having to reassure himself that he will have no difficulty in ironing out the consequences of his actions. And he wonders how many times he can get away with it. How often can he put a patch on something before it decays beyond repair?
He sighs and looks around the depressingly silent room, debating how best to kill time – the one thing he’s not short of at the moment. He should make himself useful. Deal with some of the tasks that normal people with normal occupations do on their Sundays. Clean the bathroom. Wash the windows. Change the batteries in that mechanical bear Amy keeps asking him to fix. Screw that handle back onto the closet door. Life things.
He settles in front of the TV – all that thinking about chores has tired him out – and stares at an old episode of Frasier. Minutes later he’s asleep.
It’s his cellphone bursting into life that drags him back into the land of the living. He answers the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal? It’s me. Tommy.’
Doyle is surprised, and then wary. This isn’t going to be one of those calls where they discuss football or the next drunken night out with the boys. This is going to be one of those calls filled with awkwardness.
He drags a hand down his face, trying to wipe away the tiredness.
‘Tommy? What’s up?’
‘I, uhm, I need to ask you something, Cal. It’s connected with Proust.’
Here we go again, thinks Doyle. Tommy agonizing over what to believe. Trying to put things into neat little boxes in his head.
‘I can’t give you any more, Tommy. What I told you before is the truth. Proust is a murdering scumbag, and I didn’t do any of the things people are saying I did. I don’t know what else—’
‘I’m not talking about that. I don’t even want to discuss that with you now.’
Doyle can hear traffic in the background. He guesses that LeBlanc has left the squadroom to have this conversation in private.
‘Okay. So then, what?’
‘I went to see Proust first thing this morning. He—’
‘That’s great, Tommy. You have to keep the pressure on this guy. The only way you’re gonna get—’
‘Will you listen to me for one damn minute? For one thing, I don’t need you to tell me how to work my case. And for another, this wasn’t about hassling Proust. This was about damage limitation. This was about making sure Proust doesn’t shoot the whole thing down in flames – the case and the squad.’
Doyle listens. It’s LeBlanc speaking, but those are Cesario’s words. LeBlanc was sent to Proust to suck ass. Doyle can imagine the apologizing and forelock tugging that went on in front of Proust, and it sickens him to the core. And there is also in those words the thinly disguised attack on Doyle’s own way of doing things.
But worst of all is the way in which LeBlanc has just emphasized how he has taken ownership of the case. Could he have made it any clearer that Doyle’s role is valueless?
Doyle suddenly feels very depressed.
‘All right, so what do you want from me?’
‘Something Proust said. He asked if you’d managed to verify his alibi yet.’
‘What alibi?’
‘That’s what I said. He wouldn’t tell me. He said he spoke with you about it the last time you went to see him.’
Doyle casts his mind back to that time. He doesn’t recall anything remotely connected with an alibi.
‘It’s bullshit. He’s fucking with us again. He never mentioned an alibi. And if he’s got one, why doesn’t he tell you?’
‘He said it was private. Between him and you.’
‘It’s crap, Tommy. You got an alibi for a murder, you don’t keep it private. I don’t know what he’s talking about.’
‘You’re sure?’
There’s more than a hint of accusation tingeing the doubt in that question.
‘Yes. I’m positive. You mind if I get back to my TV now? I’m watching a show called ‘Famous Fish from History’. It’s very educational. Did you know that Napoleon always kept a sardine in his coat pocket? I bet you didn’t know that.’
‘See you around, Cal.’
‘Fine.’
Doyle stabs at the call-end button with a force he wishes could be transmitted into the ear of the man at the other end, then hurls his cellphone into a cushion on the sofa. He’s angry, but he’s also perplexed and intrigued.
An alibi? What the fuck is that all about?
He re-runs the last encounter with Proust through his mind once again. Nope. Nothing.
Which means it’s a scam. Another of Proust’s little games. What’s he playing at this time? Where is this leading?
He knows what Proust wants. Proust is trying to entice him back into his lair. This is the tasty crumb, designed to lure Doyle into another trap. Proust, clever Proust, has a plan in mind for Doyle that is even more malicious and devious than his previous machinations.
But only if I go there, thinks Doyle. If I don’t respond, there’s nothing he can do to me. Let LeBlanc deal with this lunatic. I’m out of it.
So what if the guy walks? Haven’t I done all I can? If the Department doesn’t want to listen, that’s their problem. Fuck ’em.
He drops onto the sofa again. Turns up the volume on the TV, hoping to drown out the voices nagging at him. Because although he’s telling himself that Proust is no longer his concern, his own voice is just background noise. It’s the other voices he can’t help hearing. The insistent little bastards who keep telling him he can’t shuck it off like this. You need to know, they say. You need to find out what Proust is doing.
His phone rings again. He retrieves it from the cushion and answers the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning, Doyle. You not at work today?’
Doyle sighs. ‘Paulson, how’d you get my cell number?’
‘You called me on it, remember? Last Christmas, when you were in such desperate need of my assistance. I saved it on my phone. Just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case of moments like this.’
‘Moments like what? What is this, Paulson?’
‘I want to talk.’
‘So talk.’
‘Let’s at least make it civilized, can’t we? I’m outside your apartment.’
‘You’re not coming in, Paulson. My wife would go ape-shit.’
‘Is what I thought you would say. Looks like you’ll have to come to me. I’ll wait.’
The line goes dead. Doyle thinks about calling him back, but figures he’d be wasting his breath. Might as well get this over with.
He grabs his coat and leaves the apartment. Outside, he spots Pauls
on’s vehicle and jogs over to it. As soon as he gets in, Paulson fires up the engine and takes off.
‘Where are we going?’
Paulson smiles at him. ‘You’ll see.’
They drive down to the East Village, hardly a word passing between them. When they turn onto Eighth Street, Doyle realizes where they’re heading.
Paulson pulls the car into a space. ‘Here we are. Kath’s Koffees.’
‘Paulson, what are we doing here?’
‘This is where we had coffee and donuts together last Christmas. Remember?’
‘Of course I remember. What I want to know is what we’re doing here now.’
‘I thought we’d do it again. My treat this time. Who knows, this could become an annual event.’
Before Doyle can protest, Paulson is out of the car and leading the way into the coffee shop. Doyle trails along sullenly, thinking that annual is far too frequent for him.
They take the same window booth they occupied last time. Paulson summons a waitress and orders two coffees and two donuts. Again, just like last time. Doyle is starting to feel like he’s stuck in a time warp.
‘So,’ says Paulson. ‘This is nice. Brings back memories, huh?’
‘A lot of which I’d prefer to forget,’ says Doyle.
‘Our experiences make us what we are. All of the stuff you’ve been through, even the bad things, have helped to fashion the fine upstanding law-enforcement officer I see before me now.’
‘Yeah, where would I be without you, Paulson?’
‘Because you are a paragon of virtue, aren’t you, Doyle? All these things I’m hearing about you and this Proust character, that’s all a load of crap, right?’
‘Actually, no. I beat the hell out of him. I tried to kill him. And when I couldn’t do that, I sent someone else to kill him. That’s how I solve all my cases.’
Paulson smiles. ‘You’ve got a great sense of humor. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you. Even under adversity, you can manage to make people smile. I bet you’d even crack a joke if a judge sent you to prison.’
‘I’m not always like this. I think it’s your sunny disposition brings out the happiness in me. You never notice how faces light up as you walk by?’
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